#fully just ran to the back porch

[princecroutons]

not even 30 minutes after the clock struck midnight and mimi started yowling at the back porch at something, and when I looked I saw two big ol eyes and went oh! another long haired orange cat at our door? what a coincidence! quelle surprise !!! that surely is not my son who is in my room with no ability to open the window enough to get out and has been suspiciously quiet for some time now!!!!!!!

[cupofteatoyou]

The secret between us-pt2

You stood frozen, hand still wrapped around the doorknob like letting go might let the past spill in.

Your breath hitched. "It's about your daughter."

For a second, everything slowed — like the world outside your doorstep had fallen into a hush, waiting to hear what you'd say.

You glanced behind you, instinctively.

Your daughter was still curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, fully entranced by cartoon explosions and pastel chaos. Oblivious. Safe.

Alexia followed your gaze. Her jaw clenched just slightly — and in that moment, you could see it.

The recognition.

The fear.

The need to know.

You stepped outside and shut the door behind you, careful, firm. Not slamming it — just... separating your lives with quiet desperation.

The porch light bathed you both in a pale, golden wash. She looked taller somehow, more grown, but there was still something in her that felt heartbreakingly familiar. The way her eyes searched yours like a question she didn’t want the answer to.

You spoke first.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Alexia’s mouth twitched like it almost wanted to smile, but it didn’t. “You think I don’t know that?”

Silence settled like snow.

Then, quietly — raw:

“She has my eyes.”

You looked away, jaw tightening. “Alexia—”

“No, don’t—” her voice cracked, and she ran a hand through her hair like she was trying to keep herself from unraveling. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”

You said nothing.

You didn’t have to.

Alexia exhaled like she’d just been hit. Her back pressed against the porch railing, head tilting toward the night sky. Like maybe if she stared hard enough at the stars, they’d answer for you.

“I saw the pictures,” she said, voice quieter now. “At first I thought I was going crazy. But then I kept looking. The way she looks at you. The way she holds her hands. Her laugh—” she blinked hard, like it physically hurt to say it. “It’s mine.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorway behind you. “You don’t get to show up here after all these years and pretend like you’re entitled to anything.”

“She’s my daughter.”

You finally met her eyes, sharp and wounded. “She’s mine. I raised her. I held her when she had nightmares, I walked her through fevers and first words and scraped knees and—where were you? When I needed you?”

“I didn’t know,” Alexia nearly shouted. “You left, remember? You left and you never looked back.”

“I left because you couldn’t choose between loving me and loving the version of yourself the world wanted. I left because I was tired of breaking quietly in the background of your spotlight.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. She didn’t have an answer for that. Not one you’d believe.

“Does he know?” she asked finally. “Your boyfriend. Does he think she’s his?”

You keept quite, maybe if u didn’t answered she would give up.

Alexia’s eyes closed like she’d been slapped.

“She deserves to know who she is,” she whispered. “And I deserve to—”

“To what?” your voice rose. “To be part of a life you never made room for?”

Alexia took a step closer.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, softer now. “I just want to know her. I want her to know me. That’s all.”

You studied her.

The girl you once loved.

The woman who broke you.

And something in you flickered — not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But something adjacent to grief.

“She doesn’t know who you are,” you said finally. “To her, you’re just a stranger.”

Alexia’s voice barely held together. “Then let me change that.”

The door creaked behind you as you leaned back against it.

“She’s asleep in twenty minutes. I won’t let you talk to her.”

Alexia’s eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught, pulse spiking. “Excuse me?”

“She’s mine too,” Alexia snapped, taking a step forward. “You don’t just get to lock me out of her life like I was never part of it.”

Your hand gripped the door tighter. “You weren’t part of it. You never even knew—”

“Because you didn’t tell me,” she cut in, her voice rising. “You made that decision for both of us.”

You could feel your jaw trembling, but you clenched it tight. “I did what I had to. For her. For me. You think I didn’t cry every night for the first two years? That I didn’t want to call you when she took her first steps?”

Alexia’s hands were balled into fists at her sides now. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t choose us!” you snapped, voice finally breaking. “Because back then, you chose everything else. Football. Control. Silence. You wanted the world, Alexia, and I couldn’t ask you to give it up.”

Her mouth opened—but she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t deny it. Not fully.

“I gave her everything,” you continued, eyes wet now. “And you think you can just knock on my door and claim her?”

“I’m not claiming her,” she hissed, barely containing herself. “I’m fighting for her.”

You laughed, bitter and small. “You haven’t even asked her favorite color.”

Alexia’s breath hitched. “I’ll learn. I’ll know it all. I’m not walking away again.”

You stepped forward, your voice low and cold. “You already did.”

She stared at you for a moment — jaw tight, throat working. And then, quietly, her voice changed. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… edged.

“If you keep her from me…” Her eyes locked on yours. “I will take this to court.”

The words dropped between you like a bomb.

The blood drained from your face.

Alexia kept going, her voice shaking but firm. “You know I have the resources. I know how this works. You think I’ll let you erase me? I won’t.”

Your heart was pounding in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” she whispered. “Because I have to.”

Silence.

Your daughter laughed at something on TV in the room. Oblivious. Soft. Safe.

And you felt your spine straighten — not in fear, but in fury.

Alexia took a step forward, her jaw set. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking for a chance. A chance to be there for her. I won’t stand by and let you erase me from her life.”

“You are erased,” you hissed, voice rising. “You left. And now you think you can come back and pick up where you left off?”

The words stung more than you wanted to admit. The memory of Alexia mentally and emotionally leaving you all alone while she chased her dreams —of her absence in your life, of your daughter growing up without her—was still fresh, still raw.

Alexia’s expression faltered, her gaze flicking toward the window behind you, where she knew your daughter was probably asleep. She inhaled sharply. “I’m not asking for your permission to be her mother. I’m asking for a chance to prove it. Don’t make me go through the courts.”

The threat landed like a punch. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, the weight of it, the fear that this might really escalate.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. “You can’t just expect to come in and take everything you want. My daughter’s not a pawn in your game.”

But as you said it, your words felt hollow, as if even you weren’t sure you believed them anymore.

A muffled giggle echoed from inside the house,once again and for the briefest of moments, you both froze.

Your daughter’s voice rang out from the doorway.

“Mommy? Who’s that?”

Your heart skipped a beat. There was no way to prepare for this.

You turned quickly, your thoughts racing, and for a brief moment, Alexia’s gaze softened. Her eyes flickered to the door, the door she hadn’t been able to walk through in.

Your daughter stepped into the doorway, a bowl of strawberries in her hand, her face sweet and innocent. She glanced at you, then at Alexia, and without missing a beat, she smiled brightly. She pointed with one small finger and asked curiously, “What does the lady from the bathroom do here?”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. The words hung in the air like a delicate thread, threading the past into the present.

Alexia’s expression faltered for a moment, her lips parting as if she wasn’t sure how to answer. She glanced up at you, the question clearly throwing her off guard.

Your daughter was still waiting, her little brow furrowed, her voice soft and full of innocence. “She looks sad. Does she live here too?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how to navigate this moment. Alexia hadn’t been around for so long. How were you going to explain this?

Before you could speak, Alexia cleared her throat and looked down at your daughter. Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “I’m… I’m…I found something your mom lost . I thought I’d drop it off.”

Your daughter nodded slowly, processing the response in her own way. Her gaze flickered between you and Alexia, then back to the strawberries. "Are you going to stay? 'Cause we can share these all night if you want!"

Your heart clenched. It was so simple, so pure—your daughter offering comfort without knowing the weight of the situation.

Alexia swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion that suddenly filled her eyes. She reached for a strawberry, her hands trembling ever so slightly. “Maybe just for a little while,” she said, her voice soft. “If that’s okay.”

Your daughter grinned, as if this was just another one of her daily adventures. “Okay!” she said brightly. Then, without hesitation, she reached out and wrapped her small hand around one of Alexia’s fingers—tiny and trusting—and gave it a tug.

“Come on,” she added, pulling gently. “It’s cold out here. You can have some strawberries inside.”

Alexia blinked, stunned by the soft weight of that little hand in hers, by the quiet acceptance of it all. And before she could say a word, she was already being led toward the front door—tiny footsteps padding beside hers.

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching your daughter tug Alexia across the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was a part of you—buried deep and frayed from the years—that wanted to stop it. That wanted to scoop your daughter up and shut the door and keep everything exactly the way it was. Safe. Simple. Untouched.

But then you caught the flicker in Alexia's eyes as she glanced down at the small hand curled around hers. A flicker of something she hadn't let herself feel in a long time.

The tension between you and her hadn’t dissolved. Not even close. But in that moment—gentle and surreal—you realized one thing

This was no longer just about you And nothing was going to be simple anymore.

Your daughter had long since surrendered to sleep, her tiny frame curled up on the couch, soft breaths barely audible over the faint hum of the television. One hand still clutched the corner of her favorite blanket, the other resting loosely against the empty bowl of strawberries.

You stood from your spot by the armrest, brushing your palms against your jeans and moving toward her, ready to scoop her up and carry her to bed.

But before you could reach her, Alexia’s voice cut through the quiet.

“I’ll take her.”

You paused, your hand hovering above your daughter’s shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You looked at her for a beat. She wasn’t asking. She was already kneeling, arms gentle and practiced as she slipped one beneath your daughter's back, the other beneath her knees. Your breath caught for a second—just at the sight of it. How easily it came to her. Like nothing had ever been taken.

Your daughter stirred only slightly, her head instinctively tucking against Alexia’s shoulder, lips parting in a sleepy sigh. It nearly shattered you.

Alexia held her like she’d been doing it her whole life.

And maybe she should have been.

You followed close as she carried her down the hallway, the hush between you heavy but no longer bitter. When you reached your daughter's room, Alexia didn’t ask where to put her. She just knew.

She laid her down with impossible care, brushing a stray curl from her forehead before stepping back.

You stood by the doorway, arms crossed, more for self-protection than anything else. Your voice was quieter than you expected. “Thank you.”

Alexia stood over the bed for a moment longer than necessary, eyes lingering on the small, sleeping form nestled into the sheets. just stood there, still and quiet.

“She looks like perfect mix of us,” she said, finally, voice soft. Alexia didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t have had to do it alone.”

That hung there for a beat.

Then Alexia straightened, turning to you, her features calm — too calm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You blinked, throat tightening. “Because it was complicated.”

“No,” she said, sharper now. “It wasn’t. You made it complicated.”

You turned slightly, not wanting to argue with your daughter in the next room, but Alexia followed you out silently — her footsteps quiet until you both reached the kitchen again, the door to your daughter's room gently closed.

Then she snapped.

“You decided I didn’t deserve to know.” Her tone was trembling, but not weak. Angry. “You didn’t even give me the chance to be there.”

You leaned on the counter, spine tense. “You were never there, Alexia. Not really. You were gone every other week, training camps, sponsorships, flights. The day I found out, you were in Qatar doing interviews. I was alone.”

“So you punished me for having a career?” Her arms folded across her chest. “That’s what this is?”

You stared at her, eyes wet now. “No. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want her to grow up watching me cry after every voicemail you didn’t return. After every time I waited for you to come home and you didn’t. I didn’t want her to feel second to a sport.”

“That wasn’t fair,” Alexia said, breath shaking. “You don’t get to decide what kind of parent I would have been.”

You looked at her — really looked at her — and it hurt more than you expected.

“I know,” you said quietly. “And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

Alexia flinched at the sincerity in your voice — like it wasn’t what she expected.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “And I didn’t trust you to choose us.”

“I would’ve,” she whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Maybe. But I couldn’t bet her life on a ‘maybe.’”

Alexia turned away, gripping the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her steady.

“I missed everything,” she said, almost to herself. “Her first steps. Her first words. You stole that from me.”

The guilt hit you like a wave, heavy and cold. “I know.”

She turned again, her eyes red-rimmed now. “So what happens now?”

“I’m not asking for everything,” she said, eyes locked on yours, tired but steady. “I’m not asking you to tell her tonight. Or to rewrite your whole life. But I need to be part of hers. Please.”

You stared at her, uncertain.

Alexia swallowed. “I know I don’t have the right to demand anything. I know I missed years I’ll never get back. But if there’s even the smallest window... just let me see her. Let me be near. Let her get to know me, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth yet.”

You leaned back slightly, arms still folded. “And what would that even look like?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Park visits. Weekend walks. You don’t have to lie to her — just... don’t hide me. Let me be her friend. Let me earn being more.”

The silence after that was thick. Heavy. Your heart was hammering again — not with rage this time, but fear. Fear of opening the door to something that could change everything.

You looked away for a second, then back at her. Her eyes were glassy, but there was no pity there. No guilt-trip. Just quiet resolve.

“She likes strawberries,” you said, finally. “And cartoons that don’t make sense. She talks a lot, but sometimes she just wants someone to sit with her and listen. No noise. Just... presence.”

A beat.

“Then I’ll be there,” Alexia said. “However I can.”

You nodded, slowly. “One step at a time.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, like the words were more than just relief. Like they were a promise.

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

But you didn’t tell her to leave, either.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Babe I need a pick me up pleeasassseee

can I please request Simon and wife ! Reader want to go out for a long weekend for their anniversary, Simon (unfortunately ) trusts and puts Gaz and soap in charge of Tommy while they are gone

Chaos ensues

Boys on Their Worst Behavior

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, chaos, dad!Simon, uncle!Soap and uncle!Gaz disaster babysitting, minor swearing, a child on a sugar high, a destroyed couch, accidental hair dye, offscreen spicy anniversary celebration, hangovers, absolute mayhem

Author's Note: Warning, do not leave your child with their two chaotic uncles! Otherwise you get chaos, now with 200% more poor decision-making and loving regret. Enjoy!!

Summary: You and Simon want one long weekend for your anniversary. Just one. He’s hesitant to leave Tommy behind—but you convince him to trust Soap and Gaz, who are way too eager to babysit. Unfortunately, you both severely overestimate their parenting skills.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It all started on a Thursday afternoon.

The living room was warm, Tommy was building a Lego fortress in front of the TV, and you were curled up in Simon’s lap with your head on his shoulder, scrolling through hotel listings on your phone.

"Look at this one." You angled the screen toward him—a cozy little cabin by a lake, complete with a private hot tub and no internet service. "Three nights. Quiet. Remote. Romantic."

Simon made a thoughtful noise but didn’t say yes.

You tapped your finger against his chest. "Come on. We never get time like this."

"We’ve got time now," he murmured, nosing behind your ear and making you giggle. "Tommy’s busy, the house is quiet—"

"Yeah, for twenty minutes. Then someone’s throwing a tantrum because we won’t let him wear his Spider-Man costume in the bath again."

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing circles against your back. "Don’t want to leave him with strangers."

"I wasn’t thinking strangers," you said, lips curling into a grin. "I was thinking… Soap and Gaz."

He pulled back and looked at you like you’d just suggested setting the house on fire for fun.

"No."

"Simon—"

"Absolutely not."

"They love him," you said. "Tommy loves them."

"They once let him eat ten mini cupcakes and then put him in a cardboard box to race down the stairs."

"That was kind of my fault."

"He called it the ‘S.S. Yeet Machine.’"

You grinned. "Tommy’s creative."

Simon muttered something under his breath, but you weren’t giving up. You climbed fully into his lap, facing him with your hands on his shoulders and your best sweet-eyes stare. "It’s one weekend. Our anniversary. Remember? The one where we swore we’d actually get away this year?"

His brows knit together. "What if something happens?"

"We’ll leave emergency numbers. A whole list. I’ll prep all the food. And I’ll bribe Soap with those lemon bars he likes."

He stared at you for a long beat. Then at Tommy, who was now making explosion noises and knocking over Lego towers.

"…you’re really gonna bribe them with lemon bars?"

You kissed his cheek. "Already made them this morning."

—

The Drop-Off

When Friday morning rolled around, you and Simon packed the car with overnight bags and a cooler full of carefully prepped meals. Simon triple-checked the emergency folder. You left sticky notes on the fridge, the bathroom mirror, and even the dog.

Gaz and Soap were waiting on the porch when you opened the door—matching grins, sunglasses, and a terrifying amount of confidence.

"Operation ‘Cool Uncles’ is a go!" Soap declared.

Tommy ran past you in a blur, launching himself into Soap’s arms. "UNCLE JOHNNY!"

Soap spun him around. "What’s up, gremlin?!"

Gaz took Tommy’s bag and gave you a hug. "Don’t worry, love. He’s in excellent hands."

Simon squinted. "Define ‘excellent.’"

"Alive, fed, entertained," Gaz said, ticking off fingers. "In that order."

Simon gave you a look that screamed this is a terrible idea.

You smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek. "Let’s go, soldier. We have a lake waiting."

As you drove off, you glanced in the mirror and caught a glimpse of Tommy jumping on the couch with a Nerf gun, Soap cheering him on, and Gaz trying to remove a juice box from the DVD player.

Simon groaned and muttered, "We’re never gonna see the house in one piece again."

—

Day One: Descent Into Chaos

By 9:13am, you were sitting on the porch of your lakeside cabin, coffee in hand, soaking in the quiet. Simon was beside you, surprisingly relaxed—until his phone buzzed.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He ate three toaster waffles and a handful of marshmallows. He’s vibrating. Help.

Simon stared. "What the hell do they mean vibrating?"

Ten minutes later, a video came through: Tommy sprinting in circles around the living room in his dinosaur pajamas, blurting out something about a secret mission and how his new name was "Agent Blue Lightning."

Soap was laughing in the background. "He’s got so much energy! Think we broke a record!"

Sparklez Man✨🤩: "He’s speaking in tongues."

Simon gave you a look that screamed, ‘We’re going home.’

You tugged him back down. "Nope. You’re going to drink your coffee and pretend we don’t have a son for 72 hours."

—

Later That Day

Gaz attempted bath time. You knew this because at 7:12pm, Simon’s phone buzzed again.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: We tried to do bath time. He escaped. He’s hiding under the bed and hissing like a cat.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He bit me.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He’s literally holding us hostage with a plunger.

Simon set his phone down, deadpan. "I changed my mind. He is feral."

You, very happy that you had the chance to say those infamous words to Simon. You didn’t hesitate when, "Told you so," slipped from your lips.

At 8:00pm, a final photo arrived: Tommy passed out on the couch, a fake mustache drawn across his face, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He fought valiantly. But we won.

Simon shook his head and whispered, "He’s biding his time."

—

Day Two: Mistakes Were Made

9:00am – You were lazily tangled with Simon in bed, sharing breakfast when another ping hit.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He asked to dye his hair like Uncle Johnny. I thought he meant temporary spray. Soap gave him semi-permanent blue. It’s... very blue.

Simon sat up like he’d been shot. "They what?"

You choked on your orange juice. "Please tell me it’s not—"

Another message came in. A video.

Tommy stood on the table, shirtless, now sporting neon blue hair and wielding a plunger like a sword.

"I AM UNCLE SOAP JUNIOR!"

Simon immediately sent a message,

Skull Head💀💍: We’re coming home.

Best Mama✨💍: Just make sure Tommy is alive please when we get home!!

You, laughing so hard you cried: "We are not. This is the best anniversary ever."

—

Day Three: Silence Is Never Good

By midmorning, you noticed something strange.

No texts. No chaos. No updates.

Simon frowned. "Either they’ve finally figured it out or they’re unconscious."

You were still debating when your phone buzzed.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: We’re alive. Barely. Your child put gummy bears in the coffee machine. We now serve ‘Espresso à la Diabetes.’

A follow-up message from Gaz had you concerned.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: Couch is broken. Don’t ask. Just know Tommy learned how to suplex.

And finally: a photo of Tommy knocked out in a blanket fort, Gaz face-down beside him, and Soap sitting on the floor, eyes vacant, ice pack on his temple.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He won.

—

Coming Home

You pulled up to the house Sunday afternoon. Everything was... quiet.

Too quiet.

The door creaked open. The living room looked like a war zone. The couch listing to one side. Juice box puddles on the floor. A slice of cheese on the ceiling.

Tommy ran straight into Simon’s legs, shouting, "DADDY! I HAVE A NEW NAME! I’M THE WARRIOR KING!"

Simon blinked.

Soap walked in holding a mug that read #1 Uncle, looking like he hadn’t slept in years.

"Welcome home. He’s yours now."

Gaz dragged himself in next. "We’re not having kids. Ever."

Simon turned to you. "Next time, we’re bringing him."

You laughed, grabbing his hand. "Next time, we leave him with my sister."

—

That night, in bed, Simon lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

You curled into him, completely blissed out. "Best anniversary ever."

He grunted. "They dyed his hair."

"He looks cute."

"They broke our couch."

"He learned how to suplex."

He paused. "…That one’s on you."

You smiled against his chest. "Still. Worth it."

He looked down at you. And despite it all—despite the hair dye, the Nerf guns, and the chaos—he nodded.

"Yeah. Worth it."

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[joelsrose]

Burning Desire

warnings: 18+ content !!!!! dirty talk, handjob, m! receiving oral - eeeeek I don’t write smut that often bc I’m not sure if I’m the best at it so if you enjoy pls let me know!!!

my masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was hot—too hot in Jackson. The type of heat that clung to the air like a second skin, so heavy and unrelenting that even the faintest whisper of wind brought no relief. It was the kind of hot that seeped into the walls, turning your home into a suffocating box, the kind that made sweat gather in the crook of your neck and slide down your spine.

“Fuck this,” you muttered, wrestling with the old fan. Its blades gave a weak, uneven groan, the sound of a machine long past its prime. It sputtered for a moment before giving up entirely, leaving you alone to suffer in the still, sweltering air.

The ventilation system had been out for three days now. At first, you told yourself it was fine, no big deal. You’d lived through worse before you came to Jackson.

By the second day, you were over it. The sweat, the restless nights, the way the heat sucked the energy from your bones. You’d tried everything—propping open the windows, draping wet cloths over your forehead—but nothing seemed to help. The thought of another day like this was enough to make you want to scream.

You sighed, swiping at the bead of sweat that clung stubbornly to your forehead. The thick, humid air inside your house had grown unbearable, pushing you out the door and into the blistering sun. The heat wrapped around you like a smothering blanket, the kind that didn’t just sit on your skin but burrowed deep into your bones, pounding relentlessly on every inch of exposed flesh.

You made your way down the dirt path to Tommy’s house, your irritation building with each sluggish step. By the time you reached their porch, you were half-ready to tear the door off its hinges. Before you could knock, Maria opened it, greeting you with a sly smile.

“Well, hello there,” she said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Not now, Maria,” you muttered, brushing past her playful tone. “Where’s your husband?”

Maria chuckled knowingly, folding her arms. “Your ventilation still down? I told you, you could stay here.”

“And listen to you guys have sex every night? No, thanks.” You shot her a dry look before stepping inside and calling out, “Tommy!”

The sound of boots against wood echoed from another room, followed by a gruff, familiar voice. “Christ, what’s goin’ on here?” Tommy appeared in the doorway, brows raised, his eyes sweeping over you. “And why do you look like you just ran through a damn sprinkler?”

You glared at him, swiping at the sweat-soaked neckline of your shirt. “Because it’s a hundred degrees in my house, Tommy. And because someone”—your tone sharpened, the implication clear—“hasn’t come by to fix it.”

Tommy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression one of mild exasperation. “Alright, alright. Let me grab my tools before you melt all over Maria’s floor.”

“Baby,” Maria interjected, her voice lilting with amusement. “You got that thing?”

Tommy froze for half a second, his hand moving from his neck to scratch the edge of his jaw. “Oh… fuck,” he murmured under his breath, his posture stiffening in that telltale way that said something had slipped his mind.

Your brows shot up, arms crossing as you stared him down. “Tommy, I swear to God,” you started, your tone sharp and cracking with heat-induced frustration, “I’m not even being dramatic right now, but if this thing isn’t fixed by the end of the day, I legitimately might shoot someone.”

Tommy chuckled, low and easy, as though the idea of you snapping didn’t rattle him in the slightest. “Well, we can’t have that,” he drawled, his hands settling on his hips in that casually smug way that always made you want to throttle him. “Alright, I’ll send Joel over this afternoon. He’s free.”

He was already moving toward the front door before the words fully registered. “Wait—what?” you blurted, following after him. “Joel?”

“Yeah, Joel. You’ve met him, right?” Tommy glanced back over his shoulder, his tone as nonchalant as if he’d just told you the weather. “Big guy, mean face?”

You had, in fact, met Joel. A handful of times since he’d arrived last month. To be honest, you were still trying to figure him out. He was brusque, gruff, and always seemed to have this permanent scowl etched into his features. To this day, you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the fact that he and Tommy were brothers. They were so different—Tommy with his easy charm and constant smirk, Joel with his sharp eyes and the kind of silence that always felt a little heavy, like it might snap at any moment. Then again, you didn’t know Joel. Not the way you knew Tommy.

“Fine,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you turned back toward the porch. “As long as it’s fixed.”

You didn’t wait for a response, stepping back into the searing heat. Behind you, Maria’s voice rang out in mock cheer, “Nice to see you too!”

Without turning, you threw a hand in the air, flipping her off as you walked away. Her laugh followed you, light and teasing, and somehow, despite the heat, it managed to make you smile.

⋆⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You lay sprawled on the bench of your front porch, eyes closed against the bright glare of the sun, lazily fanning yourself. The heat inside your house had been unbearable, so you’d come outside, hoping for even the slightest breeze to ease your suffering. But the air was still, and the heat clung to you no matter where you went.

You’d resorted to wearing your tiniest pair of shorts and a worn-out singlet, an outfit you wouldn’t dream of being seen in beyond the safety of your porch. But right now, the mere thought of adding another layer felt like cruel and unusual punishment.

The creak of the gate and the sound of heavy boots on the porch’s wooden planks barely registered in your haze. Then came a cough—a quiet, gravelly sound that snapped your eyes open.

Standing there, broad shoulders framed by the relentless sun, was Joel. You blinked, suddenly unsure if it was the heat making you lightheaded or… something else. Had he always been this handsome? The sharp set of his jaw, the flecks of silver in his beard that caught the light, the way his shirt stretched over arms that looked like they could build or break anything in their path. You’d noticed him before, sure, but not like this—not when he was standing so close, with his presence so solid and consuming.

“Uh… Tommy sent me over,” Joel said, his low voice breaking through your trance. He stood there awkwardly, one hand resting on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze swept over you briefly before landing somewhere just past your shoulder, as though he was deliberately trying not to look at you too closely.

“Oh. Right. Shit, sorry.” You scrambled to sit up, brushing at your shorts like that would somehow make this less mortifying. For some reason—maybe the heat, maybe pure instinct—you extended your hand toward him. A handshake. Really? What were you, a fucking realtor?

Joel’s brows knit together in confusion, but he took your hand anyway, his grip firm but hesitant. His rough, calloused palm dwarfed yours, his skin warm and textured in a way that made your stomach flip. You prayed he couldn’t feel how clammy your own hand was, though judging by the flicker of something on his face—amusement, maybe?—he definitely noticed.

“Uh,” you stammered, withdrawing your hand too quickly, as though it had been burned. “Thanks for coming over.”

Joel gave a slow nod, his gaze finally meeting yours. “No problem,” he said simply.

You cleared your throat, trying to swallow the warmth rising in your face—not from the sun but from the way Joel’s presence seemed to pull at something inside you. “Well… follow me,” you murmured, stepping past him to open the door, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a curt nod, his boots echoing softly against the wooden planks as he followed you inside. The air in the house was stifling, thick and oppressive, but Joel didn’t seem fazed. You led him through the narrow hallway toward the ventilation system, your fingers brushing over the walls for balance as you fought to ignore the weight of his gaze lingering on your back.

“This way,” you said, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

When you reached the corner where the old, battered system sat, Joel was all business. He crouched down without a word, his hands moving with practiced precision as he inspected the unit. His brow furrowed in concentration, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he adjusted a panel.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying not to stare too openly, but it was impossible not to notice the way the sweat on his neck glistened in the dim light, or the way his broad shoulders filled the space.

“Been runnin’ this thing into the ground, haven’t you?” Joel muttered, mostly to himself as he fiddled with the system. His tone was dry, almost amused, as though the sorry state of your ventilation wasn’t exactly surprising.

You shrugged, “I’m just a girl.”

At that, he paused, turning to look at you with a raised eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement.

It was distracting—how good he looked like this. The sun streaming through the window seemed to catch every rough-hewn line of his face, the sweat on his brow glinting faintly in the light. And then there was his shirt, the hem riding up as he reached for something in the toolbox, exposing a sliver of tan, muscular skin that made your stomach flip in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You swallowed hard, tearing your gaze away as you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to play it cool. “So, uh…” you started, your voice coming out too soft. Clearing your throat, you tried again. “How’d you know how to do all this?”

Joel sighed, the sound low and almost weary, as though the answer wasn’t worth much to him. “Was in construction. Worked with Tommy.”

“Really?” you said, tilting your head as you watched him. “Guess that explains the whole ‘fix anything, grumble about it later’ vibe you’ve got going on.”

Joel paused for a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. His brows furrowed, lips tugged into the faintest frown. “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” he said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with genuine confusion.

Your face burned. You waved a hand in the air, trying to dismiss the awkwardness. “Nothing. Uh, I’ll be back,” you muttered, spinning on your heel before he could say anything else.

You escaped to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to compose yourself. “Get it together, girl,” you muttered under your breath, taking a few deep, steadying breaths.

Spotting a pitcher of water on the counter, you grabbed a glass. Offer him water. Be normal. That’s not weird, you told yourself. Glass in hand, you walked back toward him, your heart thudding unreasonably loud in your chest.

“I got some water—” you started, but before you could finish your sentence, your foot caught on something—probably that damn rug you hadn’t straightened out. The glass slipped from your hand as you pitched forward, stumbling with an embarrassingly loud yelp.

The next few seconds blurred together. Joel turned just as you fell, his hands moving quickly to catch you. The glass hit the floor with a clatter, shattering everywhere.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, his strong hands steadying you, one gripping your arm and the other braced on your waist. His eyes scanned you, his voice gruff but laced with concern. “You alright?”

You blinked up at him, your face inches from his. His hand was warm and solid on your waist, and the way he looked at you—stern, steady—made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the fall. “Yeah,” you breathed, your voice a little too shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… clumsy.”

Joel’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “That much’s obvious,” he said, his tone dry as he helped you straighten up. “Maybe let me get my own water next time.”

After what felt like forever, Joel finally let go, his hands dropping from your waist. You stumbled back, the heat of his touch lingering on your skin as you scrambled to the ground, muttering under your breath, “Fuck,” more to yourself than anyone else.

Your eyes darted to the shards of glass scattered across the floor. You reached out quickly, eager to clean up the mess and avoid any more embarrassment. But as your hand shot forward, Joel crouched down at the same time, his larger hand moving to grab the same piece of glass.

And that’s when it happened.

Your hand missed the glass entirely and landed firmly… on him. Right there.

Time froze, the air between you suddenly too thick to breathe, the moment stretching unbearably as you both registered what had just happened. Your heart slammed against your ribcage, panic and mortification washing over you in waves. But that wasn’t what truly hit you, what really sent your mind reeling. No, it was something else entirely.

He was hard.

Rock solid beneath your touch.

You gasped, your breath catching as your gaze snapped up to meet his. His expression was unreadable, his jaw clenched tight, and his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. The tension between you was electric, crackling with something neither of you wanted to name.

Your shock quickly morphed into something deeper, a slow, smoldering heat coiling low in your stomach. Your lips parted, but no words came, your mind too overwhelmed to form a coherent thought. Joel cleared his throat abruptly, breaking the charged silence. He stood in one swift motion, his voice gruff and uneven as he muttered, “I’m gonna… get some water.”

You stayed there for a beat, still kneeling on the floor, the cool shards of glass forgotten in your hands. The room felt stifling, the tension from moments ago lingering in the air like smoke. But then you heard the faint clink of a glass in the kitchen, and before you could second-guess yourself, you stood and followed him.

When you stepped into the doorway, Joel’s back was to you, his broad shoulders pulling taut under the fabric of his shirt as he raised a glass of water to his lips. His head tilted back, exposing the thick column of his neck, and you felt that heat inside you flare, spreading through your limbs like wildfire.

He turned then, lowering the glass, his gaze meeting yours. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw and the flicker in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t say a word—didn’t have to. The charged silence between you said enough.

Your breath caught in your throat, and before you could think it through, you stepped forward. The air shifted as you sank to your knees in front of him, your fingers trembling as they reached for his belt. His breath hitched audibly, his body stiffening as he looked down at you.

“What are you doin’?” His voice was low, strained, but there was no mistaking the way his hands hovered at his sides, unsure whether to stop you—or help you.

You didn’t answer, your hands moving instinctively, your gaze locked on his as you worked the leather strap loose.

You yanked his jeans down in one swift motion, the fabric pooling around his ankles. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as you knelt before him.

Just as your fingers moved to the waistband of his boxers, Joel’s hand shot out, gripping a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back, forcing your gaze up to meet his. The movement was firm, commanding, his expression shadowed and intense.

“The fuck are you doin’?” he growled.

You smiled up at him, unbothered, as though this were the simplest thing in the world. “Helping you,” you said, your voice soft but sure.

For a moment, he just stared at you, his jaw tight, his breath ragged. “Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath, his grip loosening slightly, his eyes darkening. “You’re dirty, y’know that?”

“Go ahead, baby,” he murmured, releasing you.

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers slipped under the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down in one smooth motion. His length sprang free, slapping against his abdomen, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. The sight of him made your breath hitch, heat pooling low in your stomach as your eyes traced every inch of him.

“Shit,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, your lips parting as your mouth watered at the sight.

Joel’s hand found your hair again, his grip firmer this time, guiding your gaze back to his face. “You gonna just stare, or you gonna show me what that smart mouth can do?” he drawled, his voice thick with tension.

You smiled as you began to lean into him.

“Wait,” Joel said, his voice rough and strained, stopping you just before your lips could meet his tip. You froze, looking up at him, the hunger in your eyes mirrored in his.

“Wanna taste you first,” he murmured, his words slow and deliberate, like a promise. “Before you’re all full of me.”

The heat in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core, leaving you breathless. Before you could even process what he meant, his hand tightened in your hair, pulling you to your feet with an almost desperate force.

His lips crashed against yours, feverish and unrelenting, his kiss filled with a raw, unspoken need. A muffled “mhmm” escaped your lips as your body melted against his, your hands bracing against his chest.

But your hand didn’t stay there for long. It slid back down, wrapping around his length as you began stroking him, slow and deliberate at first, before picking up the pace. The weight of him in your palm only made the ache inside you worse, and the quiet, guttural noise Joel let out against your lips sent a shiver down your spine.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice deep and reverent, his forehead pressing to yours for a brief second. “Alright,” he said, his tone commanding now, his hands moving to your shoulders. “Back down.”

You didn’t hesitate, sinking to your knees once more, the hunger in his eyes making your pulse race.

Your mouth enveloped him slowly, your tongue working along his cock, tasting the salt of his skin. Joel’s breath hitched sharply, his hand moving to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as his other hand gripped the edge of the kitchen counter for balance.

“Fuckkk, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, his head tilting back slightly as his eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

Then his gaze snapped back down to you, and the sight of you looking up at him—lips wrapped around him, eyes wide and full of intent—made his jaw tighten. “Shit, you’re good at that,” he groaned, his tone full of awe and desperation.

You kept your pace steady, bobbing your head as your hands worked to cover the rest of him, your fingers curling around his base.

The heat in the room felt almost unbearable now, the sweat on your skin mingling with the faint stickiness of the floor beneath your knees. It hurt—your knees digging into the hardwood—but it didn’t matter. The sound of his breathing, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, made every discomfort worth it.

Joel’s free hand reached down, his thumb brushing a bead of sweat from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the tension in his body. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice rough and uneven.

You hummed in response, the vibration pulling a deep groan from him, his hips bucking slightly despite his effort to stay in control.

Joel’s hand tightened in your hair, gathering it into a makeshift grip as he began to move, his hips thrusting into your mouth with a newfound urgency. The pace was hard and fast, his rhythm rough, but the desperation in his movements only fueled the heat pooling in your core.

Your fingers clutched at his thighs, trying to ground yourself against the intensity of it all. The muscles under your hands were taut, flexing with every drive of his hips, and the sheer force of him overwhelmed you, pushing you closer to the edge of control. You gagged around him, your throat tightening as he hit the back of it, but instead of pulling away, you let out a muffled moan, spurring him on further.

“So fucking good for me,” Joel groaned, his voice raw and strained as he looked down at you. His hand stayed firm in your hair, guiding you as he took what he needed, his eyes burning with a mix of hunger and awe. “On the floor, like this… Jesus Christ.”

You freed one hand from his thigh, letting it slide down to cup his balls, your fingers massaging gently as you continued your rhythm. Joel’s breathing grew heavier, a sharp inhale escaping his lips as his head tipped back slightly.

“Shit, darlin’,” he groaned, his voice rough and strained, every word drenched in desperation. “Not gonna… not gonna last much longer.”

Abruptly, Joel pulled himself out, his breathing ragged as he looked down at you, his eyes dark and hungry “Where d’you want me, baby?” Joel asked again, his voice slower this time, almost a drawl, but it didn’t lack intensity.

His free hand brushed the side of your face, rough fingers tracing over your cheek like he had all the time in the world—though the look in his eyes told you he was on the brink of losing control.

You licked your lips, the salty taste of him still on your tongue, and let the words tumble out before you could second-guess yourself. “In my mouth,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, thick with arousal. “I want you in my mouth.”

“Yeah?” Joel breathed, his jaw tightening as his hips jerked forward instinctively. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly, his dark eyes drinking you in.

You nodded eagerly, your breath hitching as the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. The hunger between you was almost unbearable now, the air charged with a raw, unspoken need.

“Fuck,” Joel grunted, his voice strained as though he was barely holding himself together. His grip on your hair tightened, and his other hand braced against the counter for support. “Okay, baby. Go ahead.”

Without giving you time to respond, he thrust back into your mouth, his movements rougher now, his pace relentless.

His head tilted back, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest as he buried himself in the warmth of you, his hand tightening in your hair to hold you steady. You let him take control, your hands gripping his thighs for support as you worked in time with him, your mouth and tongue doing everything you could to draw him closer to the edge.

Joel’s breathing turned ragged, his body trembling slightly as he braced himself against the counter. “Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice breaking. “So damn perfect. Can’t—fuck—can’t hold it much longer.”

His grip faltered for just a moment, his movements growing erratic as he chased his release. And then he was spilling into you, a string of low curses falling from his lips as he held you against him, his cum sitting heavy and warm in your mouth.

“Open your mouth,” Joel commanded, his voice rough and steady, his hand tightening in your hair to hold you in place. His tone left no room for hesitation, and you complied instantly, parting your lips and tilting your head slightly so he could see himself on painted all over your tongue.

“Shit,” Joel murmured, his eyes darkening as he looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

“Now swallow,” Joel commanded, his voice rough and full of authority, his grip on your hair firm as he watched you.

You swallowed instinctively, your throat working around the command as the taste of him lingered on your tongue. Your panties dampened at the sound of his deep groan and the way his chest heaved as he took in the sight of you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice gravelly, a low growl rumbling from his throat as his hand moved to your face. His thumb wiped away a bead of his cum from the corner of your lip.

Without another word, Joel reached down, pulling his pants back up with a practiced ease, as if nothing had happened. His movements were calm, deliberate, his face unreadable as he fastened his belt.

You stayed on your knees, still dazed, your mind spinning from everything that had just transpired. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the heat coursing through your body, leaving you breathless and utterly unmoored.

Joel glanced down at you, his expression softening for the briefest moment before he leaned down, his rough hands sliding beneath your arms to help you up.

Once you were on your feet, he straightened, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. “Now,” he muttered, his voice gruff, “let’s fix this damn thing.”

And just like that, he turned, moving back toward the broken ventilation system as if nothing had happened, leaving you standing in your kitchen, stunned.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, your body still trembling, still achingly hot—for an entirely different reason now.

[devildomwriter]

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas | Solomon x Reader

.8k words | GN! Reader | Fluff, humor | CW: slightly suggestive, Solomon is sick of getting interrupted

Every window in the old brick home was decorated with a wreath. Red bows wrapped neatly around the porch, snow covered the roof and the tops of every bush. It was truly the example of what you expect a hallmark movie Christmas home to look like.

You stood there looking at the home with Solomon by your side.

He sighed and so did you as you thought of what to say shining outside the home.

“This is great…” you start and Solomon gives you a dumbfounded look.

“Really—“

“You know what would make it better?”

He sighed, “I can take a guess…”

“If we weren’t trapped inside a snow globe!” You exclaimed in exasperation.

Solomon shook his head, defeated. “I didn’t know it was enchanted…”

“How? How did you not know it was enchanted? You’re literally the strongest sorcerer on earth, ever! How could you not tell?”

Solomon stayed quiet and it dawned on you. You facepalmed as he looked away guiltily.

“You did know…” you concluded and he pouted.

“Well, how else was I supposed to get you away from those brothers?” He confessed and you groaned.

“Teleporting?”

He shook his head, “they’d follow us like last time.”

You recalled teleporting to watch the tree lighting in New York and how you’d nearly toppled the tree on live TV when the brothers made a fuss trying to find you in the crowd. Beelzebub may or may not have eaten someone’s microphone and it quickly escalated. Crowds panicked pretty quickly, you and the angels had a lot of footage to fake and memories to falsely implant to get that one covered up. You and Solomon were the only two humans who knew how the NY Tree lighting really went that year.

You shook your head in acceptance, “Yeah…this is probably the only way.”

“Good I’m glad you’ve acknowledged it!” He said with a smile that hid how annoyed he was with the brothers interrupting your time together with him.

“I furnished the inside, why don’t I show you around?” He offered and you decided to just go with it at this point because out of all the magic-related incidents you’ve been through this was far from concerning.

Although he more or less tricked you here this was exactly what you needed you’d just have to scold him later about asking you first next time.

When Solomon invited you inside you were surprised to see it was a fully functioning house. It too was decorated just as elaborately as the outside and you couldn’t help looking around in awe.

You smiled at your boyfriend and his heart fluttered, excited he could finally be alone with you and that you’d even smile at him after trapped you both in a snow globe.

Solomon gestured to the stairs to lead you up to the second floor and you raced him up laughing like kids without any worries.

You looked through every room and the master bath which had a tub big enough for two with functioning pipes. You looked at Solomon who failed to hide his hopes with a cheery smile and you laughed.

“Oooh, I see. You chose this house for a reason, didn’t you?” You asked playfully, sitting on the side of the tub.

“Well…I designed it actually,” he confessed and gave you a smirk.

“Really? You should get into home design,” you decided to tease him and walked right past him. He stood there shocked a moment but ran after you as you found the master bedroom.

“Hey wait a minute, where are you going?” He asked as he walked after you quickly.

He found you sitting at the end of the king-sized bed.

“This must be the best napping spot in the world,” you continued to tease and he gave you a curious look, becoming uncertain if you were messing with him. After all, if anyone really needed a nap that season it was you.

Solomon decided to go with you and sat on the bed with you. He fluffed the pillow for you and you watched him, surprised he wasn’t going to protest.

You smiled at his thoughtfulness and when Solomon turned back around to see you he froze, finding you undressing in front of him.

A wicked grin crossed his face and he came up behind you, “allow me,” he whispered in your ear and raised your sweater off over your head.

He kissed your ears and you laughed when suddenly everything around you seemed to fall apart.

Solomon quickly formed a protective bubble of magic around you as the world around you quaked.

It quickly dawned on you both what was happening as you heard Mammon’s voice.

“Check out this snow globe, think it’d sell? It’s pretty fancy, huh?”

“No way! That could totally be ___’s that house looks just like something they’d like!”

“Yeah, Mammon, don’t be a scumbag lol.”

You and Solomon held each other frozen as you took in the situation. Solomon sighed and bitterly commented, “I’m going to kill them one of these days…”

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Running hot||werewolf!Jenson button x vet!reader

Summary —Veterinarian Y/N is used to helping animals in need, but when a massive, heat-exhausted wolf collapses in her yard, she doesn’t hesitate to help the animal.

Word count—1039

A/n- thank you @andtheytoldustotellyouhello for the idea and @sinofwriting for indulging my werewolf fic writing addiction!

Also should I do a part two?

The wolf collapsed at the edge of the treeline, panting so hard its whole body trembled. Y/N spotted him from the porch, a massive creature with a coat matted in dirt and sweat, sides heaving like a bellows. She’d seen plenty of overheated animals in her time as a vet, but never a wolf this big. And definitely not one that had stumbled into her yard like it was begging for help.

Swearing under her breath, she grabbed her med kit and ran.

The humid summer air pressed heavy against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat rolling off the wolf’s body when she knelt beside it. Its eyes flickered open—sharp, golden. Unnatural. But she shoved the thought aside, focusing instead on the way its tongue lolled, dry and cracked. Dehydration. Severe heat exhaustion. If she didn’t act fast, it wouldn’t make it.

“You’re lucky I found you,” she muttered, uncapping a bottle of cool water.

The wolf’s ears twitched. It wasn’t fully unconscious, but it didn’t resist as she carefully poured water along its muzzle, letting it lap at the droplets. Then she shifted her focus to checking for injuries. No obvious wounds, no gunshot marks. Just sheer exhaustion. As if it had been running for miles, pushing past the point of survival.

“What the hell happened to you?” she murmured.

The wolf’s breathing slowed. It was still too hot, though—dangerously so. Y/N needed to get it out of the sun. With no other choice, she slipped her arms under its middle, grunting at the sheer size of it. Too big for a normal wolf. Too heavy. But she dragged it toward the shade of her porch, ignoring the voice in her head screaming that something wasn’t right.

She stayed by its side for hours, cooling its body with damp cloths, forcing small sips of water down its throat. The sun dipped low. The wolf twitched in its restless sleep, muscles rippling under its thick fur.

And then it happened.

One second, she was adjusting the cloth on its forehead. The next—

A man.

A full-grown, human man lay where the wolf had been, sprawled in the grass, sweat-slicked and feverish.

Y/N jolted back, heart slamming into her ribs. Her breath hitched in her throat, unable to form a single rational thought.

The man groaned. His skin was as hot as the wolf’s had been, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, jaw tight with some lingering pain.

No clothes. No explanation.

Just impossible.

Y/N scrambled backward, her mind screaming at her to run, to grab her phone, to do something. But then the man’s eyes flickered open—blue , unlike the wolf’s.

And in that moment, she knew.

She wasn’t dealing with something natural.

She was dealing with something else.

Something dangerous.

And she had just saved its life.

Y/N’s breath came fast and shallow. The world had tilted sideways, reality cracking at the edges.

The wolf—the man—shifted slightly, his brow creasing. He was still weak, still burning up. If she wanted answers, now was the time.

Her hands curled into fists to stop them from shaking. “What the hell are you?”

No response. Just the slow drag of his breath.

Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself closer. Rationally, she should have been running, but instinct held her there. She had spent years training to heal animals, to stabilize them when they were helpless. Right now, whatever he was—whoever he was—he was still her patient.

She grabbed a fresh cloth, dipping it into the bowl of cool water before pressing it to his forehead. His skin twitched under her touch, like even that small sensation was too much.

Then his hand shot up, gripping her wrist.

Y/N yelped, nearly jerking back, but his hold was weak, barely more than a touch. His fingers were long, rough with callouses. Definitely not some wild, feral creature.

His eyes cracked open, sharp gold slicing through the dimming light.

“Where…?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.

“You’re at my home,” Y/N lied on instinct. She wasn’t about to tell a stranger—a shapeshifter—that she lived alone in the middle of nowhere. “You passed out from heat exhaustion.”

His gaze flickered, darting to the empty space around them. No clinic. No sterile walls. Just her porch, her house, the trees swaying in the fading light.

His grip tightened just slightly. “You—” He swallowed dryly, his throat working. “You helped me.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know what I just saved.”

He blinked at her. Something shifted in his expression, something tired, but not surprised. Like he’d had this conversation before. Like he already knew she wouldn’t believe the truth.

“Jenson,” he murmured. “My name is Jenson.”

Y/N hesitated. Not what she’d asked, but still… a name was something.

She pulled her wrist free and grabbed the water bottle she’d used earlier. “Drink.”

Jenson’s fingers curled around the plastic, but his hands were shaking too hard to hold it steady. Y/N huffed and guided it to his lips herself.

The moment the water hit his tongue, he groaned, tilting his head back as he swallowed. Y/N tried not to focus on the sound, on the way exhaustion made him pliant, too human for something that shouldn’t be possible.

She pulled the bottle away before he could choke on it. “You need to cool down. If I had an IV, I’d—” She stopped herself. “Never mind. Just rest.”

Jenson exhaled slowly, head tilting toward her. His eyes dragged over her face like he was committing it to memory.

“…You should be afraid.”

Y/N stiffened. “I am afraid.”

He gave the smallest, ghost of a smirk. “You don’t look it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m good at hiding it.”

Jenson let out a soft, strained breath that might have been a laugh. Then his eyes slipped shut again, his body sinking back into the grass.

Y/N sat there, watching him, pulse still pounding.

Whatever Jenson was, he wasn’t just some lost, exhausted shifter. He was running from something.

And she had a feeling it would come looking.

[kaleidoscopewritings19]

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Title: Dreams of Her (PART 1)

PART 2

Warning(s): SMUT. MDNI. P in V, Oral, female receiving. Unprotected sex. 18+ Wrap it before you tap it.

Character(s): Joel Miller, Female X Reader, Sarah Miller mentioned, Mrs. Adler mentioned, and Ellie.

Everything italicized is a dream! Bold print = dialogue prompts. Credit for prompts @ the other woman-Emily.

MY WORK IS NOT TO BE SHARED, TRANSLATED, OR POSTED TO OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS. ©️

The cool Wyoming air whipped through the open window, causing Joel to stir awake. He rubbed his face, trying to see what time it was. The old analog clock on his nightstand read 2:02 AM. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stared at the floor.

His body cracked and popped as he slowly stood up out of bed, and closed the window. The fully functional small town of Jackson was sound asleep; other than the men who had to take watch. It was hard to find sleep most nights, but Joel wanted nothing more than to rest his achy, tired body.

But before he could get back into bed, he had to check on Ellie. Never in a million years did he think he’d have the opportunity to live a (somewhat) normal life after the outbreak. He never thought he would get the chance to check on someone he cared about again.

The old wood door creaked as he peered around it, finding Ellie sound asleep at her window seat— uncovered. Joel quietly walked over and covered her shivering body with her comforter, and was able to leave without waking her.

Anytime he woke up, he couldn’t go back to bed until he checked around the house. He wasn’t afraid— he was just taking extra precautions.

After a quick scan throughout the house, Joel felt safe enough to crawl back into bed. No sooner than he pulled his blankets up, he was out. At night, memories would plague his dreams- especially the bad ones. However, tonight was one of the rare one’s where he dreamed of you.

Back in Austin, Joel had built a porch swing. Sarah had requested one be built for her to sit and swing on during the summer. Joel would do anything to make his daughter, his number one priority, happy.

It was May 24th of 2002 when Joel had finally decided to start on the porch swing; it would be built just in time for Sarah to have it for the first day of her summer break. She was at school and Joel had went to the hardware store and came back to the house to see you sitting on the porch steps.

You were wearing a yellow sundress, and your hair was curled and pinned back. Joel loved seeing you on his porch steps looking like a goddess.

When you seen him pull into the driveway, you had a big smile on your face. You jumped up from the porch steps and ran into his open arms. He pressed a kiss to your lips, “Hey there darlin’. Have ya been waitin’ long?” He questioned and you shook your head.

“Nope. I got here five minutes ago.” You said and he pulled you close into his body. Joel could still faintly smell your Vanilla perfume. “I love you in that dress.” He mumbled against your glossed lips.

You smiled up at him, “I don’t think your neighbor does. She asked me if I wanted to borrow one of her cardigans. Said there’s s’pose to be a cold spell coming soon.” Joel instantly knew what neighbor you were referring to— Mrs. Adler. He has had multiple conversations with her about you; most of them being about how young you were.

“Joel, she’s a little young don’t cha think?”

“People might think she’s your daughter.”

However, you were 22 years old, and he was 32 years old. That made you thirteen years older than Sarah, and ten years younger than him. But no matter how much he tried to explain to Mrs. Adler that you were much older than Sarah, she would still tell him,

“Now, Joel, that young lady is still wet behind the ears. You can’t expect her to stick around long—she’s young, and naive right now.” On multiple occasions, Mrs. Adler had tried to talk sense into you, but you never talked back and always respected what she had to say.

Joel admired you for that, and at times, you would try to gain the neighbors approval by helping her in the garden, or helping with her mother.

Joel couldn’t help but to smile, “I think she forgets this is Texas. We aren’t going to have a cold spell for a while.” He pulled a couple of sacks from the inside of the truck, and walked them over to the porch.

“What are you going to build, J?” You asked and Joel reached out for your hand.

“A porch swing for Sarah. She’s been beggin�� for one for awhile now.” He said as he led you up the steps, and pointed where the swing would go.

“Oh, she’ll love that! It would be the perfect spot to read a book, or to drink coffee in the morning.” You said as you sat on the porch banister. Joel’s right leg went in between your legs, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

His hands held your waist, “That would be nice. A hot cup of coffee in the morning, or seeing you on it when I come home from work.” You smiled as his palm flatted against your bare thigh, and moved upwards under your dress. Joel shamelessly planted kisses along your jawline, and then traced down your neck. You shuddered as his lips delicately danced around the sensitive skin.

“Someone might see us, Joel..” you whispered as his finger tips traced your laced panties. “No one’s going to see us.” He murmured. His lips connected to yours, and your fingers tugged at his dark brown hair; this encouraged him to go even further.

Joel spread your legs just enough for him to slip a finger into your panties, and between your slick folds. A breathy moan escaped past your lips; this was music to Joel’s ears.

Before he could go any further, the squeaking sound of Mrs. Adler’s screen door made the two of you jump apart. If Joel wouldn’t have caught your leg, you would’ve fell in the bushes. “Hi Mrs. Adler!” He shouted and she waved at him.

“Just checking the mail! Don’t mind me!” She shouted back, and both you and Joel chuckled.

He helped you down from the banister and lead you into the quietness of his home. The Miller home was far from being fancy, but you always told him his home was more homey and comforting than yours.

Your father was some big time military General; he often lived in different countries while you and your mom stayed in Texas. But now he was home for the next couple of years, and you talked about how hard he could be on you. Your father expected big things from you, and that’s why you were studying to become a clinical psychologist.

Did your father know about him? Yes. Joel had met your father on a couple of occasions and he did not approve of Joel. Number one, ‘he was too old’. Number two, ‘he had a child’. And number three, ‘he was simply not good enough for you’. Despite your father’s wishes, you stayed with Joel.

It was hard to get alone time with Joel, because on weekends, school breaks, and any time after 3 PM, he was in full dad mode. Joel had told Sarah some stuff about you, but as far as she knew, you were just a good friend.

Joel closed the front door behind him, and you sat down on the arm of the couch. The cool leather against your skin made you shiver. Slowly, you pulled the pins from your hair, and beckoned him to come to you. The scent of your perfume drove him crazy; all he wanted to do was take you right then and there.

He knelt down in front of you, both hands running up and down your legs agonizingly slow. His dark brown eyes looked up through his lashes, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your knee, then up to your thigh.

Joel’s calloused hands rested on your thighs, and then without a notice, his fingers hooked under the thin lacy fabric of your panties. He slid them down your legs letting the air hit your wet core. A smile broke out across Joel’s face as he slid you closer to him, his head now underneath your dress. He pressed a kiss to the inner part of your thigh, and then pressed a gentle kiss to where you wanted him the most.

Your hands went to his hair as his tongue flattened and tasted you. When the tip of his tongue danced around your clit, it made you push yourself back from the sudden warmth of pleasure.

Joel pulled you down to sit on the couch rather than the arm of the piece of furniture; his face never left your core. His hands flattened against your thighs, and kept a strong grip on them; Joel didn’t want you to move an inch from his mouth.

“Oh, Joel.” You whimpered as his tongue delve into you.

There was one thing Joel loved more than having you on his cock, and it was tongue fucking you. Your breathing would turn into short breaths, and you would moan his name over and over like a sweet song. His thumb started massaging your clit in a circular motion, “I want you to finish baby.” He mumbled against your wet cunt.

When he realized that you weren’t getting close, he swirled his tongue around your clit. You squirmed underneath his hands but he held you still— bruises would surely form. Joel teased your clit, causing you to pull him closer into you.

Your body shook underneath his grasp and against his lips as he continued to lap up your juices. When you arched your back, Joel knew you were about to finish. “Joel, I’m about to..”

Before you could finish your sentence, Joel pulled away, lips glistening with you. He scooped you up off the couch bridal style, and took you up the stairs and into his room.

Joel sat you on the edge of his bed, his lips red and puffy from his previous activity. His left hand steadied himself on the bed while his right hand played with the spaghetti strap of your sundress.Your nose brushed against Joel’s, and his lips ghost over yours; the strap to your dress tickled down your arm, exposing your hard nipple to him.

His thumb and forefinger pinched and twisted the pebbled skin, and he connected his lips to yours. Your lips moved against his softly—during days like these, Joel preferred to take things slow. It was only 8AM, he had all the time in the world to make love to you. He pulled the other strap of your dress down, and started pulling your dress up over your hips. You pulled away from his lips, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head. Then you started working on unbuckling the belt from his jeans, “So impatient, darlin’.”

“I’m more than patient. You left me hangin’ downstairs.” You responded, and Joel stopped your hands.

“Watch the attitude, sweetheart. Don’t make me fuck it out of you.” his Texas accent laid the words on thick. His thumb tilted your chin back so he could look you in the eyes.

You smiled up at him, and continued to pull his jeans down. His cock was already throbbing from the site of you, and when your hand gently brushed over the bulge in his boxers, it twitched. With a devious smile, you pushed yourself back on the bed and spread your legs. Joel knew what you were doing; you were going to try to punish him for the little stunt he pulled downstairs.

Your hands trailed between your legs, and your fingers ran between your slick folds. He watched you intently, as you brought your fingers to your lips, tasting yourself. Joel groaned at the site in front of him. “Use your words, Joel. Tell me, what you want.” You teased, using the words he used to you in bed.

Joel chuckled, “I want you to keep doin’ what your doin’.” But you shook your head, “Not good enough, Joel. Tell me what you want me to do.”

His eyes darkened, “I want you to put your hand between your legs, and insert one finger at a time until I tell you to stop.” He commanded, he was slowly taking back control.

You obeyed his words, and your hand slowly traced from your stomach, down between your legs, gathering the wetness on your fingers.

Joel pulled down his boxers, his cock springing out. You drooled at the site of him standing in front of you, waiting for you to do what he said.

Languidly, you inserted one finger inside of yourself, and slowly pulled it in and out of you. Joel took his cock in his hands and started pumping himself as you added a second finger.

When you added a third finger, the idea of taking things slow was left behind. Joel crawled across the bed, and pushed you down into the mattress. He hovered over your body, and pressed a bruising kiss to your lips. Your dress was discarded as Joel sat up.

He pulled you by your calves and angled you up, “Look at that pussy. So wet for me.” Joel guided his cock to your entrance, teasing your clit with the tip. You could feel the warmth of pre-cum rub against you, “Oh Joel…” you whimpered.

“I love it when you whimper my name.” He said as he pushed the tip into your tight cunt. A groan escaped past his lips, “So fuckin’ tight.”

His cock pushed deeper inside you. With every push, your grip tightened on his forearms, and your legs trembled in his hands.

You released your grasp on his forearms, and started massaging your breasts; it was something Joel loved to see you do while he fucked you senseless.

The stretch around his cock stung, but when he looked at you for confirmation to move, you gave him a small nod. Slowly, his hips rocked up into you, and his gaze was fixed upon you. Joel’s pace had quickened, and the squelching sounds of your pussy suctioning to him was erotic; it fed fuel to the fire that was burning between you two.

“I love watching you take in every inch of my cock into that perfect body.” He groaned as he watched himself go in and out of you.

When he gazed back up at you, your eyes were closed tight, lost in pure euphoria. He released your legs, and spread them further apart, so he could move between them.

His body hovered over yours, and he pressed a kiss to your lips. Your eyes fluttered opened as his cock rested inside you, and he kissed along your neck and back to your jawline.

“Please, don’t stop.” You whimpered and Joel resumed back to thrusting into you. Your mouth gaped as Joel sucked on your neck, surely leaving a hickey behind.

“Everyone is gonna know who you belong to.” He mumbled, and his pace started to slow down. “I want you to finish on my cock, baby.” He whispered into your ear.

Joel could feel you tighten around his pulsating cock, and when a lewd sound left your lips, he knew you were chasing your high. “Come for me.” He whispered and you were shaking underneath him. His lips connected to yours as he spilled inside of you; he rocked into you until he couldn’t anymore.

With his free hand, he pushed back a strand of hair that was stuck to your forehead. He pulled out of you and pulled the bed sheet to cover your naked bodies. When he laid back into the pillows, you moved over and rested your head above his heart.

Joel pulled you close into his body and he caressed your back, his fingers gingerly touching you.

The two of you laid there in silence, looking over at the breeze that was moving the curtain back and forth. “I miss you.” You whispered, and Joel’s fingers froze over your shoulder blade.

“Darlin’, I’m right here.” He said. You sat up on your elbow so you could look him in the eyes.

“I miss you so much my heart hurts.” Tears filled your eyes and Joel sat up. “I didn’t want to go with him, I- I wanted to go with you. It wasn’t my choice, my father said we would come back for you, and we- we didn’t.” You sobbed.

Joel stared at you in bewilderment, “What are you talkin’ about, Y/N?”

“He took me away from you the night of the outbreak. Don’t you remember Joel? I was with you, Tommy, and Sarah. I was there when they shot her. I was there when you cradled her body. Did you know my father shot me on command?”

Joel woke up and he gasped for air. He looked towards the right side of his bed where you should have been, but the space was empty. His heart pounded in his chest, and all he could do was stare at the empty side of his bed.

The sun was shining through a space in the curtain, and he looked over at his clock: 8:01 AM. He rubbed his face as he stepped out of bed and opened his night stand.

Joel was only able to save a few pictures; a couple of Sarah and then a photo of you from the day you wore that yellow sundress. You were sitting on the new porch swing and Joel was right next to you, his arm slung around your shoulders, watching you smile at the camera. In the photograph, he was smiling at you smiling, and he was glad Mrs. Adler caught this moment.

The dreams he had of you, never ended like that. He often wondered where you were, or what happened to you. Joel knew your father would have protected you over anyone else, and he hoped you were still alive and thriving.

Regardless of what was going on in this apocalyptic world, when he thought of you, he hoped you were safe. Sometimes, when Joel found himself alone and it was quiet, he would pray that you were out there alive, and that your paths would cross.

He took the picture downstairs with him as he fixed himself a cup of coffee. The photo was worn and faded; the back was yellowed, but in black ink, he could still read your words.

“Joel, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you. Forever and Always, Y/N.”

Ellie came up behind him to pull a cup out of the cupboard. “Who’s that?” She asked and Joel looked down at your smiling face.

“She’s a story for another time.” He said with a sad, small smile. Ellie stared at the picture on the counter, but she knew better than to pester Joel about it.

You were one of the last things he had that was good. The idea of keeping you to himself, made him feel like you were still alive. Saying what happened that night out loud, made him believe otherwise.

Joel picked up the picture and placed it in the pocket of his shirt, that rested above his heart. Maybe one day, your paths would cross.

I don’t know how to feel about this one. I’m semi-comfortable with writing smut, but I fear I’m not GOOD at it. I was nervous to post this, but oh well. 👀Part 2 maybe? Or should we end it here? Thank for reading! Comments, likes, and reboots are always welcomed and appreciated!

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 14 – The One Where They Call It Chaotic but We Call it Predictable

<blip>

<blip>

<blip>

<blip-blip>

<blip>

Yes, I am fully aware my entries have been sparse of late, and, no, I am not planning to stop my general Lukola ramblings any time soon. In fact, once I run out of material, I’ll probably dabble with fan fiction because, meh, why the hell not? Any ways, the reason for my slight absence is that I’ve had a special guest staying at my house – one by the name of “Dad.” Yes, that dapper gentleman has been roosting on my porch for the past few weeks (because that’s the only place I allow him to smoke), drinking an ungodly amount of Coca-Cola and holding my shih tzu like she’s a human baby. He did pry himself away long enough to be my date to see “Wicked” (he loved it, by the way). Oh, and he was obliged to my incessant babblings about Lukola. In fact, he even opened my mind to a few theories of his own and made me laugh hysterically at his reaction to the Jakolas.

It has always been my intention to delve into a certain section of our timeline – the part where Luke seemingly ran off into the Summertime Sunset with his friend group, which included Antonia. That period in time is the cavity of my Lukola table puzzle. The left side isn’t connecting to the right side because there’s this gaping hole in the center called Hot Boy Fucking Summer! Before June 12, things made sense to me. Even with the muck we find ourselves in now, just about everything after July 30 has made sense to me. So, of course, Hot Boy Summer was a topic of discussion with my dad. Actually, it was an “all afternoon” one.

I originally presented the Before, During, and After of Hot Boy Summer in chronological order to my dad only to get blasted with, “Stop doing that shit!” after I mentioned “Bless the Telephone.” His gripe was that – like the Claddagh ring – I had failed to disclose to him information that may alter his opinion about the event for which we were theorizing. Specifically, if I knew that the Claddagh ring preceded June 12 and I knew Nicola’s aptly named “Chaos Week” followed July 30, then disclosing those details to him before asking him to theorize about what happened in between those two dates (i.e., Hot Boy Summer) was necessary and even critical to his final opinion.

I don’t believe there is much explaining to do on the front-end of Hot Boy Summer – at least not to my well-versed Lukolas. We presumably all watched the same World Tour (including that trip over to Galway so Luke could meet Nicola’s mother) and I’ve already discussed the Claddagh ring in Entry 6 of my blog. That leaves us with the tail-end of Luke’s summertime jaunt, which steers us into Chaos Week. For those of you who thought I was going to discuss Hot Boy Summer in this entry, I’m sorry – this one is dedicated to that erratic period of Nicola blowing her war horn, beckoning all Lukolas within a worldwide radius of London to commence at her feet. And, commence we did!

Have you ever heard of “chaos theory?” Broadly speaking, it’s the idea that small changes can result in major changes over time – like cause and effect. That’s kind of how I’ve looked back at Chaos Week. We’d spent most of the summer on one bummer of a vacation, with Luke and Nicola (presumably) spending time apart from one another. Sure, we’d had few fireworks explode here and there with pap pictures, and we saw JVN enter the ring as the fan favorite best friend but, on the surface, Hot Boy Summer was, well, rather static. It had carried on with a monotonous “blip…blip…blip…” until suddenly our radar detected a quiet but distinct “blip-blip,” which didn’t register in any of our minds until we had a torpedo coming straight for us!

I don’t believe we can attribute Chaos Week solely to Nicola. Yes, yes, I know, Nicola’s online presence in early to mid-August was chaotic, hence the name “Chaos Week.” But, I do not believe Nicola started Chaos Week. She sure as shit drove it home but, in my opinion, it wasn’t her actions that set everything in motion. Nicola wasn’t the “blip-blip;” she was the torpedo.

So, what was the “blip-blip?”

Luke returning to London – alone – on August 2, of course.

The friend group, which had included Antonia, was nowhere in sight.

Hot Boy Summer had come to an end (I imagine this to be the reason Nicola started blowing her war horn).

In my opinion, Luke’s return set everything else into motion. He was that second pendulum that caused the first one to spiral out of control.

But, we ate that shit up, didn’t we? Yeah, we sure did, and we loved every day of Chaos Week. What’s funny to me is that everyone remembers bits and pieces of Chaos Week, but they never seem to get it in the right order (how chaotic, right?). This happened, then that happened. No, no, that happened first. No, this happened first. The only way to really look at Chaos Week is to give order to the disorder. And, we’re going to do that via a very generic captain’s log, so…

Welcome aboard!

Mission: Chaos Week

Origin: Somewhere in Mayfair.

Destination: Happily Ever After.

Time of Departure: Fuck, I don’t know. When did you board this ship?

Expected Time of Arrival: Hopefully before we all wither up and die.

Log Entries:

August 2. Luke returned to London alone. Yeah, yeah, I know, I already told you that, but I had to add this:

<blip-blip>

August 4. Nicola decided to wake us all up from our somber summer with a plate of French toast. Umm, okay, that’s fucking random. I’m going back to bed – but wait, didn’t Luke say brunch was his “fav meal of the day?” Yeah, I swear I have that polaroid around here somewhere.

<blip>

August 7. Luke – after being absent on social media for what seemed like a lifetime – suddenly popped into his Instagram stories to post some delightfully cute Bridgerton Bloopers. The entire fandom rejoiced at Luke’s return to social media! And, let’s be honest, we only cared about the bloopers with Luke and Nicola. Hmm, Luke always has this intriguing, yet subtle way of surprising us. Did you hear that?

<blip-blip>

August 7. Shortly after Luke posted his Bridgerton Bloopers, Nicola swooped in and dropped a very loud Wordle anvil on her Instagram stories. <clang!> Was she clocking people for making fake social media accounts using her name? Did she really solve the Wordle in two? Actually, most of us ignored that part of the post entirely and went straight to Mr. Google to ask, “What does ‘anvil’ mean? Okay, how about in the Urban Dictionary?” You know you did, too! In all seriousness, though, when this first dropped, I considered whether she was directing the “anvil” at Luke. After all, let’s face it, Nicola was the one who promoted Bridgerton post-Papsmear while Luke disappeared from the limelight. It’s only natural that she might be a bit peeved at him suddenly promoting Bridgerton. However, in hindsight, I believe this to be nothing more than Nicola calling out the person making fake social media accounts under her name. During this time, there seemed to be an influx of fake social media accounts using Nicola and Luke’s names (Luke would address this same topic on his Instagram stories on August 24). And, as fun as it would be to theorize that the “anvil” was directed at someone (other than Luke, of course), it was, in fact, the Wordle for August 6. That said, I do believe that “Wordle” has become synonymous with “Luke” at this point. So, I’ll give you that.

<blip-blip>

August 8. JVN reposted their “[w]hen you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments” to his Instagram grid. Did you think JVN wasn’t going to be included in Chaos Week?! They produced some of their best shit during this time! Any ways, Nicola liked this grid post, which confirmed my belief that Antonia played some part in the Italy pap pictures (for a full explanation on this, read “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean”). Thanks for the recap, JVN, although most Lukolas probably didn’t need to a reminder as to why they disliked Antonia.

<blip>

August 9. Nicola posted the Scrabble board to her Instagram stories. Whoa, hold up, Jakolas! Yeah, we know Jake played Scrabble with Nicola and – guess what – we Lukolas don’t care. I mean, I’ll even throw the Jakolas a small scrap of meat and say that Jake could (emphasis on could) have helpedNicola with the Scrabble board. Why am I being so charitable? Because that just makes me more confident Jake has always supported Lukola. You will not convince me (or probably any Lukola) that this Scrabble board was directed at anyone else but Antonia. In my opinion, there are only two things in this picture that matter – the central word “HEYA,” or “HEY A,” and the Guinness coaster. In fact, if I had been playing on the opposite side of this Scrabble board, I would have challenged this word. That alone says exactly what it needs to say. This is not to dissuade you from theorizing on every other word on that board, though. I’m simply saying I do not need any other evidence to persuade myself into believing the board was directed at Antonia. Now, if you want to take the two corner words and speculate that Nicola was having “SEX” with “DAD,” go right ahead – I won’t argue with you.

<blip-blip>

August 10. Nicola posted to her Instagram grid the now-deleted birthday greeting to her friend, Camilla. The caption read, “…Remember the time paparazzi took a picture of us and to protect me you grabbed my face?” If that’s not an indirect jab at Luke’s friend group, I’m not sure what it is because it sure as hell doesn’t scream, “Happy Birthday,” to me.

<blip>

August 11. Nicola decided to get out her blow torch and light every beacon fire she could find starting in Bowral and ending in London by posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt to her Instagram stories. You could practically hear her rallying every last Lukola still standing: “Rise, Lukolas, rise!” In fact, I think some even rose from the dead that day! What was the crisis? Well, only that the “Drink Your Milk” shirt was exactly like the one Luke was seen wearing on or about June 22. Now, now, this was a charity promoted by Jonathan Bailey so it’s entirely possible Nicola was gifted her own shirt. But, guess what? The Lukolas didn’t give a shit! They deep dived into reflections on sunglasses and creases in t-shirt sleeves! And, no, I’m not speculating on that hot mess (if you’re interested in learning more, I promise you there’s plenty of TikToks for that). In truth, it never mattered to me whether the shirt belonged to Luke or not. What mattered was the perception that it was Luke’s shirt. It blew up the Internet and I would stand by my belief that, if the fandom’s perception of something was detrimentally incorrect, Nicola (or Luke) would have corrected it. Nicola did not correct this. And, no, Jakolas, don’t even talk to me about that scrap of green blanket in that picture. I don’t care if Jake played Scrabble with (presumably) Nicola at some point over the summer while sitting outside on a goddamn green blanket. The “Drink Your Milk” post was not a secret coded message to Jake. I would stand on a hill and argue that all afternoon. Why? Because – again – Nicola did not correct the “Luke’s shirt” narrative. She let the fandom run with it. In fact, we all got our own blow torches that day. Mine’s turquoise and engraved with my initials.

<blip-blip-blip>

August 12. JVN posted a “Special announcement” to their Instagram grid. Right about now, you might be, like, “What the fuck does this have to do with Chaos Week?” I told you, JVN has this way of slipping shit into to their posts that make you do a double take – usually a day later while you’re daydreaming during your drive to the office. This was one of those posts. The announcement was: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics…@teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles & @stephen_nedoroscik (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team I attempt to)…” What made this post stick out is that it is, in fact, bullshit. As in, it is a completely made-up story. Team USA did not visit JVN at their house; they’re not joining the USA gymnastics team. It’s not even that funny, to be honest. So, what was the point of it? It’s confusing as fuck when you read it at face value; however, when you drop it into the Lukola timeline, I’m convinced it alludes to something bigger. On August 11, we had Nicola posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt – which sent the fandom into believing Nicola was wearing Luke’s shirt and that Luke’s reflection was in her sunglasses. On August 13, the day after this post, a torpedo was launched at us (warning, warning, anyone got a phone I can use?). When you look at this post as the middle piece connecting Nicola’s August 11 and August 13 posts, I believe it tells a story. Let me rewrite it for you but imagine it now coming from Nicola’s perspective: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics Hot Boy Summer had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics Luke’s friend group, which included Antonia…Luke @teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team [choose your own adventure on this one]. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles Antonia & @stephen_nedoroscik Rory (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team [“girlfriend” or best friend] I attempt to)…” Huh, at the very least, this post is starting to get the side-eye from you, isn’t it?

<blip-blip>

August 13. Oh, my God! My hair is on fucking fire!!! Nicola dumped “Bless the [Goddamn] Telephone” on her Instagram stories. Whose voice is nice to hear again? What is she trying to say?! Maybe nothing. No, it’s something. “It’s nice, the way you say my name; not very fast or slow, just soft and low; the same as when you tell me how you feel; I feel the same way, too; I’m very much in love with you. I’m very much in love with you.” I don’t need to elaborate any further on this post. It speaks for itself. Chaos Week had officially launched its massive torpedo (full of firecrackers and pinata candy) and the entire Lukola fandom was hysterical – in the best way possible. However, I will interrupt this happy moment with – Jakolas, please don’t start trying to link this song to Jake because Jack Rooke used it in an episode of “Big Boys.” Yes, we are aware Jake played a minor role in that show as a love interest to the main character, Jack. Again, Nicola did not shut down the fandom’s perception that the song was for Luke. Sorry, not sorry, Jakolas. If any part of Chaos Week was for Jake, I believe Nicola would have shut the entire thing down after realizing the fandom was associating everything with Luke.

< BLIP-BLIP-BLIP-BLIP-BLIP-BLIP>

August 15. After giving the fandom 48 hours to process “Bless the Telephone,” Nicola posted to her Instagram grid, “Very demure, very mindful.” In my opinion, Nicola was acknowledging that her recent posts (ahem, “Bless the Telephone”) were intentional, and she was aware of how they were being taken by the fandom (ahem, that they were for Luke).

<blip-blip-blip-blip>

August 15. JVN posted to their TikTok account “Slick Back Bun.” Hands down a fan favorite moment with JVN. “Sometimes I just need a very demure slick back bun…I don’t do my slick back bun like all the other girls. Here I’ll show you how to do it…I’m just going to take the hair and twist it around itself, so I just have a little cinnamon roll bun…” Do I need to elaborate on this one? Seriously, do I? Slick back bun – Antonia – yeah, okay, got it, we’re still going knives out on Antonia. If you haven’t watched this, it is still on JVN’s TikTok and Instagram grid. It was clever how “demure” JVN and Nicola were being that day.

<blip-blip-blip>

August 16. Nicola posted another song to her Instagram stories. This time it was Clairo’s “Juna.” It was not just a sweet, romantic song; it was full on sexy. “You make me wanna try on feminine; you make me wanna go buy a new dress; you make me wanna slip off a new dress…With you, there’s no pretending.” Alright, alright, enough! Wait – no, no – come back! I didn’t mean it! Please, please bring back your music to Instagram, Nicola!

<blip>

<blip>

<blip>

At this point, in my opinion, Chaos Week ended; however, I’m going to reference one more log entry mainly because, if I don’t, it will get overlooked in the small gap between Chaos Week and when the Jakolas enter the picture on August 25 (see “Entry 8 – The One About the Adjacent of Convenience” for that side show).

August 22. Nicola posted the picture of Luke and herself from Bridgerton Season 3 to her Instagram grid. And, no, I do not consider this to be a “Polin” picture. The picture appeared to be an alternative version of the polaroid Nicola carried with her throughout the World Tour. She captioned the post, “I thought I’d already shared this but I hadn’t so here you go now it’s all yours.” She also shared this in her stories and captioned that “with the lovliest pal a gal could have” and tagged Luke’s crotch. The story would disappear after 24 hours, but the post itself is still on Nicola’s Instagram grid. This post can be taken in several ways, depending on your mood. Was she friendzoning Luke because she used the word “pal” in her Instagram story? No, I don’t think she was. The “lov[e]liest pal?” That’s about as confusing as their “unique relationship.” Was she telling the fandom to support Luke because she supported Luke (i.e., stop hating on him)? Yeah, probably. Was she telling the fandom that she thought she’d already made it very clear that everything she had been posting was about Luke? Yes, I believe this to be the most reasonable answer, especially when you consider her previous posts. The reality is, that man fills a hefty chunk of her Instagram grid – and not dressed like Colin Bridgerton. But, I also believe that this post may have been a preemptive strike against the narrative that would surface three days later on August 25. It’s entirely possible Nicola knew that the pap pictures of Jake at the festival would be released by DeuxMoi (after all, it took DeuxMois over a week to release them), and Nicola was reminding fans that her narrative involved Luke. Note, that Nicola would repeat this in October when she and Luke simultaneously posted their “Polin” picture to their Instagram stories, which was followed a few days later by DeuxMoi dropping pap pictures of Nicola and Jake.

<blip-blip>

Oh, a few honorable mentions post-August 22: (a) Nicola posted a picture from her Stylist Magazine photoshoot – the one from the back seat of a car (i.e., the “modern day carriage”) on August 23; (b) Luke posted about how he only had an Instagram account on August 24; and (c) JVN posted his “two finger” hair straightening demo on TikTok on August 25 (yes, I only listed these honorable mentions to get to JVN’s “two finger” demo because that was some laugh-out-loud funny shit – and it’s literally on the heels of Nicola’s “modern day carriage”).

<blip>

August 25. What in the hot fucking kittens is that? Well, thank God, it’s not an iceberg this time. Whoa, they didn’t just pull that Non-Player Character from that group of guys and name a ship after him, did they? Hahaha, dumbasses. Oh, shit! It’s coming straight for us!

<BLIP-BLIP-BLIP-BLIP-BLIP>

End Log.

Well, how was Chaos Week? Did you have a good time? I’m honestly friggin’ exhausted. Seriously, even just writing all that down was exhausting. Like, my brain is fried. Oh, yeah, feel free to ignore that part at the end of our log. That shit happens every time the Lukolas are given a bit of fun. You’ll get used to it.

I took you on this excursion through Chaos Week today because I believe it is important to develop an opinion about what happened before and after Hot Boy Summer, especially if we’re going to theorize on it at a later point. And, as I mentioned earlier, the before played out in front of our eyes and the after, well, if we have the information available, why not peek in its direction? It’s almost like reading a book from back to front.

There are three things that happened during Chaos Week that have kept my feet firmly planted on the USS Lukola. One, Nicola wearing the “Drink Your Milk” shirt, alluding to the still uncorrected perception that it was Luke’s shirt. Two, “Bless the Telephone.” We started Hot Boy Summer with The Frames singing, “I’m gonna wait for you…” and ended it with Labi Siffre answering, “It’s nice to hear your voice again…” And, three, Nicola posting “Very demure, very mindful,” confirming – in my opinion – that she was very conscious of what her posts were telling the fandom – i.e., that they were for Luke.

But, as I was sitting here typing out my thoughts about Chaos Week, I found myself – oh, no, word vomit! – annoyed.

Yes, annoyed.

It’s not Chaos Week itself that has left me feeling annoyed. That was one hell of a “Bridgerton Ride.” It’s that Chaos Week set in motion this predictable pattern which solidified my opinion that “Lukolas can’t have nice things.” Seriously, we can’t have nice things because something always comes in and fucks it up.

You know how I mentioned at the beginning of this post that Luke’s return to London was the “blip-blip” that led to Chaos Week? Luke was the “cause” and Chaos Week was the “effect.” Well, Chaos Week was the “blip-blip” that led to the current state of the fandom. We now have three ships – the Lukola, the Jakola, and the Lutonia – sailing the Fandom Sea, and every time the Lukola finds itself flying high, it gets hijacked by one or both of those motherfucking side ships.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Somewhere in this hot mess, the chaos that originated from Nicola’s August social media spree found order! In fact, we’ve fallen into such a predictable pattern of events that the ebb and flow of the sideshow antics barely “blip” our radar these days. When bullshit starts bullshitting, I just breathe a deep sigh of unadulterated annoyance and think, “I’m so over this shit.” Honestly, I’m getting the vibe that many of us are over this shit. We’re not playing Scrabble anymore. We’re playing that never-ending game of Risk.

Sometimes I wonder if the fandom would have been better off if Chaos Week had never happened. That Pandora’s Box had never been opened and that the fandom had simply allowed the USS Lukola to sail off into the sunset. But, then I think about the people I have met along the way. The Ones that have made me laugh until my stomach hurts. The Ones with whom I’ve gone so far down a rabbit hole we’ve come out on the other side as different people. The Ones that I’ve rescued from the riptide. And, the Ones that have stopped me from rowing my dinghy to shore (because, yes, I’ve had rough days, too). You all know who you are.

So, I find myself putting up with the day-to-day humdrum of the Life of a Lukola, chatting with the people I now consider my friends, and waiting.

Waiting for something different to happen. A disruption to the current cycle. A new kind of chaos – preferably, the kind that mortally wounds the Jakola and Lutonia love triangles and finally allows the Lukolas to have (and keep) nice things.

But, in the meantime, I am still sitting here – listening for that quiet but distinct sound – but also contemplating knocking the Risk board off the table.

<blip>

<blip>

<blip>

<blip-blip>

[hedwig221b]

WIP Whenever

Requested by the loveliest @emmmna, here's a small bite of my sterek twilight au

Derek’s smile was light. He reached out, thoughtlessly it seemed, and pulled the string of Stiles hoodie from where it was caught under his shirt. He worried it between his fingers, then looked up.

“What?” Stiles asked with a tentative smile.

“Promise me you won’t go into the woods alone.”

Derek’s quiet and serious tone made the jokes stick in Stiles’ throat.

“Are there… other creatures?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” said Derek, and, just like that, the smirk was back in place. “Like, twenty mountain lions.”

“Oh, come on…” Stiles groaned.

“What did you think I was going to say? Vampires?” Derek snorted. “Beacon Hills is our territory, baby.”

“Dang it,” Stiles pursed his nose, trying to hide how much ‘baby’ affected him (very much). “There goes my dream of someone sucking my—”

Suddenly, Derek tensed. His head swiveled up, his gaze zeroing in on the road behind Stiles’ shoulder. Alarmed and mentally preparing for his dad’s interrogation, Stiles followed Derek’s gaze but saw nothing and no one.

He frowned. “Wha—”

“I gotta go,” Derek said, more annoyed than afraid. He smiled apologetically at Stiles and hopped off the porch. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay?”

Derek hesitated, staring at him with an almost pained expression.

“Fuck it,” he cursed, then flew up the porch.

Stiles froze in place, fully expecting to be kissed right this fucking second.

Hot hands cupped his neck, sending shockwaves down into his heart. Stiles stared at Derek, his eyes wide and his soul trembling in anticipation.

But Derek didn’t kiss him.

He rubbed Stiles' neck in firm, deliberate moves. If he had put just a tiny amount of his strength into the touch, he would’ve choked Stiles. Thumbs swiped over the sharp line of his jaw, then down, caressing his wildly beating veins. The heels of Derek’s palms pushed into Stiles’ clavicles and at the same time pinned him to place.

The heat filled Stiles’ cheeks, his whole face and neck. Standing in front of the predator, whose existence he couldn’t even dream about, between fight and flight, he couldn’t help but fawn.

No one held him like this. No one cared to. And if someone did, there was a big chance that Stiles would’ve fought out of the hold, swept by panic and anger.

Now, he wanted nothing more than to bare his neck.

Derek’s hands shook when he released Stiles. He swallowed thickly, then glanced at the road, cursed under his breath, and ran off the porch. This time, he didn’t return, instead jumping into his car straight away. He drove off with a squeal of the tires and disappeared around the corner.

Stiles cleared his throat, finding it coated in desert sand. He lifted his hand to rub his flaming neck, froze it halfway, clenched it into a fist, and lowered it. He didn’t want to ruin… whatever it was.

[divider source]

Tagging gently 💛 @endwersed @patolemus @renmackree @salty-fryingpan @gege-wondering-around @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @teencopandthesourwolf @eevylynn

[ticifics]

the nanny

Kit Walker x f!reader

Summary: "Hi. You came for the ad?" His voice was raspy, slightly surprised. He ran a hand through his hair, as if realizing too late that it was disheveled. You nodded, not fully trusting your voice. "Yes—I… I saw the ad and... I’m interested in the job." Kit took a step back and opened the door wider. "Come in. We can talk better."

Warnings: no use of y/n, dad!kit, nanny!reader, fluffy, no briarcliff

A/N: It's been so, sooo long since I wrote about the kit, so I decided to do something cute, the poor man deserves some happiness (just look at that face, he's basically husband material)

The paper between your fingers was crumpled at the edges from being held so many times. You read the ad once more, as if the words would suddenly change:

Looking for someone to care for two children and help with the house. Immediate work. Interested parties, please come to the address below.

Simple, direct, and with a certain implicit desperation. It was your best chance. You had been in town for just a few days and needed a job, a roof over your head, some stability.

The house was small, modest, but cozy. The front lawn was a bit overgrown, and a tipped-over tricycle near the porch indicated it was indeed a home with children. You took a deep breath before knocking on the door, your heart racing.

The steps on the other side were quick, and when the door opened, you found yourself facing him.

Kit Walker.

The name was in the ad, but you didn’t expect him to be... like this. Brown, messy hair, eyes the same color, deep and somewhat tired, as if carrying more than a man his age should. He looked a few years older than you, yet young enough to be the father of two small children.

"Hi. You came for the ad?" His voice was raspy, slightly surprised. He ran a hand through his hair, as if realizing too late that it was disheveled.

You nodded, not fully trusting your voice.

"Yes—I… I saw the ad and... I’m interested in the job."

Kit took a step back and opened the door wider. "Come in. We can talk better."

You entered, smelling the warmth of wood and coffee, mixed with the unmistakable scent of a house with children: crayons, cookies, and a faint trace of baby cologne.

The living room was simple, with old furniture but well cared for. There were toys scattered here and there, a small blanket thrown over the couch, and some kids' drawings pinned to the wall.

"Well, I don’t want to make this formal or anything," Kit scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable. "To be honest, I need someone as soon as possible. I work all day, and I can’t keep up with everything on my own. The idea is for you to be with the kids, help with the house... those kinds of things."

You nodded. "I can do that."

Kit studied your face for a moment, as if looking for something beyond your answer.

"Do you have experience with children?"

"Not professionally..." You hesitated. "But I’ve taken care of my cousins when they were little. I like kids."

Kit nodded slowly, as if considering your answer, but his gaze was still sharp, evaluating you in a way that made your heart race. He seemed like someone who wanted to trust, needed to trust, but didn’t give that trust easily.

"It’s a full-time job," He crossed his arms, the thin fabric of his shirt stretching slightly across his broad shoulders. "You’d need to be here all day, sometimes at night, depending on my schedule. I work a lot."

You nodded, trying to seem as confident as possible. "That wouldn’t be a problem."

"Good. Because they need stability," Kit rubbed his chin, briefly looking away. "It’s already been hard enough for them."

There was something heavy behind those words, something he didn’t say, but that lingered in the air between you. You wondered what exactly had happened, but didn’t dare to ask.

Kit cleared his throat, refocusing on the conversation. "Can you cook?"

The question came without warning, and you blinked, a little surprised. "Yes. Quite well, actually."

A shadow of relief passed over his face. "Great. I get by, but..." He made a vague gesture, as if already used to eating poorly. "It’d be nice if they could have real food, you know? Not just sandwiches and instant noodles."

You smiled faintly. "I can take care of that."

Kit opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated, shifting his weight. You noticed how tense he seemed, as if about to ask a question he didn’t know whether he should.

"Can I ask you something?" He narrowed his eyes, curious. "Are you married?"

The question caught you so off guard that it took an extra second to respond. "What? No! No, I’m not married."

Kit relaxed almost imperceptibly, and you couldn’t tell if it was because the answer relieved him or if he just didn’t want to get into trouble. "Sorry. I just... don’t want to hire someone with a jealous husband showing up at my door afterward."

You let out a short laugh, more out of nervousness than anything. "You don’t need to worry about that. No jealous husbands. No husbands, period."

Kit gave a half-smile, but quickly looked away, and it was at that moment that a fleeting thought crossed your mind.

It was sad that a man like him didn’t have a wife.

The thought came as a reflex, and you quickly pushed it away, as if you’d done something wrong. It wasn’t your business. But still... he seemed like someone who deserved it. Someone who loved deeply, who would do anything for those he cared about. A man like him shouldn’t be alone.

Before you could get lost in that thought, a sound echoed through the hallway—small footsteps, followed by excited laughter. Kit didn’t even need to turn around to know what was coming, and the smile that appeared on his lips was so immediate and genuine that something warm spread in your chest.

"DAAAAD!"

Two children appeared in the room, running without hesitation toward Kit. He bent down instantly, opening his arms to receive them. The first to arrive was a boy with light hair and bright brown eyes, who threw himself into his father’s arms with the force of a rocket. Right behind him, a little girl with dark skin and soft curls stopped beside them, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Kit laughed, running his hands through the boy’s hair before turning to his daughter. "Hey, hey, calm down. You don’t even know her yet."

The two turned to look at you, and you felt as if you were being assessed.

"Who is she?" The little girl asked, her voice small but firm.

"She came for the ad," Kit explained, adjusting Thomas in his lap. "She might take care of you guys while I work."

"Can she tell stories?" Thomas tilted his head, his eyes shining with expectation.

"I can," you answered, smiling.

"Better than Dada?"

Kit scoffed, indignant. "Hey! I’m great at it!"

Thomas looked at his sister, clearly waiting for her opinion. Julia crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at you before asking, "Can you make pancakes?"

You laughed, crouching down a little to be on her level. "With chocolate chips and strawberry syrup."

Her expression shifted slightly, as if considering your answer. Then she looked at Kit and then back at you, still evaluating.

Kit watched the interaction with a playful gleam in his eyes, as if enjoying seeing how you handled the two.

Finally, Julia nodded, crossing her arms. "I think you can stay."

Thomas agreed with an enthusiastic nod, and Kit let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"Looks like you passed the test."

[skzdarlings]

mine ; lee minho x reader

original ask: requested by @tattywood. “Can you please do ❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜ with Lee Know? I just know you’ll come up with something amazing! 🩶"

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: another pair of star-crossed lovers lol. reader is kissed by a different guy without her permission. possessive sex. unsafe sex. lots of biting and marking and grabbing. word count: 3700 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

-

You finally escape.

When the date is over and your supposed boyfriend leaves, you run out the back door.  Your parents are distracted, waving goodbye to your boyfriend as he pulls away in his expensive car.  They chat between themselves on the front porch of the family estate. 

“Such a remarkable young man,” they say.  “So wholesome.  So intelligent.“

So rich, is what they really mean.  Because he is not wholesome; he is a bully and a bigot at the best of times.  He derides anyone he deems beneath him, which is just about everyone.  He is also not intelligent, as true depth of intellect is revealed in conduct.  Someone that cruel and ignorant is not intelligent.  You have engaged in more stimulating discourse with birds.

But he is wealthy.  Your parents picked him for you and have been forcing the relationship along, contriving dates without telling you he will be there, inviting him into your home, encouraging his empty and shallow affection.  You encourage nothing, sitting stiffly whenever he touches you: an arm slung around your waist, a hand on your lower back, a kiss on the cheek.

Maybe you were naïve to think it would not escalate before its time, that you could bear it cordially until his interest withered and died.  Foolish.  He is not here for you but your name.  He does not care how you feel.  He does not care if you want him.  He wants the money and connections and power, sharing a bed with your parents through you.

Today he cornered you when you were alone.  He backed you into the wall and kissed you.  An unwanted kiss is a disgustingly slimy thing, all tongue and teeth and the bad, unfamiliar taste of a vile man’s breath.

Your whole unlived life flashed in your mind’s eye.  Every second was irredeemably awful.

So you run.  Out the back door, to the garage, weaving around your father’s cars.  Your old bike is hooked on its rack and you lift it down with some grunting effort.  You are dressed for a date, wearing a pristine ivory dress your mother picked, white lace stockings, and delicate flats.  It is not the ideal outfit for riding a bike.  It is a pretty but flimsy thing.  Summer nights are warm but there is a crisp breath on the wind as the sun sets. 

But if you stop for even a second, even just to change clothes, even just to catch your breath, then you will never get away. 

You swing onto your bike and escape via the back lane.  It is a long ride across town but your adrenaline propels you onward.

It is very obvious when you have crossed into new territory.  Across the park trail and over the railroad tracks is a different world.  The houses get smaller, more ramshackle, junk piled around the fully abandoned abodes.  Even the lived-in homes have old trucks and rusted goods stacked on their lawns.  It is a consequence of impoverished anxiety, hoarding in fear of one day having nothing.

Indeed, a very different part of town. 

Your parents are probably furious they cannot find you, but they will assume you ran to a nearby friend’s house.  If they knew where you really were, which friend you went to see, they would surpass furious and venture all the way into horror. 

But they are far away now.

You feel nothing but relief as the air changes.  You know it is the chill of a summer night as the sky turns blue, but it convinces you the air is clearer.  You exhale and feel as though you are releasing a breath that you have been holding all day.

Your journey takes you to a familiar yard.  You remember the first time you ever visited, standing so small and uncertain on the front steps, waiting for a kiss you actually wanted.

A kiss that never came.  

You park your bike against the side of the house.  You walk up the front steps on shaky legs, weak from speedy riding.    

You open the screen door to knock on the inside door.  While you wait for an answer, you fiddle with your appearance, adjusting any evidence of wind-swept dishevelment.

Oh, you are so nervous.  You were so hellbent on just getting here, you did not register any feeling beyond determination. But now you are standing on this porch in your flimsy white dress, the sun set, the day done.  You are doing something you should have done a long, long time ago and suddenly fearing you are far, far too late. 

No answer comes.  You knock again.

Your stomach forms a pit you hope you will eat you whole.  Is he ignoring you?  No.  The windows are shut, the blinds closed.  He cannot even see you.

You take a step back.  Even with everything sealed shut, you should be able to see a hint of light.  The house is small, a single story.  There are only so many places he could be.

He isn’t home, you realize, first with relief that he is not ignoring you, then with dejection.  Of course he’s not home, you tell yourself.  What were you even thinking?  Silly girl.  Riding all the way out here, expecting him to be sitting around and waiting for you.  He has a life of his own.  He probably doesn’t even think about you.  You’re pathetic.

You know you are being a little melodramatic.  Your emotions have been running at an extreme all day.  They finally become too much to bear.  You sit down on the steps and cry. 

Some time passes.  You eventually calm yourself enough to wipe your eyes.  You feel the cold more acutely now, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth. 

You are not sure what to do now.  You refuse to go home, knowing what awaits you.  You have nowhere else to go. Your future is murky, which is still more comforting than the vision of it when your boyfriend forcibly kissed you.   

You sigh.  You know if you wait long enough, your friend will come home and help you.  Even if he doesn’t want you, even if he can be a bit standoffish at times, he has the warmest heart you know.  You met doing volunteer work, in fact.  You know he will help you like he would help anyone in need.

It does not mean you do not feel pathetic, curled up and shivering on his porch steps.  You are debating a course of action when a truck rolls into the yard with a flash of headlights and a noticeably hiccupping engine.  It pulls around the side of the house.

You stand and take tentative steps to follow.  You are still and quiet as the rough rumble of the truck comes to a wheezy stop. 

The driver door flies open.  He jumps out, cursing.  Your breath catches and all your hypotheticals dissipate in wake of the reality of him.

Lee Minho.

He is wearing his old, dusty leather jacket, something of a signature piece due its reliability.  His jeans are torn at the knee, likely a legitimate tear and not a fashion statement, his old work boots a bit scuffed.  He is a working man of limited means and nothing functional goes to waste.  

He is beautiful as ever.  Dark hair falls across his forehead and he pushes it back with a forceful rake, the softer pieces fluttering forward again.  He has an athletic frame, but delicate features despite his near-perpetual scowl.  When he does laugh, it is a hilariously boisterous sound.

He is scowling right now.  Cursing to himself as he stomps around the beat-up truck.  He wears a carabiner with a bundle of emergency tools, grabbing a miniature flashlight to guide his way.  He props open the hood and starts rustling around inside.  He curses again, then he puts the light away so he can reach inside with both hands.

You do not mean to startle him.  You thought he might have seen you, observant as he is, but apparently the truck has him distracted.

“Minho,” you say. 

You cannot see him too well in the dark, but you hear the distinctive thud of metal as he undoubtedly smacks his head on the open hood.  He curses louder this time. 

There is a small light on the side of the house.  You step towards it at the same time. 

He is rubbing the back of his head, frowning, but he comes to a total stop when he sees you.  His eyes widen ever so slightly, his brows drawn in confusion.  He stares intently at you. 

“Hi,” you say.

He just keeps staring. 

“Um. I was just in the neighbourhood,” you say.  “I wanted to see you.  I hope you’re doing well.”

He drops his arm and it swings at his side.  He continues to stare at you, the furrow in his brow more intense. 

“Right,” you say.  You feel a catch in the back of your throat.  Fortunately, you have cried all your tears and will not make a fool of yourself in front of him.  More of a fool, that is.  You want to say so many things but you cannot think of a single word that suffices. 

I missed you so much, you think.  I think about you every day.  Have you thought about me?

It sounds so clingy and pathetic.  Your boyfriend derides such women and their neediness.  Minho is not a man like that, though.  He has never spoken so disparagingly about someone.  You know that, but the words catch nonetheless. 

You exhale a shaky breath, looking aside at nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.  “I probably shouldn’t have come here.  It’s been months since we last spoke.  I know we’re not really friends anymore.  I just had no where else to go and I…”

“You were crying,” he says. 

You look at him.  His expression has not softened.  It is still that same scrutinizing stare.  His gaze is intently locked on yours, on eyes that must show the evidence of your crying. 

You wipe your face quickly, embarrassed.  Your gaze lifts when he takes a small step towards you.  He reaches for you, as if he means to wipe your eyes himself, but then he catches the sight of his own hand, covered in black grease from the truck. 

“Shit,” he says, and snaps his arm back. 

“Minho,” you say, your heart fluttering just from the suggestion he was going to touch you.  A small touch from him means more than anything. 

“Princess,” he says, an old affectionate nickname for you, though he speaks it rather dryly.  He is still frowning.  “Are you hurt?”

“Maybe,” you say.  When he reacts physically, his shoulders stiffening, you quickly add, “Not like that.  Emotionally, I mean.  I just… I think I ran away from home.”

“You think,” he says flatly.

“Well, I didn’t really think it through, to be honest,” you say shyly.  “I just… I couldn’t stay there anymore.  You know what they’re like.” 

He flinches as if the memory comes with a strike.  You feel embarrassed, remembering too. 

You and Minho became fast friends through your mutual volunteer efforts.  You thought nothing of inviting him to a neighbourhood party at your parents’ house.  He wore his nicest shirt and fresh pants, but as soon as everyone found out where he came from, they wanted nothing to do with him. 

You are embarrassed to say you did not even notice at first, naively taking politeness for granted.  He had to explain it to you, then you saw their two-facedness everywhere and felt horrible.

You stayed on his side of town after that, at least until your parents put their foot down.  They didn’t want you developing feelings for that kind of boy.   You insisted he was just a friend, even while already in love with him.  His biting wit and good heart had you in thrall. 

You were in denial about your parents being bad people.  You wanted to believe they had your best interest at heart.  They were just set in their ways.  They wanted a good life for you.  You told Minho to just give them time.  He let you go.  They introduced you to your new boyfriend the next day. 

Minho takes a breath.  He shoves his tongue into his cheek, looking pensive.  You are thinking of something to say when he nods his head. 

“You look cold,” he says frankly.  “Let’s go inside.”

You nod, following him to the front steps.  He grabs the porch rail and jumps the steps in an effortless swing.  You shuffle behind him while he unlocks the door. 

He says nothing, just nods at you.  You follow him through, closing the door while he bends down to unlace his boots.  He kicks them to the side while you step softly out of your flats.  When you meet each other’s eyes, you feel a spark. 

You stood in this very spot a few months ago, almost nose to nose, arguing about your parents and what to do.  You knew, deep in your heart, the conversation was not about a mere friendship.  You both had stronger feelings, but you were both scared to act on them given your precarious circumstance.  He did not want to risk everything while you were indecisive.  You wanted to keep everything. 

You have lived a life of great privilege and you are used to getting everything you want.  You have had to confront reality, that you cannot always have everything.   

So, if you can only have one thing, you want him. 

He looks at you with the same dark passion as then.  Your heart skips beats under his intense gaze. 

“You’re here,” he says. Maybe the same memories flicker through his mind.  He tips his head, looking at you so closely, like he cannot believe you are real.   

“Yes,” you say softly, clasping your hands in front of you. “I’m here.” 

“To stay,” he says.

“If you’ll have me,” you reply.  Your heart is beating so hard, it is a wonder he cannot hear it.  Your legs feel even weaker than before, but this time is has nothing to do with bicycles and everything to do with him. 

He swallows, his throat bobbing.  He sniffs and looks aside while idly tugging his jacket.   

“And your boyfriend?” he says, glaring at the far wall. 

Your heart sinks.  It is your turn to swallow. 

“You know about that?” you ask. 

He laughs, not that gleeful sound you know but a sharp cackle.  He looks at you incredulously. 

“Of course I know,” he says.  “I don’t always stay on my side of the tracks.  Sometimes,” he speaks with sarcastic wonder, “I get to repair houses for the pretty rich people.”  He huffs, shaking his head.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “You should be with someone like that.  He’ll give you the house.  The car.  I bet your parents love him too.”

“I don’t want those things,” you say, bearing his bitterness because you understand what he is feeling.  You lift your chin and look him in the eye.  “You’re right, my parents do love him.  But I don’t.  He’s shallow and unkind.  And you—”  Your voice catches.  “You, Lee Minho, are anything but that.  You are everything.  And I… I love you.  I always have.”  You drop your eyes with this confession, suddenly overwhelmed with the sheer emotion pouring out of his gaze.  “I know it’s been a while,” you say.  “I don’t expect you to have waited for me.  I just—”

He laughs again.  It is still dry, but not so sharp.  You glance at him. 

“Princess,” he says. “Don’t tell me you seriously think I could just forget about you.”  He shakes his head.  “It’s like you don’t even know me.  I should kick you out just for that.”

You realize he is joking, the faintest hint of something warm melting his scowl. 

“I can’t give you that life,” he says seriously. 

You step towards him, holding his gaze, pouring as much emotion back at him.  He exhales, blinking quickly, long lashes fluttering as he looks at you. 

“I have no idea what we’re gonna do,” you admit.  “But I know I want to figure it out.  With you.  And no one else.” 

He smiles and it makes you smile.  Then he reaches for you, but stops when he once more remembers his dirty hands. 

“Shit,” he says again, then takes a step back.  “Let me just—”

You take him by the wrist and yank him towards you.  He follows your guidance, his breath catching when you plant his hand on your hip.  It will leave a big black stain on your perfect white dress, the shape of his hand in a possessive grip on your body. 

It is more effective than any word.  He swoops in and kisses you, his other hand cupping your other hip with the same deliberate possessiveness.   You are certain this horrid little gown will be destroyed and you do not care one bit.  You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. 

“You’re cruel,” he says between kisses.  “Torturing me for so long.  I wanted to kill that man.  But I thought he made you happy—”

“He disgusted me,” you say.  “He kissed me without my permission today.”

“What.”  That stops the kiss and he looks at you with that scowl again.  “I’ll kill him,” he says without any hesitation. 

You just laugh a gentle laugh, shaking your head.  You twist a longer tuft of his hair around your finger, making his tense shoulders go soft as he leans in. 

“You don’t have to kill him,” you say.  “Just make me forget him.” 

Oh, Lee Minho is such an awful tease all the time.  Of course he goes back to just staring at you with a contemplative air, making you wriggle and wonder in his arms.  You whine his name, trying to kiss him, but he dodges it.  Your whimpering makes him laugh, because of course it does. 

Then he gets very serious.  Your heart sends a bolt of heat shooting through your body.  Your thighs press together. 

He presses his forehead to yours.  You gasp when you feel his fingers on your back, the careful slow touch as he tugs your zipper down.  The flimsy dress slides off your body as he steps back to look at you.  You shiver, gazing back at him.  His stare is unflinching as he peels off his jacket and tosses it aside.  His hands are already much cleaner, the distinctive print of his palms still plastered to your dress.  He wipes the rest on his own shirt then tugs it off and tosses it to the side. 

He smirks and wiggles two come hither fingers at you, walking backwards.  You follow him slowly, then give chase when he cackles and runs.  You follow him into the bedroom where he literally sweeps you off your feet.

“And you say I’m cruel,” you tease.   

He closes the door with a firm snap then leans you against it. 

“You are,” he says.  He looks down your body while running his fingers through his hair.  “You are.” 

Then he gets on his knees, first one while he tugs your panties down, then the other, when he hooks your leg over his shoulder and put his mouth on you.  He does not tease anymore, swiftly finding all the ways to make you moan his name.  You are scared your leg will buckle under you when he makes you come, but he holds you steady. 

Then he stands up and cups your face, kissing you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue.  It is a good kiss, everything a kiss should be, hot and hungry, slow and deep.  It makes you tingle with aftershocks, blinking at him with delirious pleasure when he pulls back.   

Minho can be loud, can be boisterous, can be scathing.  He can also speak gently, in such a soft, light rasp.  It makes your head spin.   He speaks like that now.    

“This is how it is,” he says, then kisses you again, licks into your mouth.  When you moan, he moans back.  “I make you sigh,” he says.  “I make your pussy wet.  I make you come.  Just me.”

“Yes,” you nod, clinging to him when he carries you to the bed.  “You, Minho.” 

He lays you down, kneeling between your open legs.  They are still quivering from your orgasm.  He looks at you, hungrily, while opening his belt.  He rips it out of his jeans and tosses it behind him, then unzips while leaning down to kiss you.  He dives past your waiting mouth to kiss your throat, biting marks under your jaw, on your neck, on your tits.  You grab his head, hands in his hair, arching your back under his desperate mouth. 

“You’re mine,” he says.  “You’ve always been mine.”

He holds your hips while thrusting inside you.  You imagine his hands leaving a permanent mark, just like that stained dress, a claiming that forever marks you as his.  He fucks you so steadily and deeply, holding you possessively, gasping your name and how good you feel while he takes you. 

“Perfect,” he says in that dreamy voice, rubbing you softly while fucking you hard. It makes you come around his cock, clenching tight, which makes him moan into your mouth.   “Mine.”

You wrap your legs around him.  You lay chest-against-chest, holding each other.  Your nails scratch his back, no doubt leaving your own marks, your whole body littered with his kisses and bites.  There is not a single inch of you that is not branded by him. 

“Yes,” you say.  “Always, Minho.”

Saying his name sends him over.  He comes inside you, claiming you even there, then stays inside you after while you kiss. 

You stay in his arms all night, making love and sleeping then making love some more.  When the sun rises, you wake to him holding you, stroking your cheek affectionately. 

He kisses your forehead and you nestle comfortably against him, happy to be home. 

[devoutekuna]

Getting left alone with their child

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

Sukuna-

His daughter loves food but is always restricted since she could eat the whole pantry if she had the opportunity, but when you weren't home she always went for the special food she was always refused. "Help me daddy" reaching for the special packet she was banned from touching. "No your mother said you can't eat it." Normally he always disregarded anything you said that wasn't much importance to him but on the few occasions he actually listened it was always so heartwarming. "But mummy's not here!" Fingertips practically touching the small box before giving up. "So what, listen to your mother" he was always defending you, see, if anyone else would disobey his orders he kill them but since she was his only kid he'd give her exemption.

Nanami-

You can trust this man with anything, just not with 3 kids running around his house. Yuki had invited some of his friends round to his house, despite not asking his father, only you, but you were away. "No!" Failing to catch the boy as he ran straight into the glass door, running towards his friends who were outside trying to sail a boat. "Yuji.." sighing as he saw his son try to escape his grasp, it didn't look like there was anything wrong with him other than the blood vessels rushing to his nose. "Let me go, I'm fine!" "No you're not" he probably was fine since his body was so used to running into things, placing an icepack on his nose, making sure he held it. Another sound came towards him as another child ran into the glass. "Mr yuji's dad!" Jumping up and down on the porch as the little girl pointed towards the urchin looking kid in the kiddy pool. Sighing in defeat, he didn't understand why he decided to get in, though the girl, nobara was looking guilty like she had pushed Megumi in.

Somehow after all of that he kept them all safe, having to change Megumi's clothes and keep his son from running back into glass. Sat on the armchair with kids piled on top of him, Megumi using his body as a chair with nobara and yuji laid out on top of him.

Geto-

Normally he wouldn't mind being cooped up in the house, but his daughter was a handful, she recently got into arts and crafts, and he hated how messy she was with it. Always getting glue and paint all around his house. "Daddy look!" Following her throughout the house to her bedroom, only to notice the paint smeared all over his doors as he walked. "What have you done?" Maybe he shouldn't have allowed her near the paint. "Isn't it pretty daddy?" The few family pictures he had of you three were smeared in paint, pink dots aligning your forehead. "Mummy is wearing a flower crown!" Fortunately he always had a protective cover over the pictures so it wasn't that bad, but he was still annoyed as he'd have to buy a new frame.

Gojo-

Anyone would call it stupid to leave the guy alone, despite being a fully grown man. "You want a new nappy or something?" He was clueless when it came to children, normally he watched you so most of the work, helping out whenever he needed to, he knew how to change a nappy and stuff like that but he wasn't familiar with his son's cries, so he didn't know If he was hungry, cold or hot, and so on. Sat down with his offspring laid out on his lap, "Are you hungry?" Grabbing a nearby milk bottle, poking it towards his lips only for her to refuse it and shake her heads. Leaving him puzzled. "Then what do you want?" Normally he was a picky child, only drinking milk straight from you, plus he always had to see your face or have a comfort item around or else he wouldn't drink it. "You want your mummy?" Teasing the kid.

Toji-

Despite having a pet worm roaming around your apartment you hated insects. It was common knowledge in your family, so whenever you left for work. Your daughter always got up to the worst stuff, first off she loved that purple worm her father's had, always trying to pet it, even trying to sneak it into her bedroom. So when you weren't home, she quickly took one of your containers and stuffed it with your plant soil, she was going to "make her own" worm. It sounded really stupid but she was determined. "Daddy, what do worms eat?" Sat on the living room floor with soil spread out in a bag. "I don't know" he was tired of his daughter's questions,. "But you have Mr worm" pointing to the slimy thing that went around your place. "Who's Mr worm?" Sitting on the floor next to her now. "The thing mummy hates." Sighing in defeat, she was so attached to the worm, maybe he should get her a pet or something.

[safination]

Mother Of Mine

|Masterlist|

Pairings: Alastor x Reader, Velvette & Mom!Reader CW: Alastor, foul language, talks of murder, (Hopefully not, but possibly) OOC

Requested by: @thill20712 My inbox is still currently open. Feel free to keep requesting.So I just did a headcanon format for this. It was pretty fun. Listen, is this my best work? No, but that’s fine because it was actually very entertaining for me, and that’s all that matters. Tbh, I would actually like to turn this into a series but undergrad studies are killing me rn, so maybe in the future. I can like already see so much fun shit around this concept. Imagine the family dinners, or like Alastor going to an Overlord meeting and just unknowingly being slightly less of a chaotic shitlord to Velvette because there’s something faintly familiar or like Vel and Al just both doting on you.

Your husband died.

Everyone found out what Alastor had been doing. The city had no compassion for a monster’s grieving widow. Ha! Alastor would have a kick of your current situation, that’s for sure. It should have been you and him running for your life as the city chases you out of his mother’s home.

That’s how it should have been.

There wasn’t even time to gather all your belongings before those who wanted revenge go to fulfill their goal. Just a measly change of clothes, some emergency money, and documents. Photos never made it to the list. It’s funny how a single piece of film could pack the most weight.

As your ran for your life, cold and frightened, you heard muffled wailings.

And they called Alastor cruel. Who would leave a baby inside a dumpster? You thought about it . . . . Just for a second. The baby’s shrill cries were getting on your nerves, and there’s no way it will survive the night. And an orphanage is no place for a child to grow—you know that much.

So . . . why not? You could just end it’s suffering—Right here, right now.

Compassion isn’t your strongest trait. It’s why you never said anything about all those people who fell under Alastor’s pursuit of self-righteous justice. Who were you to care for someone you don’t know?

You don’t hate children, far from it, actually. Children are the light of this world, and they were the path to bring a better future into this world.  Such pure creature shouldn’t be stained by you. Especially, because you’re not sure if you could ever fully love a child the way it needs to love. Children deserved care, and you refused to bring a child into this world without the assurance that it would be loved.

It was an easy decision that Alastor wholeheartedly supported.

The world took away the very few things you truly loved. Maybe, you could return it ten-fold. . . but you’ve been cold and frightened before, just like this baby. Actually, you’re cold and frightened, right now. Also, just like this baby. Two cold and frightened souls.

So, with the clothes on your back, and no home to call, maybe¸ you’ll find warmth and safety together.

There’s always the option to give it—no, the child, just for a night. Drop the baby off on a porch of some nice couple’s home.

Tomorrow, you’ll give this baby girl away.

• Tomorrow never came

People keep assuming this baby girl is your daughter. You don’t bother correction them. Why should you? It’s not like you’re eager to say that you skipped state lines because of your dead, murderous husband, and basically kidnapped her.

It’s easier to let people assume.

And you can’t keep calling the baby, ‘that baby’. She needs a name eventually, and Alastor always spoke fondly about his mother.

Tomorrow never did come, and tomorrow never will come. Despite this, the sands of time trickled down.

The baby turned into a girl and the girl also grew. Part of your misses the days when she would raid your closet, and dress you up like a doll with a sharp tongue and a demanding attitude. Gone are the days when you’d be sleeping on the same bed, and gone are the days when you would tell her about Alastor.

You would tell her about the flowers, and how Alastor drove around the city, with you right next to him. The sun went down, the moon rose high into the night, and that sun eventually appeared once more. Yet, neither of you were ready to leave each other’s presence.

That girl grew, and took up a weird hobby of wanting to be called, ‘Vel’:

Vel walks into the room, her nose high in the air as she sharpens her tongue against you. “Mother, you cannot walk around looking like this!” she tells you. “The colors look absolutely atrocious. I will burn that shoes the next time I see it on your feet.”

Daughters can be quite judgmental. Maybe, you really should have left her in that dumpster.

“I’ll change my shoes if you stop calling yourself, ‘Vel’,” you tell her, smiling. “I gave you such a nice name, and it makes me sad that you aren’t using it!”

“It’s a stage name,” she says, rolling her eyes at you. So judgmental, that girl. “It’s what I’m going to be called when I finally get out of here, and such a drabby, old name like mine won’t get men anywhere.”

“Well, Vel, I got a call.” You tap your fingers across your knee, staring her down. “Apparently, Mister Joseph doesn’t appreciate being called a, ‘Pathetic and blind fool who goes to work looking like dog poop’.”

“I did not say fool or poop,” she says. “And that old fucker knows it.”

“What I want to know now is—Why?” You stroke your forehead. “What was he wearing too much brown?”

“No.” Vel crosses her arms. “Because my mother was called, ‘an unmarried whore, and who knows where that child come from?’”

“I am married!” You press a kiss on her forehead, chuckling. “It’s just not my fault my husband died not was it my fault your parents didn’t want you.”

Vel rolls he eyes, and sticks out her tongue.

You flicker her nose, and stick out your own tongue.

But time goes on, and as they do. All came to dust and all return to dust.

Of course, you’d end up in hell. It would be a shame that Alastor would never get to meet your daughter. It eventually all blurred into one. And if you didn’t give a flying fuck about others on Earth, why would you give any more fucks to care in Hell of all places?

Building kept growing higher and higher. Bright lights and television shaped morons came into picture. If you could find Alastor, surely, you would have a laughed together. Radio will always be superior. So, you kept your distance from that part of town.

More years kept passing. Alastor was nowhere to be found.

When enough time passes, things tend to loop. Like how you’re hearing cold and scared cries from an alley way. Something posses you to step into the alley. Piss and death and a sweet perfume all assault your nose. You keep walking and . . . somehow, your daughter ended up with you in hell.

Daughter really can be so cruel to their mothers.

Maybe, you actually should have left her in that dumpster. You were destined for Hell, and it seems you dragged your daughter down with you. If you did leave her, surely, Heaven wouldn’t turn away such a new soul.

You squat next to your sobbing daughter in this random corner in hell, and watch her tears with a small smile. “This is exactly how I found you all those years ago,” you tell her. “Although, you were much cuter.”

Her head snaps up, and through her tears, she glares at you. “Mother.”

“Yes, dear?

“Mother,” she says again, and fat tears streams out of her face. “What the fuck are you wearing? It’s soooo ugly!”

“I’m going to leave you here.” You blow a strand off your face, and lean against the wall, next to her.

It’s a lie and you both know it. If you cold leave her, cold and frightened next to a dumpster . . . Well, you would have done it a long time ago.

“Why are you even in Hell? Actually—Don’t answer that,” she says, that same sharp tongue somehow even sharper. “You were a nasty bitch in life. It’s no wonder you’re here.”

“Language.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Vel slumps on you, curling around your shoulder. There’s a scowl on her face even as she settles her body next to you. “You really are nasty. How come I’m only seeing you now! I’m sure even a recluse like you should have heard of me.”

“What am I doing here?” you parrot, matching her scowl. Actually, she got that scowl on you. That’s your scowl on her face. “What are you doing here? I raised you to be a good person worthy of Heaven!”

You pat her hair a bit, glad that she couldn’t see your face. Did you really drag her down to hell with you? Was it a mistake to love when your very love condemned her?

“That’s bullshit,” Vel says. “The decisions I made are my own. I’m here because it’s what I decided to do.”

You flicker her nose and laugh when her scowl deepens. “Please, please! Tell me you’re still not going by ‘Vel’.”

“It’s ‘Velvette’ now, actually.”

“That sounds like a stripper name,” you say, barking out a laugh. “I gave you a nice and proper name! Your name came from—”

“Mother! No one goes by their real names here!”

So that’s how you, sadly, found your daughter in Hell. Daughter, yes. Husband, no.

Oh, where is your Alastor?

Clothes are thrown everywhere. Your daughter has an eye for fashion and surely, you’re capable of remembering anything she’s tried to tell you. And granted, Velvette did tell you quite a lot of things about clothes . . . a bit too much.

Maybe you should call her, but you wouldn’t want to inconvenience her, especially since she has that show coming up. She’s worked so hard, and you’ve learned to accept that she works in such a noisy and bright place. And you have thought about those co-workers of hers, but that’s not important right now.

The door bangs open and Velvette stands there irked. “I’ve been knocking.”

You grab her and ask her about the clothes. “What do you think?”

“You know what I think about your clothes,” she says. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“Is that the thing that keeps ringing?”

“Mother!” Velvette says, irked. “Answer my calls, and put that down! Neon is never a good color on you.”

“Then help me then!”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know where you’re going.”

You pause to think, dropping the clothe around your arms. “I . . . I found my husband,” you say. “We’re going on a date.”

 “Are you sure about this?” she says, slowly . . . carefully. “It’s been so long. What if he’s just trying to get your soul? If you finally tell me his name, I can take a look at him. I mean, there could be other –”

“No, there’s no one else,” you say with a small giggle. It’s like you’re back to being a love sick-teenager. “There will be no one else. I’ll chain him to my basement if I have to.”

 “You keep that shit to yourself.” Velvette sinks on the couch. “I don’t want to hear about this.”

“Oh sure, but when it comes to those little co-workers of yours, suddenly, every detail –”

“Mother!”

Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t leave her in the dumpster because with a snap of her fingers, you look beautiful.

Velvette crosses her legs. “I’ve never seen you this happy.”

“That’s not true.” You approach her, and press a kiss on her forehead. “I’ve had my happiest moments because of you. Maybe, you just weren’t watching.”

Apparently, Alastor and Velvette are familiar with each other. Unfortunately, they aren’t on very friendly terms. Actually, your house would say that they were on very hostile terms. It would be a drag to have to find a new house, but luckily, your daughter is an Overlord, and it seems your husband is also an Overlord.

Those two things overlapped, and when Velvette opened the door to see Alastor at your door. Well, the house couldn’t withstand their argument. Thing settle down, eventually.

Velvette is off showing her frustration on your poor neighbors.

Alastor stands proudly next to you, a constant and intimidating smile on his face despite the dirt and tears on his clothes. He watches Velvette curse and shout into the air. “Ours?”

“No, not at all,” you say, smiling as you watch your daughter. “Mine.”

Velvette stomps back, clothes also as dirty and torn. “I would rather skin myself than share the same blood with this tacky, old joke,” she says, hissing at him. “You’re not wanted here. It takes another level of pathetic to be shot while trying to hide a dead body.”

Alastor’s eyes twitch, and there’s that long, tried look on his face.

Maybe, hell isn’t so bad. You’ve got your daughter, and you’ve got your husband. A happy, little, chaotic family.

[pulisicsgirl]

favorite t-shirt - christian pulisic

summary: after an afternoon spent together, the rain forces Christian and Y/N into a startlingly domestic evening, and he’s not quite sure how to handle himself

pairing: Christian Pulisic x reader

word count: 2.3k

warnings/tags: established relationship, new relationship, Christian being the nervous little introvert that he is, tooth-rotting fluff

requested: no

song inspo: “Favorite T-Shirt” by Jake Scott

notes: happy fic-versary!!! Exactly one year ago today, I posted my first fic on this account so I wanted to do just a little something for it. I haven’t written for Christian in a bit but I figure it was only right to go back to my roots with a lilte fluffy piece for him to celebrate the occasion!! ☺️ This is an idea I’ve had for quite some time, so I hope I did it justice! Feedback is always appreciated!! Also, I don’t know what kind of car Christian has, but for the sake of the fic, please pretend it’s some sort of SUV

“You ready?” Christian, looked over at you, eyebrows drawn upward in anticipation of your answer. He leaned slightly into the center console of his car, leaning closer to you as a grin of child-like glee washes over his features. The little crinkles by his eyes made your heart flutter in your chest.

You only nodded in return, lips pursed as you tried (in vain) to hold back your smile. You rested your hand on the handle of the car door, watching as Christian did the same, not breaking eye contact with you as he did so.

“Three…” he began counting, and your heart leapt at the silliness of it all.

“Two..” he continued, and you wiggled in your seat as you prepared yourself to jump out of the car.

“One! Make a run for it!” he shouted, flinging the car door open and leaping from his seat. You followed suit, stepping out into the torrential downpour of rain. It was the kind of rain that made it difficult to see anything more than 20 feet in front of you, and you felt the fabric of your shirt become soaked immediately as the raindrops hit it.

You giggled at the fact that, rather than sprinting to the front door to preserve his own clothes, Christian was waiting for you as you rounded the front of the car, his hand outstretched for you to take. You quickly did so, and the two of you ran up the winding sidewalk toward the front door of his home.

However, you hadn’t accounted for the rain-slicked concrete, and as the two of you rounded the sharp corner, your shoe slid, losing traction and sent you flying to the ground. Thankfully, your momentum carried you into the grass, your landing soft as you hit the ground.

A hearty laugh broke from your lips, the kind that shook your whole body. You only found humor in the fall, no longer able to hold in the glee that seemed to be filling up your entire body after the perfect day you’d had.

Though Christian’s mind had filled with worry as soon as he felt your hand slip from his, he was relieved as he saw you laughing from your spot in the grass.

Ever the sensible one, Christian slipped your phone from your pocket (since you had decided to leave everything else in the car to save it from the rain) and tossed it, along with his phone, wallet, and keys under the shelter of the front porch and ran back out to help you to your feet.

When you had calmed your laughter, you opened your eyes, looking above you to see Christian standing over your body. He had a foot on either side of you as he stared down at you incredulously, an amused smile on his face. He held his hand out for you to take, helping you to your feet.

As you stood before him, Christian pulls your hands, that were still in his, up and over his shoulders so that you would wrap them around his neck. He dropped his arms to wrap them around your waist, pulling your body fully into his as the rain continued to pour around you.

The two of you couldn’t stop smiling as you just stood there, soaked, a bit cold, and taking each other in. You admired his features, and he only seemed more beautiful with the raindrops falling down his cheeks. You reached a hand up to the top of his head, running your fingers through his curls that had grown more prominent as the rain wetted them.

You couldn’t help yourself from cradling his jaw in both of your hands, pulling his face toward you as you connected your lips in a gentle kiss, feeling the cold raindrops splashing on your cheeks as you pressed yourself even closer to him.

Kissing him felt like a breath of fresh air.

The kiss was only broken a shiver ran its way up your spine, the cold rain chilling your bones.

Christian grinned down at you. “Come on,” he spoke, kissing both of your cheeks, your nose, and then your forehead before grabbing your hand. “Let’s get inside.”

The two of you ran to his front door, seeking the warmth of the indoors, and you stumbled quickly to his bathroom. You pulled two towels out of a cabinet, handing one to him as you both attempted to soak up some of the water that had seeped into your clothes.

As you were attempting to squeeze the water out of your hair, Christian mumbled something about getting a change of clothes and left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

The day had been nothing short of perfect. Christian had let you know the week prior that he had a day off and wanted to take you on a picnic— nothing extravagant, just the two of you, in a scenic area he had discovered not long after moving to Milan, spending time together and getting to catch up. Your relationship with him was fairly new, and Christian jumped at every opportunity he had to just spend some quiet time with you, talking and getting to know you better.

The whole plan had been perfect— that is, until it started sprinkling when you were about 15 minutes from your destination. Christian sighed, swearing up and down that he had double- and triple-checked the forecast for rain. Your reassurance to him that it would probably pass quickly proved to be false when, as Christian parked the car, the rain had only increased in its intensity.

Christian’s sigh of disappointment was unmistakable— his shoulders were slumped as he mumbled an apology for ��driving you all the way out here for nothing” and he reached his hand up to the gear shift to drive away.

But you had stopped him with a hand on his bicep, instead crawling over the seats into his trunk. The sound of the rain grew significantly louder when you pulled the handle and opened the door to the trunk, gesturing for Christian to join you as you laid out the blankets that he had packed for the two of you

The next few hours were spent feeding each other bits of the food he had packed, talking about everything from your family, to his transfer over the summer and how he was adjusting, to the ideas you had recently had for new decorations in your apartment. The sound of rain and occasional thunder accompanied your conversation in the background the entire time. It was truly the perfect afternoon with him.

It all left a funny feeling of warmth in your chest, despite the cold, wet clothes you were peeling off of your body now. When you had stripped down to only your underwear, you heard a knock on the door of the bathroom.

You opened it, peeking around the side of the door so that your half-naked body was still shielded from sight, and found Christian standing there in only a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He had clearly run the towel through his hair, the ends sticking up on various directions. Your tummy couldn’t help but flutter at the sight of him.

He held his hands up to you, holding a neatly folded stack of clothes and quietly muttered “these are for you.”

You took them from him, noting the plaid fabric resting on top of the stack.

“I didn’t have anything else, so I figured you could wear a pair of my boxers until your clothes are dry.”

You felt the heat rise to your face, knowing your cheeks sported the same pink blush that Christian’s currently did.

“Thank you.”

“Um, you can just.. toss your clothes in the washer with mine if you want. I’ll be down in the kitchen.”

With a nod, you retreated back into the bathroom, heart fluttering at how nervous you clearly made him.

You peeled the rest of your clothes from your body, replacing them with the items Christian had left for you. The fabric smelled faintly of him, and you had lost yourself for a moment, with the t-shirt bunched up in your hands, pressed to your nose, as you inhaled the intoxicating scent. It smelled like home.

Minutes later, after tossing your rain-drenched clothes in the washer and starting the load, you found yourself wandering down the hallways of Christian’s home, admiring the picture of his friends and family that lined the walls as you passed.

When you finally entered the kitchen, you found Christian leaning with his back against the countertop, staring at something on his phone screen. He had put on a t-shirt as well, you noticed, and couldn’t help self-indulgently thinking that you would have liked it much better if he hadn’t.

He perked up, looking at you when he heard your soft footsteps entering the room and you watched as he went slightly slack-jawed at the sight of you.

In his mind, his thoughts were running wild. This was the first time Christian had ever seen you in his clothes, and he already knew he’d jump at the opportunity to have you wear them more often in the future. His tummy did a little flip at the sight of the waistband of his sweatpants that you had rolled up a few times so they wouldn’t cover your feet.

He decided in that moment that the one you were wearing would forever be his favorite t-shirt.

He did his best to pull himself together, but he knew immediately by the slight smirk on your face that you had clocked onto his reaction.

“I-I was, uh… I was thinking we could order food or something while we wait for our clothes to dry, and then I can take you home if you want,” he did his best to speak casually, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes kept scanning your body wearing his clothes.

He wasn’t sure what it was, whether it was some weird possessive side of him that was causing him to react this way, but he knew then and there was the most beautiful you had ever looked.

You just hummed a soft, “okay,” as you walked toward him, taking the phone from his hands and placing it on the counter before you tucked yourself under his chin. As he wrapped his arms around your torso, you titled your chin up, placing the softest of kisses at the base of his neck, and Christian prayed that you couldn’t feel the way his heart was pounding in his chest.

“O-Or if you don’t want me to take you home tonight, you’re welcome to stay here, too,” he added, speaking a bit hurriedly, because he didn’t want you to feel like he was kicking you out, either.

“Okay,” you repeated softly.

Okay you’ll stay, or okay you want me to take you home?

Christian couldn’t get his mind or his heart to settle as he overthought every little thing. Your relationship being fairly new, this was the most intimate and domestic scenario the two of you had found yourselves in so far, and he was terrified of overdoing it. Yet he had asked you to spend the night at his (for the first time ever) before he could even think twice about it.

You could practically feel the way his thoughts were running wild from the stiffness in his arms as he held you. So you did what Christian so often did for you when you were stressed.

You noticed weeks ago that, though Christian wasn’t huge on PDA, in the little private moments, he showed affection through touch a lot. Frequently, when you would express to him that you were nervous or stressed, he would seek out some form of skin-to-skin contact to help settle you—often it took the form of him slipping his hand under the hem of your shirt to trace small shapes and patters on the skin of your back.

So, as you felt his racing heart beneath your cheek, you slipped your fingers under his shirt, flattening your palms over his stomach, feeling the ridges of his muscles beneath your hands. Christian’s breath caught in his throat as you did this, causing his chest and stomach to shiver with the shaky breath.

Try as you might, you couldn’t hide the small giggle that escaped your lips, finding Christian’s nervousness incredibly endearing.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” you quirked an eyebrow at him, pressing another short kiss to his jaw to show him you were just playing.

That small gesture (along with your touch under his shirt) did wonders to settle his heart.

He had nothing to worry about, he knew that. It was just you and him, and nothing else in the world mattered at that moment.

He was only able to respond with a smile, tightening his arms around you a little more, keeping you pressed as close as possible. He repeated his actions from your embrace in the rain, kissing each cheek, your nose, and then your forehead before he dropped his head down to press his nose into yours.

You let out a soft hum as he gently brushed his lips over yours, leaving you longing for more. Unsatisfied with the barely-there touch, you kissed him firmly, holding his face to yours by the back of his neck, tugging lightly at the short hairs on his nape.

The kiss was broken by both of you grinning wide, unable to contain the joy you felt that seemed to be spilling over.

“I love you,” you whispered. It wasn’t the first time you had said it, but it still made Christian’s tummy flip all the same.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, just as softly.

And despite the rain that had seemingly ruined his plans for your date, Christian felt that the day couldn’t have been more perfect.

It was perfect because he had spent it with you. And that alone was enough.

“So, what was that you were saying about ordering food?” you broke the brief silence, and Christian couldn’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.

That’s my girl.

tag list: @landoslover @thoseboysinblue @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @masonsrem @brasiliangp @neverinadream @lizzypotter14 @notsoattractivearenti @chilwellspulisic @captainpulisic

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

@twilighttowayvision wanted a possessive and protective Vess, so here we are ladies and gentlemen. My offering.

Snogging inner demons

Vess is a quiet kind of possessive. He doesn’t use nor need to use his voice to get the point around. Even if he’s just like the rest of the boys and prefers to keep the circle of people aware of his personal life to the minimum, he has ways of making sure that everyone is more than aware that you are off the market.

His protectiveness stems from the shared fact that now that he had let you in. Let you see the darkest, loneliest, still aching parts of him. Now that you have chosen to love him with all of the broken parts, he doesn’t want you to go. Can’t imagine a world where you aren’t the one he gets to wake up to or one he gets to turn to when his head gets so loud it’s driving him mad.

So Vess doesn’t feel a pang of jealousy when his eyes fall on you. A backstage pass around your neck as you beam at everyone with the same enthusiasm as you always do. Even if sharing your light with others makes him feel a tad annoyed at times. Vess would never forget how you two had dragged yourselves out of your apartment close to 9 pm to go to the store for snacks and well… protection. Cause wrap it before you tap it, kids. And he stood there, condoms behind his back while you nodded at the story the elderly lady, who had just scanned your porches, talked about her grandson’s birthday party that was coming up. Your full attention on her as she ran through the list of possible gifts and how she didn’t understand kids these days.

So Vess takes his time, finishing the conversation he was having with the band’s manager before he walks right up to you. He doesn’t say anything as he stands behind you. One of his hands slithering up your hip as he pulls you back into him. The story one of the guys was telling dies down and from the way all of them are looking up, you know that Vess, even with his mask on, can send a pretty clear message. And no one even has a second thought about it. They wrap it up almost immediately, as you manage to spear them one more smile before they hurry away.

“You give me Dracula vibes at times”, you snicker, turning to face your lover, “Or even better, you remember the way Professor Snape flows into the classroom?”, another giggle slips past your lips and you can see the corner of Vessel’s lips curving upwards. “But did you see any windows closing? Or candles that stopped burning?”, he tilts his head to the side. “We don’t have these here so not a fair comparison”, you let your hands fall to his bare chest, carefully of the pain that’s still drying there.

“Sometimes I want to lock you up so you would only shine on me”, Vess carefully brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Bad idea, III might just cry for the rest of his life”, you shake your head and this is enough to make Vess let out a low chuckle. “True, the boys love you”, he looks over your shoulder for a moment, before lacing his fingers through yours, “Come”, he mutters before pulling you towards a more secluded corner.

“You have a show in thirty minutes, Vess”, you warn him, not sure where his mind is going. “Plenty of time for what I want”, he mutters, pushing you in front of him, your body fully hidden by his frame. His lean fingers caress the side of your face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. The light and gentle pecks make you almost frown because this was not what you were thinking he had dragged you away for. But then his hand is on your neck as he turns your face to the side, his lips leaving a trail of wet kisses down to your shoulder. “Vess”, you hiss, yet your hands still pull him in by his hips. Soft touches turn into more intentional nibbling and soon you are more than aware as to what he’s doing. As he bites and bruises your neck. “Not a possessive boyfriend my ass”, you huff and it’s enough to make him halt, pulling a laugh that you can feel against your skin. He raises back up, fixing his mask, “Felt like marking the territory tonight”, he says so casually that you can’t help but hit his chest playfully. “Was this necessary? Here, with all the people?”, you point to your neck, which you sure is nice and purple now. Vess brushing his finger over your lips, “You got black paint on your face”, he smirks, “Everyone can already tell that you’ve been misbehaving”. You roll your eyes, “You are in trouble”, pointing a finger you, put the front camera on, whipping your face. Vess scowls, pushing your hand away, “Don’t wipe away my kisses”, you crock your head to the side, “Well, don’t kiss me like a manic then. It looks like I snogged my inner demon”, “Well, maybe you did”, he leans in pressing his lips to yours one more, this time in a way gentler way, “Here, no evidence”, smirking to himself he reaches for your hand once more, stepping back into the hustle of the pre-show.

[rainbow930]

wemmbu and derapchu superhero au / character study w/ civilian derap and villain wemmbu (1706 words, no warnings)

note: inspiration AND writing gods struck me with lightning tonight. this is the product… enjoy!

————

There is a crumple of purple on Derapchu’s doorstep.

At first it announced its presence with a series of sluggish knocks, dropping off after the fourth. Derap had answered it— and now he’s standing in his open doorway, staring at a clearly out-cold villain, fully clad in his suit, draped across the steps to his home.

This is not the first time Wemmbu’s been here. This is one out of many, in fact; not the first and not the last. What this is the first of is how Wemmbu’s plainly out cold (probably passed out mid-knock, Derap figures), and is dripping very fresh blood all over Derap’s stairs. Wemmbu has never shown up half-dead before.

Derapchu takes one glance around, just in case. He knows what he’s doing, by draping Wemmbu’s arms over his shoulders, by lifting him gently up and into his house. He knows that there’s a wanted criminal lying on his couch. He knows that if anyone knew he did this, he would probably be just as wanted as the villain in his living room, with wanted posters of his own to be put up right next to Wemmbu’s. An accomplice, they would call him.

It doesn’t matter much to him, anyways. Because it’s Wemmbu, mask or not.

He takes the mask off— Wemmbu wouldn’t care, they each know what the other looks like well by now— and Derap cleans the blood off, slowly, patching him up (there’s a giant cut in his side, he discovers) until he looks stable enough. Derap sighs, leans back, and stares for a fleeting second.

And then he gets back up. Wemmbu’ll be hungry when he wakes up.

————

When Wemmbu stirs, Derap’s lounging back in a chair he’d pulled out, staring at his phone. Derap glances up at Wemmbu, blinking his eyes blearily and sitting up, ever-slowly.

”Yo,” he says.

Wemmbu says, “Yo.”

“Do you mind telling me what happened?” Derap thinks he deserves a little bit of an explanation after Wemmbu showed up passed-out on his porch. If Wemmbu would tell, of course.

Wemmbu rubs his eyes. “A 3v1,” he snorts. Derap finds it surprising by how much he shares. Wemmbu continues, “I’m lucky I didn’t die or get knocked out mid-fight. Tried my best to make it here. Aw, shit dude, my side’s burning…”

What Wemmbu does not include is why he chose to come here in a state so vulnerable, but Derap knows the answer well by now. What it is is unspoken words, of I trust you with my life, and Wemmbu knows too because he’s sitting in Derapchu’s house right now.

”I tried my best to patch it up…they ambushed you?”

”Well, at first it was one. And then the two others came when they were called, I guess, but I had to run.” Wemmbu lays his head back and sighs. “I wish I got them. Would’ve been really funny if I won that 3v1.”

”It would’ve been all over the news. I’d be hearing about Nightrider all day, bro.”

Wemmbu laughs. “Did they mention me on the news? Or— wait, don’t tell me. I probably got humiliated on live television.”

”Well, I wasn’t watching anyways, so…” Derap hums, and then gestures to the table next to the couch. “You’re hungry, right?”

Wemmbu sits up and looks over, grunting at the movement. “Oh. Chocolate bar. Thanks, bro.”

Derap nods sheepishly. “I ran out of groceries— this is okay, right?”

”Oh, definitely.” Wemmbu unwraps it and starts chewing almost immediately. They sit in silence for a couple of seconds, before Derapchu checks his phone again. It’s almost the morning of the next day, and he hasn’t slept, having kept an eye out on Wemmbu and if he was even alive for the entire night.

It is funny, because the man aside from him chewing on chocolate and gossiping on his couch is gossiping about being in a life-or-death encounter between villains and superheroes. And Derapchu couldn’t care less about that, because to him this is not Nightrider, but Wemmbu. And he trusts Wemmbu.

Wemmbu stays for a couple more hours, before reassuring Derap that he was fine and could hobble the way back to his apartment. He watches him leave, after Wemmbu had firmly refused his offer to help him back. And then Derapchu grabs the remote and turns on the news, and indeed, the person who just left is staring right back. They don’t know where he went after the fight, though, and that brings him solace.

————

Wemmbu knocks on his door one day. This time, he’s not all dressed up, instead without a villain mask and in casual clothes. “Hey, bro,” he says.

Derap raises an eyebrow. “Hey,” he says back. “You can come in if you want. I’m making some food, but there might not be enough because I was only making it for myself—“

”Nah, it’s cool,” Wemmbu interjects, and then fishes something out of his pocket. In fact, Derap doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it sooner, because the thing was sticking right out. “I got you something to show my gratitude for you saving me. Here’s my beautiful flower.”

And indeed pinched between his fingers is an orange tulip— the brightest shade of orange he’s ever seen on one of them, actually, and Derap blinks at him, briefly, before smiling. “Aww, you got me a flower? Did you grow it yourself?”

”Nah, I pulled it from my neighbor’s garden.” Wemmbu yawns. “She won’t miss it anyways. But I thought to myself, this would make a beautiful gift for Derapchu, so I’m giving it as a gift to Derapchu.”

”Oh!” Derap takes it from his outstretched hand into his own. “That’s still nice anyways. Thank you—”

”I know it is. You’re welcome, by the way.” Wemmbu says breezily. “Anyways, I’ve gotta do more things after this. I just wanted to make a quick stop.”

Derap nods. He knows not to ask a lot of questions, because Wemmbu would usually dodge them, especially outside like this. “Good luck.” And then, as a little tease: “Don’t let last time happen again!”

Wemmbu throws him a quick grin, already walking backwards and onto the sidewalk. “My evil deeds have no time to waste, Derapchu. And don’t worry. I’m not that weak.”

————

Wemmbu does not visit after that. For months.

Derapchu switches on the TV sometimes (“sometimes” because he can walk out into the city himself and see what’s happening half the time) and sees Wemmbu, in his villain alter-ego, displayed on the news always after doing some crazy shit. The news says his villain name— Nightrider, Wemmbu had always liked that name (even if it was a little corny), but among the watchers tonight Derapchu’s the only one who knows the Wemmbu underneath, or even knows of the name.

It turns into a year. May is rapidly approaching its end. The original orange tulip, the one he’d stored in a vase, is long dead now. Derapchu had went out and bought more seeds, and now the result of them stands on his windowsill. Just one singular one, to mimic how lonely the first felt. The first petal fell off this morning.

Derapchu wonders how much Wemmbu remembers him. The two circle each other in uneven orbits; close, but never touching, far at some times and near at others. Derap has seen Wemmbu bloodied and hanging onto his life by a few threads. He has seen his face, knows his name, has been given enough trust to know who he is beyond Nightrider.

Derap pulls a chair up to the window and kicks his feet up on the windowsill, careful to not knock the pot over. He stares outside, into blue skies. There are people fighting distantly. He wonders if one of them is familiar.

He comes to this conclusion: Derapchu, ultimately, knows next to nothing about Wemmbu. Where he lives. What he does in his free time other than be a wanted criminal. What he likes, his hobbies, any of his other friends— to Derapchu, Wemmbu is a mystery.

I guess I know he likes flowers, Derap thinks, and then chuckles at himself because of how absurd it is. The scary villain likes flowers, and that is the only thing he knows past surface-level. Yet Derapchu trusts Wemmbu with his life, and he knows the vice versa is true. They are mysteries to each other, and Derap doesn’t know if he would have it any other way.

But he misses him. Who else does he have to miss, really?

And then: a knock. And then three more— exactly four.

Derapchu snaps his head up, suddenly thrust out of his thoughts, and kicks his seat back. Through the window, in the slight angle he has of the porch, he stares at a faint glimmer of purple. So he was one of the ones fighting.

Derapchu opens the door. Wemmbu, or Nightrider, still clad in his suit, stands as casually as ever, waiting politely. This time, there’s only one trickle of blood, and Derap can see it trailing down from his lip as Wemmbu reaches up to wipe it away. “Yo.”

“Hey.”

Wemmbu says: “Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.”

And of course it is the first thing he says to him after months, so simple, so casual, like they’ve been talking all this time and nothing’s changed. Derap doesn’t know what else he expected, because it is so Wemmbu that it makes sense. It makes sense in a weird little way. Derap doesn’t know anymore. “Oh, of course, man,” he nods, stepping aside to let Wemmbu in.

Wemmbu looks around briefly. Derap’s still closing the door behind him when he hears: “Oh, dude, you actually kept my tulip?”

Derap turns. Wemmbu’s standing by the windowsill, feeling the petals between his fingers. “It’s not the exact one,” Derap replies sheepishly, “I just bought some more seeds after it died and planted another.”

”Aw. That’s cute.”

Derap hums. It feels like nothing’s changed, and that the year in between was something Derap had made up in his head. Familiarity hangs in the air, because Derapchu knows nothing except that Wemmbu likes flowers, and that there is a wanted criminal in his house that he trusts with his life. “Thanks,” he says, and then adds, “what do you want to eat?”