#he struggles and freezes and is effected by what happens

[problemswithbooks]

ngl my only praise for bnha was kinda the endeavour arc, but uh,,, yeah wtf was that chapter. "endeavour was right all along, he shouldve kept pushing the child!!" blegh

Yeah, I agree.

I really don't like the added ice Quirk from any angle. Sure, you can argue it gives more of an explanation on how Touya will inevitably survive, but it's weak at best. Ice doesn't heal burns and no amount of cooling would fix someone whose been burned to the bone all over their body. Ice or not he should be dead--I would expect Shoto to die if he ever looked the same way, even though he has ice. If the solution is going to be so nonsensical and handwavey anyway, and it undermines the themes and characters so much, might as well just drop it.

Touya's ice adds nothing and only negatively effects the themes and characters.

It's framed in a way where it can be seen as rubbing salt in Enji's wounds and showing how bad a father he was because Touya was perfect the entire time, but that only implies that Enji should have kept training Touya despite the physical pain it caused him. It's just weird because the story is shitting on Enji for one of the few things he did right. The issue never should have been that he stopped training Touya--it should be that he didn't replace that one on one time with some other safe alternative. Enji should have spent quality time with Touya regardless of Quirk, but he didn't. Yet, now it implies that the training would have paid off if Enji had just stuck with it.

This chapter also sort of props up the Quirk marriage he had with Rei. Her family was apparently full of inbred racists who would have sold her off to anyone with a big enough paycheck. It also gives more support to the idea that Rei was 100% on board with the Quirk marriage because that was what her family had been practicing for years anyways. On top of that the marriage worked first try with Touya. Touya's existence is no longer showing that trying for a perfect Quirk had detrimental consequences all on it's own, but instead that Enji giving up on Touya was the only reason he didn't achieve perfectness.

It also guts any character development Touya could have. He's now right, he was always the son Enji wanted. His constant suicidal and self harming actions get him exactly what he always wanted. He's literally being rewarded for being suicidal--which is a huge problem. He no longer has to come to love himself outside of his Quirk, see that he should always have been cared for no matter how useful he was to his father's ambitions.

It really does leave a very bad taste in my mouth with all the implications and twisting of the themes. I doubt any of it was intentional, but the execution is very flawed and I highly doubt these issues can be fixed going forward. It's just makes me really sad because Enji's arc was the one I was most interested in because it was actually showed how hard change is and was about an adult character rather then a plucky teenager. Yet, it's getting to the point I kind of think Hori might have had a better story if he'd left Enji a one dimensional asshole and killed him off given how he's written this side-plot.

[flowersdiceandlove]

Svsss au where Shen Qingqiu’s female. Shen Yuan is still male though. When he transmigrates into SQQ he freaks out not only because he’s the scum villain but also because he’s a girl now. Where is his dick?!? Airplane, you hack, give me my dick back!!!

LBH’s still a guy and everyone else is the same gender too. It’s just SQQ that has the genderbend. And Shen Qingqiu stews over the fact that not only is he a scum villain and a girl, he's the only woman in PIDW that actually gets a bad end and not just tossed into the harem because Shen Qingqiu was just that bad of a scum villain that not even Luo Binghe, stallion protagonist, husband of hundreds of wives, wants to seduce and papapa her into submission like he did with so many other villainess beauties. And it's not the beauty that's the problem. Shen Qingqiu is beautiful. Like an immortal fairy descended from misty peaks to grace the mortal world. Just the type to fit into the harem. So, it really is a testament to how much Luo Binghe hated her that he tortured and killed her instead.

During the three years of LBH in the abyss, SQQ finds a plant or smth that can turn him into a man. So he eats it or whatever. Then, bam. Male Shen Qingqiu.

Fast forward to Jinlan City and Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe meeting again. Luo Binghe freezes and his eyes rack up and down Shen Qingqiu’s form, over his face and repeating the process a few times before stuttering out a very choked and strangled “Sh—Shizun?” Because just did Shen Qingqiu get hotter as a man?!?! (He didn’t but Luo Binghe didn’t know about his transformation and going through the shock of it and a gay panic at the same time. And they’re really close together so he can see all the small changes that are making Shen Qingqiu more masculine instead of feminine.)

“Luo Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu replies, flicking his fan open, his voice cool and even. And Luo Binghe chokes, wheezing out a breath at hearing not only Shen Qingqiu’s deeper, masculine voice for the first time, but that voice saying his name. Send help, this boy is not doing well.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, struggling for something, anything to say.

"Uh..Um.. Sh-Shizun looks...nice," he eventually says, feeling like an absolute idiot! Of course, Shizun looks nice!!

"...As does Luo Binghe," Shen Qingqiu replies, feeling out of depth because Binghe is two years yearly, and why is he acting so weird? Shen Qingqiu's trying to find Luo Binghe's angle for this weird behavior. Is he playing the traumatized victim of the scum villain teacher? But, if he is, this behavior doesn't seem quite right for it... "Binghe has certainly grown more into himself," he decides to add. More compliments can't be bad, right?

And Luo Binghe's brain short circuits again because Shizun just said he looked nice!!

He lets out a high pitched squeak. Shen Qingqiu is horrified, wondering what is wrong with Luo Binghe. Why is his face so red? And his eyes are shifting around erratically, not focussing on anything. (Luo Binghe can't keep his eyes on Shen Qingqiu--he's to handsome to look at--but also can't look away from him. Seriously, he is struggling bad. Gay Panic: 3, Luo Binghe: 0)

Seeing Luo Binghe continue to look bright red, act weird, and his face look kinda contorted honestly, is making Shen Qingqiu worried about him and his eyes land on Xin Mo. Ah. Xin Mo must be affecting him!! Shen Qingqiu thinks, and calms some at knowing what's wrong. Then that calm is replaced by panic, because Luo Binghe effected by Xin Mo is never a good thing. See, Binghe! This is what happens when you rush your leveling up arc!!

Without thinking, Shen Qingqiu steps forward and lifts his hand to feel Binghe's forehead. Just as he thought. Binghe's burning up. Shen Qingqiu frowns and hums. Luo Binghe goes a bit cross-eyed and his face heats up even more at Shizun touching him. He get's a bit dizzy from it and sways on his feet. Shen Qingqiu's eyes widen at this and reaches his hands out to gab at Luo Binghe's upper arms, stabilizing him. At this, Luo Binghe lets out a high and quite whine in the back of his throat. Shen Qingqiu is very worried now.

Keeping Luo Binghe supported in his grasp, he looks around at the gathered Huan Hua Palace disciples, wondering why one of the girls here isn't rushing to help Binghe. That's what you're here for!! he thinks scowling, then barks out orders at them to find a room for Binghe to lie down in. While they don't really want to take orders from him, they do and find a room. In Shen Qingqiu's ordering, he calls LBH "Binghe" not "Luo Binghe" and it's not helping Luo Binghe regain brain functions.

"Come on, Binghe," Shen Qingqiu whispers to him, ushering him towards the room, "right this way. Can you walk or do you need this master to carry you?" Luo Binghe just whimpers which only worries Shen Qingqiu further and he hurries Luo Binghe to the room faster. Once there, he settles Luo Binghe on the bed. In all his worry, he's fallen back into Protective Shizun Mode that cares for his sick disciples (or Mommy Mode if you prefer). So, he orders the Huan Hua Palace disciples to get water and a cloth and lays the cool towel on Binghe's forehead who's just staring up at Shen Qingqiu with wide eyes. "Shhhh...It's okay, Binghe, you're okay..." he murmurs and Binghe whimpers again, needing to close his eyes. He thought Shizun hated him and thought he was a monster to be put down, but here he was caring for Binghe so sweetly and gently, his touches soft and whispering reassurances to him.

Shen Qingqiu continues to hover over him replacing the cloth when it grew warm, brushing his hair out of his face, patting and stroking his head gentle, and transferring qi to him to try and sooth the effects of Xin Mo. While this little...bout...wasn't brought on by Xin Mo, the sword is still effecting Binghe to at least some degree, so Shen Qingqiu is mitigating that effect. Luo Binghe can only lay there, helpless against the effects of his Shizun and soaking in his affection.

The System kept on giving Shen Qingqiu point increase updates, but they got so frequent that they were annoying and distracting, so he muted them. Shen Qingqiu has however clocked that him pampering Binghe like this and caring for him in such a difficult time is helping his situation and he's hopeful he won't be turned into a human stick as soon as Binghe regains his strength.

One of the Huan Hua Palace meimeis finally can't take it anymore and steps forward, "I can do that. No need for Peak Lord Shen to trouble himself," she says, barely able to hold the vitriol in her voice back. Shen Qingqiu knows his queue when he sees it (at least he thinks he does) and nods gracefully, rising from his seat beside the bed to let her sit in his place. The girl looks smug for only one moment before Shen Qingqiu stops and looks back down at Luo Binghe. He had reached out and grabbed onto Shen Qingqiu's sleeve.

"Shizun, don't leave me," he whispers so soft and broken sounding. He's utterly wrecked by the amount of emotions that have been surging in him, first from the gay panic and then Shen Qingqiu pampering him when he thought he was hated. (Xin Mo wasn't helping either.) And, Shen Qingqiu's heart just cracks at how vulnerable and broken he sounds and the teary look in his eyes, and just plops back down in the chair, grasping Luo Binghe's hand, not breaking eye contact.

"I won't. Shizun won't go anywhere, Binghe, okay?" he says without thinking. Luo Binghe nods and hums, a couple tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. Shen Qingqiu reaches out to wipe them away with his sleeve, one hand still firmly holding Luo Binghe's hand. And, while he hadn't thought before sitting back down or speaking, he can't bring himself to take his words back. Not when Luo Binghe is like this. He clearly needs someone to care for him, and for some reason he wants that person to be Shen Qingqiu. And, who is Shen Qingqiu to deny the protagonist what he wants? And his little disciple at that? While he knows that Luo Binghe is supposed to be blackened right now, when he looks at him, all Shen Qingqiu can see is his little disciple wanting his Shizun.

The Huan Hua Palace girl, though, not wanting to give up just yet, steps forward once more, determined, "Really, I--"

But she's cut off by Luo Binghe growling at her lowly and giving her a harsh glare. She's shocked still by it, her eyes widening and face paling.

On instinct, and so caught up in nostalgia, Shen Qingqiu snacks Luo Binghe's head and glares at him, "Don't growl at her. I taught you better than that."

Luo Binghe looks up at him with wide eyes like a child caught misbehaving, then mumbles demurely, "This disciple is sorry. He won't do it again."

And that shocks Shen Qingqiu out of his nostalgia and he realizes he just smacked. Luo Binghe. The post-abyss Luo Binghe. And scolded him like he was still his teacher and not a scum villain. Terror racing through him, Shen Qingqiu gently pats and soothes Binghe's head, saying sweetly, "Ah, no, it's okay. Binghe needn't apologize, he can growl all he wants." Hopefully that'll do it, he thinks while he continues to pat Binghe's head and fluffy hair. Luo Binghe just stares at him with wide eyes again, his face heating again as well. Then Shen Qingqiu starts fussing over him again and his red face, the girl forgotten. "Ah, is Binghe's fever back? Just lie still. Hey you there--get more water!" then turning back to Binghe and transferring more qi.

Luo Binghe continues to KOed by Shen Qingqiu until he's nothing more than the whimpering, sticky little disciple Shen Qingqiu remembers him to be. just with claws and a demon mark and red eyes and powerful demonic qi. and an evil sword. But still Binghe!! His sweet little bun that just wants his Shizun. (Binghe gets rid of the evil sword when Shen Qingqiu expresses his dislike on how negatively it's effecting him.) And, if Binghe wants his Shizun, then how can Shen Qingqiu deny him that?

[emchante]

broken confessions

part 2 | masterlist | requesting rules

summary: in the haze of a drunken night out, you finally confess your feelings to max. but instead of the joyful moment you imagined, you’re met with a harsh dose of reality as max struggles to accept your drunken confession.

WARNINGS: angst, use of alcohol, hurt no comfort

w.c: 1.7k

a/n: first piece of sole angst posted on here yayy. however this was written for @inevesgf and is still solely dedicated to her !! you guys get to see too though, i hope you all enjoy. let me know your thoughts on this via reblog, comments or asks!

the bass thrums through the floor, vibrating up through your heels, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding in your chest. it wasn’t just the alcohol causing it— no, it was the fact that max was only a few metres away from you, happily dancing away with people he had just met that night.

it wasn’t his attention on others people that made your heart race; it was how deeply in love with him you were, though he remained completely oblivious.

inviting you out for drinks might not have been the best idea, because one thing was certain when you were drunk: you got honest— a little too honest.

that’s what got you to where you were now. you weren’t sure exactly what possessed you to do it— maybe it was the alcohol taking effect, maybe it was the way max’s laughter made your chest tighten, or maybe you just couldn’t keep it together any longer.

before you know it, you’re standing infront of max himself, grabbing onto his arm to get his attention. he turns, a little shocked, but his expression quickly softens, a smile overtaking his face. he greets you, his other hand ruffling your hair as he lets out a chuckle; he’s tipsy himself.

he asks you what’s the matter, and if you needed him for anything particular. you shake your head though, squeezing his arm tighter before leaning on the tips of your toes to reach his ear. then, “maxie, i’m in love with youuuu,” drunkenly tumbles from your lips.

max freezes, his smile faltering as he stares at you, eyes wide. all he can manage to murmur is a quiet “what?” which was barely audible over the pounding music.

you misinterpret his reaction, thinking he didn’t hear you. determined, you straighten up and repeat yourself, almost shouting it this time. “max, i’m in love with you!”

max’s eyes impossibly widen, panic flashing across his face. without a second thought, he moves his hand over your mouth, muffling your words. “shhh, not so loud!” he whisper-yells, urgently looking around to see if anyone heard.

you blink up at him confused, your words lost behind his palm. the look on his face wasn’t what you expected— there’s no joy, no relief, just shock and something which you could only recognise as fear.

after max finishes his frantic glancing around, he pulls his hand from your mouth. before you can utter another word, his hand is gripping your wrist tightly as he tries to guide you out of the place. you can barely hear anything from the loud thumping of your heart and the booming music, but you catch bits of max politely trying to excuse you both as he leads you towards the exit.

as max pulls you through the crowd, your mind races to catch up with what just happened. the warmth of his hand on your wrist is a stark contrast to the cold dread you feel settling within you. he pushes the club door open, leading you into the chilly night air. the sudden quietness compared to the almost deafening sound inside the club makes everything feel too real, too raw.

he finally released his grip on your wrist, turning around to face you, his face mixed with confusion and frustration. “what were you thinking??” he asks, voice sharp but low, as if to keep himself in check.

your chest tightens, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. your voice is small and trembling as you try to talk to him. “i couldn’t keep it in anymore—“

you weren’t able to finish though, as max is interrupting you again. at first it’s with a groan, as he lifts a hand to run through his hair and ruffle it, an anxious habit he developed long ago. “this isn’t something you say in the middle of a club, with hundreds of people around— and especially when you’re drunk!” he tells you, hands in the air as he tried to convey his frustrations.

the tears spill over, and you wipe at them angrily, embarrassed and hurt. “so when am i supposed to say it? you know i wouldn’t have the confidence when i’m sober.”

max’s eyes soften, but only momentarily before his expressions harden again. “i don’t know! but it was a mistake to do it now.” he harshly let out, taking you aback as your eyes widen.

“this was a mistake? i think loving you might’ve been a mistake too,” you tell him, tears overflowing now as your vision is too blurry to make out his expression. you rub harshly at your eyes, trying to stop the tears.

you can only hear max let out a frustrated sigh, as well as him fidgeting around. it’s silent for a moment, before you hear the ringing of a phone. you go to ask what he’s doing, but you aren’t able to as someone picks up on the other end too quickly.

turns out, max was calling you a cab home. the thought made you anxious, you didn’t want to go home with him, not when you were both like this. “i don’t want to go home with you, i’ll—“

“you’re not. i called a cab for you,” he interrupts again, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “you’re too drunk to be having this conversation. sober up, and we’ll talk,” he tells you, looking you right in the eyes.

it hurts him to see you so upset and broken about it all, but he can’t have this conversation with you when you’re intoxicated. he needs you to be sober, in the right mindset.

you want to protest, but at the same time you don’t. your mind is all over the place, some thoughts telling you to stay here and talk it out with him, while others tell you to just go home. you put your hands on your head, squeezing your eyes shut as you desperately try to gather your thoughts, but to no avail.

you feel yourself jump when a hand is placed on your shoulder, and you look up to see max looking at you, stoically. you flinch at the touch, not sure if it’s the cold, emotionless look in his eyes or if it’s the suddenness of the move. his hand lingers on your shoulder momentarily, and for a brief second, you think he���s going to talk to you, say something to make this situation better.

but he doesn’t.

instead, max’s grip tightens slightly before his hand slides off of your shoulder, and back to his side. “the cab will be here in a few minutes,” he tells you, voice devoid of the warmth it usually has, stepping back. there’s not much distance between you realistically, but to you— in your drunken state— it feels like there’s miles.

you stare at him, eyes desperately searching for any hint of emotion, any clue that might show he’s just as torn about this as you are. but his expression is unreadable, and it’s as if his emotions are locked away, behind the emotionless wall that was built as soon as you confessed your feelings.

“i don’t— i don’t want to leave things like this, max,” you hiccup, voice still trembling like earlier. “can we please just talk? i’m sorry, i was—“

“we’re not talking,” he states, shaking his head. a weary sigh escapes his lips, before clarifying, “not tonight anyways, not like this,” and he waves his finger between you both.

you’re not sure when max got so.. serious, when he was drunk. granted, he wasn’t as drunk as you were, only a little tipsy; but it still scared you. the reality was starting to set in, and you felt yourself go still.

you thought tonight would have gone better, you thought max would be happy to hear you loved him. you even thought he’d reciprocate the feelings. but now, all you could think about was how cold he was being, and how it felt too much like rejection to think otherwise.

you watch as his mouth opens, and your heart starts to beat faster as you anxiously wait for what he’s about to say. but, the words die on his tongue as the headlights of the cab shine through the darkness, breaking you both out of your own world.

at the side of your eye, you see max take another step back as the cab pulls up infront of you. you want to turn to him, ask him what he was going to say. but your mind betrays your wants, and you feel yourself walking towards the cab, hand resting on the door handle.

you’re frozen, as if you’re fighting your mind to let you stay and talk to max, begging it to allow you to fix the mess it created tonight. but alas, you end up simply opening the car door and sliding into the back seat, before slamming the car door shut.

you glance out the window, praying max will pull a move that would resemble something of a romance film. stopping you from going in the cab, regretting his decisions and pulling you back to him, allowing a quick and easy resolve—

but it never happened.

max just stood there, hands shoved in his pocket as his eyes drifted from yours to the drivers, giving him a nod to signal he was fine to leave.

the cab starts to pull away, and you can’t bring yourself to keep looking at max. the engine roars, and you look down at your trembling hands, a shaky sigh escaping your lips before you felt the tears from your eyes drop onto your soft skin. squeezing your eyes shut, you allow yourself to cry it out on the way home.

there’s no chat from the driver, no asking if you’re okay, but also no asking you to keep it down. it’s silent, and all that can be heard is the faint sound of the crackly radio, and your own sniffling.

for the first time since max had been brought into your life, you felt completely and utterly alone.

[honeydippedwaffles]

Smallest Drop - Part 2

Summary: Seeing as part one went well, I present to you the continuation but this time, from Astarion's point of view. Thank you all so much for your support. It makes me so happy to know the fandom is enjoying my work.

He honestly doesn't know what Tav wants from him or why she keeps stirring weird emotions in him and she only further confuses when she presents him with a thoughtful gift.

There will be a part 3. Tav is not mentioned by name.

Content Warnings: She/Her Tav

Word Count: 2.2k words

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Astarion never considered himself particularly lucky but he knew how to adapt to situations beyond his control – keep himself alive and everything. He’d proven himself to be talented enough to seduce well, just about anyone.

Just about anybody it would seem but not a single member of the strangest group imaginable, also known as the one he’d chosen to travel with.

Because luck would mean the most frustrating woman in the world would be the one he aimed to… shall he say, convince about the benefits of staying close to his side.

Oh, she wasn’t exactly immune to his charms. He could see the effects when he moved close to her and her lips curled into a natural smile, attention flickering to him in anticipation of what he wanted to say. She brushed against his shoulder whenever she wanted to pass and laughed at his snide remarks.

All the things that he would usually consider a success; a sign he’d managed to win her heart in some form.

But then, she also went and did the absolute opposite.

Instead of pulling him aside in the camp when he offered and allowing him to drag his lips along her throat, she dragged him into the middle of the group to socialize. She leaned into his touches and then ran off to help save another puppy or whatever else caught her attention.

It annoyed Astarion because he knew she liked him but he didn’t know what she wanted from him. They’d spent one evening together and she appeared keen on more but then rather spent her nights teaching an owlbear how to sit.

Admittedly, a very cute pastime but still.

She ran a bath for him, washed his hair, and then promptly left him alone in the water instead of joining him for some fun. If he understood, he could easily provide but she made the first part infuriatingly difficult.

“Alright,” he said after she’d caught him staring into a blank mirror and spurned agitation in him by reminding him that he didn’t, in fact, know what colour his eyes once were. “Tell me what you see when you look at me. Surely you can describe my appearance well enough.”

She giggled and put a hand to her chin, as though considering. “I think we’d be sitting here the whole night if I did that. You’re so pretty, it’s unfair.”

Pride curled hot in his chest and his irritation simmered. Amazing how easily she managed to do such a thing. “Oh? Then name your favourite.”

She reached out to brush a strand of hair away from his face, freezing only when the action had already startled both of them. Astarion wondered why she stopped for only a second before he realised he’d shifted away from the touch, a movement done on instinct rather than thought.

Shit. That wasn’t going to help him.

She dropped her hand as though nothing happened. “I refuse to believe becoming a vampire changed you that much. There’s no way you weren’t this gorgeous before.”

She knew how to appeal to his vanity and the strangest thing about it was, he didn’t feel as though she did it on purpose. Her ceaseless flattery came naturally to her.

“It’s been over two hundred years since I last saw it and memories fade.”

A lie but not an important one. He remembered everything since the day he woke up in his coffin, panicked and struggling to breath though he didn’t need to. The pain of transforming, the agony of starvation, and unending confusion. Nothing slipped away and he hated it. Despised how the memories shoved their way forward.

But for now, he refused to think of them and instead waited to see what she thought of. She pressed her lips together tightly before she spoke.

“The first thing I noticed when I met you were your eyes. They’re red, obviously, but they’re also strong and piercing. You also get these crinkles beside them when you laugh.”

Again with the strangest compliments. Still, he took them in his stride this time. “That’s better. What else?”

“The way you smile. It’s dangerous and sharp but occasionally, genuine. It’s enough to charm anybody, I would say.”

He offered her a smile in response, pleased with the praise. He preened beneath her pretty words and happily took the knowledge close to heart. Meaningless flattery had always been one of his favourite things.

“Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we’ll call it a day.”

She laughed and tilted her head to the side. “You’re beautiful. I thought that much was obvious.”

But something in the way she said it ruined everything. She took the most boring compliment of the lot and meant it deeper than all the others. The teasing tone easily exposed the truth and the pride disappeared, replaced by something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now was there any real reason for you to make your way over here?”

She didn’t really want anything but he’d almost expected it. Everything she found on their journey eventually got shared with him and today, she spoke about some woman’s letter she’d found. Nothing important.

Astarion thought that would be the end of it.

He continued to flatter her to make sure she always preferred him above their other companions and was rewarded when she continued to seek him out first. An entirely selfish action truly but she offered him a path forward.

The others had their strengths but something about her united them the best. If a chance existed where he could retain this ability to stand in the sun, he had no doubt she would be his best way there.

Even if she did insist on carrying about so much nonsense she found whenever they went out and helped every person with the smallest problems.

But then she found an empty book lying on the floor somewhere and she immediately began staring at him whenever it was open, scribbling away inside but always staring at him over the edges. Every time he offered her a quizzical glance, she smiled and continued with whatever she was doing.

She showed it to Wyll and Gale a few times but never brought it over for him to see.

Of course, if Astarion really wanted to, he could find what waited in those pages easily.

The parasite provided an easy path forward but she would know he wanted something when he dug around in her head. He didn’t sleep most nights but she rested deeply; deeply enough to allow a vampire to drink from her throat without even waking her like the true fool she was.

She knew, even laughed when he complimented her the next morning, but never once complained, just told him he was welcome back whenever.

Originally, he thought she may be too trusting but he learned quickly how wrong that assumption was. She didn’t believe most of the people who tried to sway her to their side; straightened her back and glared when they tried to trick her and often even stood between them and her companions.

Which meant, somehow, he’d earned her trust.

Ridiculously stupid as it was for her to trust him, he didn’t want to lose the privilege and so he left her book alone until the next time she spent too long staring over its top.

“I do hope you’re writing something fun in those pages,” he said. “If you let me read them, I’m sure we can make them happen.”

She laughed at the suggestion. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just trying to draw you.”

He lowered his goblet a little in confusion, unsure how to respond to such a thing. “Draw me?”

“Well, you complained so much about not being able to see yourself in the mirror so I thought this would be the next best option. Come here and I’ll show you.”

She patted the spot on the ground beside her but Astarion didn’t move. Of all the things he’d expected from her, he hadn’t anticipated a recall of the strange conversation from before. Certainly not for her to have spent several days on such a thing.

“Come on,” she welcomed him. “I’m not horrible at art, I promise.”

He shook off the surprise and forced a laugh. “My apologies, I got distracted watching those adorable cheeks of yours flush. It’s absolutely delicious to see the way the sun burns your skin.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the sun,” she said. “If you’re talking about this.” She twisted a little so he could see a deeper red mark on her chest and where it curled over her shoulder. “You know the chest I kept fiddling with beneath the grove? Turns out it was trapped but don’t worry, Shadowheart promised it would fade with time.”

He honestly hadn’t been speaking of anything but he found himself annoyed at her for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint. “Well, I suppose that’s what you must deal with when you’re obsessed with looting everything we come across.”

“It’s profitable,” she teased. “Now do you want to see what I’m drawing or not?”

He took his time to saunter over and sink into a relaxed seat beside her. The sun had begun to set and its final rays danced over her skin as she shifted closer, leg brushing against his own as she turned the pages to him.

“It’s not perfect,” she warned. “You’re not an easy person to capture on the page but it’s something.”

True to her words, the book had been filled with sketches from the front to the back. Some crude and others detailed but every single one was of him. Close ups, full bodies, and even a few in action with daggers drawn. Had she truly drawn them from memory alone?

“I keep getting frustrated when they don’t come out right,” she said. She leaned back so she was lying against the grass, attention on the sky. “I’ve asked the others but they can’t tell what I’m doing wrong either. They’re just not right.”

He turned the pages slowly, not sure how he should respond to a gift like this.

Seeing his face showed truth to her words. He hadn’t changed awfully much in these years. The great care put into this though… she’d spent ages detailing his hair on others and even put dapples of sunlight over others from when they’d been travelling through the forest.

They didn’t have many hobbies to pass the time while travelling (not unless you counted Lae’zel who appeared to be collecting more and more heads as they continued on) but this must have taken so much of her waking hours.

The emotion that crept up his throat was unwelcome and difficult to recognise. It made his unbeating heart twist uncomfortably and he immediately snapped the book shut.

She nudged him to get his attention. “Well? What do you think? We can hire a professional when we reach a bigger city but it’s a temporary solution.”

He forced the smile and it felt wrong. “I doubt even a professional will capture me right. It’s as you said, difficult to capture perfection.”

She laughed. “I’ll try again tomorrow but with our plans, I think you’re going to be in a foul mood and I don’t want to draw you when you’re sulking.”

“Me? Sulk? I couldn’t possibly imagine why when you’re making me trudge through a swamp.”

She grinned and for a second, the briefest moment, he felt something tug on his chest when he looked at her. Fondness. His panic flared immediately and he turned his gaze away, uncomfortable suddenly with the attention she lavished upon him.

Curse her and her ridiculous book. Yet another strange aspect of her life – one that tempted him to flee in the middle of the night and never return to this group and their insistence on helping people.

But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t give up the safety provided by them yet.

“I’ll be happy to take this off your hands darling,” he said to her, holding up the book. “Keep it safe and make sure it doesn’t disappear in the night.”

“You will not. It’s mine until I get at least one drawing of you right and then you can have it.”

He leaned over her, placing one hand on the ground beside her hip. “Wouldn’t you rather the real thing? We can make some references for more enticing artwork in the future.”

She stared at him, briefly frozen as he drifted a faint touch over her thigh. The flare of lust in her eyes made him comfortable again. This was something he understood. An emotion he recognised. She still wanted him; she must if she spent all this time trying to draw him.

She moved closer and her breath brushed over his cheeks, her eyes locked on his.

He waited, about to close the gap, when she suddenly kissed him on the nose, grabbed the book from his hand, and rolled away with a laugh.

Astarion was left blinking as she tucked the book into her pouch.

“I’ll let you have it when I’m done but that does sound like fun. Unfortunately, this evening though, I managed to talk Wyll into giving me some dance lessons so I’m booked. You should join if you feel up to it.”

He huffed and tried not to let the strange jealousy return as she ducked away towards the others.

Taglist: @rosenightwings , @tragicdruid , @bloopthebat , @venus-wrts

[fruitglazed]

matt likes to put his COLD ASS HANDS up your blouse!!

keepin this short n sweet ! 🍭

✧

✧

“Matt, stop!” You belt out, giggling while trying to catch your breath. You’ve been dodging your boyfriend, Matt for the past 15 minutes, due to his ice cold hands. His favorite way to warm them up? Straight up your blouse. “Babe, come here! My hands are cold. You’re really gonna let my hands be cold like that?” He says whining, stopping dead in his tracks- showing you his puppy dog eyes, pouting his lips. God was he beautiful. A piece of hair happened to fall in front of his face. Matt huffed, pushing the strand of hair out of the way, locking his eyes with yours. He knew how to work his charm. “That’s not going to work, Matthew.” You reply sternly, crossing your arms, tapping your foot for added effect. Knowing that you were eventually going give in, you stayed strong for the time being. Besides, why wouldn’t you want to see him beg just a little bit. In an instant, Matt jumps forward and grabs your waist, immediately bringing both your bodies together. You laugh as you struggle to get free from his grasp, pushing on his chest, but the more you push, the tighter his grip gets. Matt’s head nuzzles into your neck as you continuously attempt to break free. It’s no use. His breath is warm with each exhale he gives. It’s nice. Slowly you start to melt into his frame, linking your arms together over his shoulders. As you stand still, intertwined within each other, you’ve forgotten what was even going on. “AH!” You scream. “Your hands are fucking freezing!” Matt’s hands had made his way onto the small of your back, underneath your dainty blouse. The warmth of your skin soaked up the coolness of his. Gradually, your temperatures become another thing you share. Dragging his fingers up your back, daring not to miss and inch.

🍭

i could totally add some smut but nauuuurrrrrr i didn’t wanna continue LOL. let me know if u want some!!! I really appreciate the requests- it definitely helps me. also if u want to see a certain style or pov or line PLEASE tell me!!!!

[sorcerous-caress]

So fun fact about me irl I work with children but often my teacher language slips out like telling my friends to say “bye bye bus”, telling another person in my lecture writing to “be nice to the pencil, it’s your friend.” And greeting a roomful of grown as adults with good morning boys and girls. It’s mortifying but How do you think the companions would react to having a teacher!tav slip up like that.

Dealing with a Teacher Tav

[Bg3, fluff, platonic kinda, nb!reader]

[Gale, Shadowheart, Laezel, Wyll, Karlach, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Jaheira, Minsc]

Gale

He delightfully plays along whenever you tell him to thank a stranger or say goodbye to an inanimate object. He thinks it's very silly and joyous.

Teachers have always been a big part of his life, it doesn't phase him in the slightest when you unawarly awake the deep memories of being in wizards pre-school for him.

Says good morning to you back, adding a teacher honorific at the end for the sake of being playful while asking if you've finally graded the homework he handed in.

He gives you an apple occasionally. He thinks he is very hilarious.

Shadowheart

She freezes in awkwardness whenever it happens, not sure if you’re being serious or just playing around. Sometimes, you don't even register slipping up as go on with your day, leaving her wondering if she's imagining things.

She has zero experience with the school system, completely confused by the need to say thank you for carriage after it arrived. It's just a carriage, why should she?

One time while her and Laezel were arguing, you used the same call you'd use in the classroom to get the kids to quiet down and it completely caught them both off guard. They just stood there baffled, forgetting their original argument.

Laezel

Why, yes, she is very familiar with teachers. In fact, she was the best out of her class, ask any githyanki teacher, and they'd tell you endless praise about her throat cutting techniques and sword welding stances.

You, whoever, use very unusual teaching techniques. How would learning a song about washing your hand and brushing your teeth help her in slaying her enemies?

Intriguing, so you take advantage of the brain's tendency to latch on to phrases that rhyme, which makes them easier to remember? And you encode your melodies with instructions to embed them into the impressionable youth?

Huh. She actually is impressed. She made her decision, you will lend your teaching skills to help her embed the most effect way of fracturing someone's spine into a melody to spread to the githyanki children.

Wyll

As someone who has been an unofficial teacher for so many kids throughout his years, he can relate to your struggle a lot. He slips up more than he cares to admit.

The both of you meeting early in the morning while still groggy and tired, your brains working on automatic mods as you greet each other with the same high pitched enthusiastic voice you use to greet a toddler.

Then just stare at each other, complete understanding between the two of you. Like two people accidentally using their customer service voice in front of the other.

You struggle to tie your boots once, and he unconsciously bends down to tie them for you while using the rabbit loop euphemism, only to stop in his tracks as he realises what he's doing.

He uses a curse word once, and you immediately use your teachers voice and say, "we don't speak like that here, that's wasn't very nice."

You're both tired, you both need a nap and neither of you brings it up when the other slips.

Karlach

Much like Gale, she finds it extremely amusing. Top tier comedy to her. Unlike Gale, she hasn't been to any proper schooling system, so she doesn't exactly know what most of these phrases mean or imply.

In a way, it lets her pretend she was a part of something like a school in her youth, like she could've had a normal childhood like everyone else.

She'd indulge you, saying goodbye and thank you to the pigeon that delivered her a letter, or overhearing Wyll's rabbit loop ryhme and whispering it under her breath as she ties her own boots. Who knew this could've been so easy?

Astarion

You remind him of how Leon was with his daughter back in Cazador's manor. Astarion never was close with any of them, but still, he sometimes overheard him attempting to give his daughter a semblance of a normal childhood and growth.

It's endearing when you accidentally use your teaching ways while dealing with the owlbear cub, but he'll never admit it.

Doesn't indulge you with it, he has appearance to keep. Well, unless he has a chance to twist your innocent meaning words into a sex or gorey joke like the 12y old humour that he has.

Ah, the scrowl on your face is the exact same one Leon had around him, such fond memories.

Halsin

Ah, you bring him back to his old days of having to deal with the children at the grove. Although his methods focused more on showing them that nature is a friend rather than inanimate objects.

But who is he to judge your ways? If anything he could learn a thing or two from you to add to his skillset.

Tells you about the fables that were passed down from elf to elf throughout the generations, animal stories have always done a great part in teaching him morality.

Do you happen to have any? Maybe you could tell it to the children of the grove, they are good kids.

Minthara

As a noble, she was only given the best and most prestigious of teachers while growing up. Even the ones that weren't a drow would still be considered the best of the best, crème de la crème.

Yet not a single one of them applied such...childish methods. etiquette and discipline were taught by the lash and threat of punishment, not lullabies and gentle guidance.

....it's not as bad as she imagined.

She doesn't get why some of your companions find it amusing. She doesn't bother indulging either.

But sometimes, sometimes, when it's just the two of you, and she is sure not a single soul is around, she will reply with a pun with the most deadpan face expression you've seen.

Jaheira

Despite what most would think, she actually integrated the same methods into her teachings back when her kids were little, it just happened to be weaved with her more dangerous lifestyle ascept.

Here comes the plane, with the airplane usual holding a good dosage amount of poison to build resistance.

A short rhyme about what to check before leaving the house, except the list has a suspicious amount of daggers and trap disarm kits in it.

If it works, it works, so what if she had to alter a kid's book about a honey loving yellow bear into one with decipherable texts to teach them Harpers' secret communication language.

Minsc

Ah! Boo does use the same method on him sometimes, the two of you have a lot in common. Although Boo's methods do involve a bit of biting every now and then.

Say, how about he teaches you some fables from Rashemen, a lot of them are about a rabbit who got lost after not listening to his witch frog companion.

You could use it in your teachings later! Show the youth the importance of good teamwork. Yes, he is aware of the fact he didn't listen to Jaheira and got captured by the cult. No, he doesn't see why this is relevant? Why is Boo suddenly agreeing with you? He is supposed to be on his side.

[tokyo-debunker-idk]

A Song of Ice and Aneurysm | 02

Summary: Jin Kamurai might be feared and respected as the wintery King of Frostheim, but even he is no match for a cursed honor student denser than any iceberg known to mankind.

Pairing:Kamurai Jin x Reader

Genre: Humor, romantic comedy, fluff, Jin struggling to emote, eventual smut, COMPLETE

18+, minors DNI

~~~~~

"Bianerus."

You're so captivated by Jin's smile that it takes you a moment to register that he's summoned his stigma.

Shit.

The last and only time you had seen him use his ability, he had forced an entire horde of anomalies to their knees. His words of command had somehow bolstered Kaito's aim with his bow and arrow, saving you. Then, Jin had given Tohma enough power to bring down an entire building.

What is he going to do to you?

"Answer me truthfully."

Is he looking for blackmail material? Or perhaps he's going to have you spill your darkest secrets, your humiliation a punishment for pissing him off?

"Do you really not understand why I was upset with you?"

Before you can think, can come up with any sort of answer to appease him, your mouth opens as you are forced to obey.

"No," you respond, internally cringing at how breathy you sound. Though it's only to be expected when you've been subjected to the utter whiplash that has been this entire situation. Why you need to be in Jin's lap, why he has to be cupping your face like a lover as this strange conversation occurs is completely lost to you.

As your brain works overtime to process the overwhelming amounts of conflicting information it's receiving, something about his wording distracts you.

"W-was? Are you not upset with me now?"

Your own question makes his brows knit in annoyance, and he closes his eyes as if praying for patience.

"Oh no, you're still pissing me off," he answers bluntly. Yet despite his obvious irritation, his hold is still gentle, and your heart is pounding not out of fear but because his face is only inches from your own. "Are you always this fucking clueless?"

Apparently his command to answer truthfully is still in effect, because your response comes before you have even registered his insulting question.

"Yes."

What the fuck, brain? Your own psyche is betraying you, it seems.

Your answer at least seems to have eased some of the captain's ire, however, because he lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a "pfft".

"Are you pouting right now?"

How rude, of course you're not.

"Yes."

You hate his ability. You really do. You want to hate Jin too, but his amused expression is melting any leftover remnants of your self-respect.

It's unfair, really, just how beautiful he is. If he wasn't, maybe you could take his arrogance and rudeness at face value and forget the secret kindness he hides under his sheets of ice. The way he quietly does take care of his house and subordinates despite pretending otherwise. Maybe then, you would be properly worried that you are completely at his mercy. Instead, all you can think of is the warmth of his body against yours and the gentle way his hands have locked you into place.

"Continue answering truthfully."

You wonder why he's refreshed his order, what exactly he intends to ask you, because nothing about this meeting has gone the way you've expected.

For a moment, Jin hesitates. Then, his hand slides under your chin and your mind goes blank. Because his lips are suddenly brushing your temple in a gentle kiss that makes you freeze.

"Is that alright?"

Instantly, your own mouth opens to reply. "Yes."

You can't quite believe this is happening, that you're in Jin's lap and he's just kissed you like you're something delicate and perfect.

"And this?"

His next attack is to trail his lips against your jaw, and you can't hold back the tiny whimper that leaves your throat. You never would have expected this sweet, quiet treatment from the imperious captain and it's reducing your brain to mush and your insides to jelly.

"Mmhmm," you hum in assent, still dazed when he pulls back despite the fact that he hasn't even actually kissed your lips. There's a devastating, satisfied smirk on his face as he takes in your flushed expression.

"Is there anything else you want?"

Now that's just cruel, when it's clear he already knows the answer. Yet still, even without his stigma, you would tell the truth.

"You."

The smirk deepens.

"Take what you want, then."

Your body reacts faster than your mind, pressing closer against him as your lips finally meet his. You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his soft, messy hair.

In any other circumstance you might have been more shy, less certain of your actions. However, Jin's order strips away any inhibitions you might have had, and when his lips part you take the invitation to lick into his mouth a little more desperately than you meant to.

It's his fault, really, for giving free reign to the desire that's been itching under your skin since he fucking kabedon'ed you with his leg. Who the fuck would even think of doing that other than this foul-mouthed, grouchy, beautiful idiot of a man?

It's his fault for meeting your tongue with his own so quickly, just as needy as you. For the way his husky groan goes straight between your legs, reminding you that your uniform skirt provides no shield against the bulge forming in his slacks.

Take what you want? You want him. All of him.

"Anything?" you ask, pulling back just enough to gaze into Jin's icy eyes. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, and you can't resist rolling your hips against him. His hands come down to your hips to press you harder against his erection and you let out a little whine at the delicious friction.

"Whatever you want, princess."

Your heart flutters at the pet name, so sweet falling from his lips (and a welcome change from peasant). The way he squeezes your ass is decidedly less sweet, but the assurance that he wants you just as much as you want him sends heat throughout your entire body.

Jin's words are all the encouragement you need to kiss him again, and you shove the jacket off his broad shoulders in the process so you can run your hands down his chest.

The planes of his abs are evident even over his button-up, which is frankly not fair. Where does he find the time to maintain his body between his busy schedule of yelling at Tohma and ordering you around? Is it a ghoul physiology thing?

Whatever, that's not important when there is a veritable feast of beautiful man meat before you. Jin isn't the type to give free rein for long, and you waste no more time in unbuttoning his shirt as he chuckles into your mouth.

"You were so shy that time I told you to wash this," he remarks, shrugging his shoulders out of the shirt as you let your eyes rove over his bare skin. You pause your appreciation to frown at him.

"That's because you're incredibly confusing," you complain, horniness momentarily forgotten as you lean back to cross your arms. "I didn't think I was allowed to look."

"Oh?"

There's a dangerous undercurrent in Jin's voice, and suddenly your vision spins and you're on your back, staring wide-eyed at the shirtless man above you.

"And now?"

His hand slips under your shirt, and you shiver as his fingers skate over the soft skin of your belly.

"I'm still a little con-fused!" Your reply ends in a squeak when he cups your breast over your bra and pinches your nipple through the fabric.

Jin sighs, then leans in to you so his face is a hair's breadth from your own. His eyes pierce yours, locking you into place.

"I ask you to come see me every day."

Before you can say that "ask" is a very generous term for his demanding texts, he kisses you hard. When you moan he nips at your lower lip as if to punish you for your thought.

"I dance with you and only you at the ball I provided your dress for."

Your neck is next, and you whimper uncontrollably as he kisses you, bites you, sucks bruises into your delicate skin. He's good at this, adept at finding exactly where you're the most sensitive and abusing it until you're trembling beneath him.

"I give you a fucking boat for your mission."

He pinches your nipple again, hard, and you yelp despite the zing of electricity it sends straight between your legs.

"You really thought I felt nothing for you?"

You're hot all over, not just from his actions but at the way he's staring at you now, like he's ready to eat you alive. There's warmth in your chest as well, that this isn't just some physical way for him to vent his frustration – that you mean something to him.

"Show me, then," you order breathlessly, tangling your fingers in his hair to crash his lips back onto yours.

It's as if his (sort of) confession has broken down any remaining barriers between you, and the kiss quickly grows hot and messy. There's more passion than finesse and you love it, moaning into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his hips to grind against him.

Your hands roam the hard, warm planes of his bare back and he groans into your mouth when you scratch lightly with your nails. He's so broad, and you begin fumbling at the buttons of your shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Apparently Jin is just as impatient, because without removing his lips from yours, he grabs the sides of your shirt from your hand and rips it open, uncaring of the buttons as they go flying.

"Jin, that's one of my only shirts," you hiss, torn between irritation and arousal because holy shit that was fucking hot.

"I'll buy you a hundred more," he replies with a smirk, letting his eyes feast on your nearly bare torso. "Or not, you look better like this."

You feel yourself flush at the shameless way he's staring, and to mask your embarrassment you rip your shirt off the rest of the way. Your bra follows, and you feel a small thrill of confidence when Jin lets out a ragged breath.

"So beautiful, princess," he groans, sinking back down on you to reclaim your lips. His hands cup your breasts, and you arch into his touch when his thumbs brush your nipples. "I'm never letting you go after this."

You pant and moan into his mouth as he begins to pinch, rub, and knead, every one of his actions sending hot jolts of pleasure to your core.

In an attempt to give him some of the pleasure (and torture) you're receiving, you reach down to palm him over this trousers and damn, not only does he have a big ego and big sword, but apparently a big sword as well. He groans and bucks into your hand, but you're already fumbling with his belt.

Soon the buckle clinks open and you barely wait to undo the button of his pants before slipping your hand to find the hard length of him. To your shock he's not wearing any boxers, and when you wrap your fingers around him Jin gives another strangled moan.

"Fuck, princess," he growls into your lips, voice husky with desire. One of his large hands trails down your body to dip below the hem of your skirt, just barely brushing the edge of your panties, when a thought strikes you.

"Wait."

Jin freezes, withdrawing his hand immediately and looking at you in concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Were you freeballing when you leg kabedon'ed me?"

The worry immediately melts into relief, which then becomes disbelief. For a few long moments he just stares at you, expression growing more and more irritated.

"That's what you're worried about right now?" he asks in a low, incredulous growl. "I thought you were telling me to stop."

The idea that he essentially shoved his balls in your face the first time you met had been so startling that you had forgotten everything else. Including the fact that your hand is currently still on his dick and you yourself are half-naked beneath him. Oops.

"No, definitely don't stop," you assure him. You want to feel bad for worrying him, you really do, but he looks so sexy with his jaw clenched in annoyance that you're immediately reminded of the ache between your legs. He looks like he's about to complain again, and you decide now is not the time to inquire about his underwear habits.

"Jin," you murmur softly, giving his cock a squeeze that you hope distracts him from his ire. His sharp exhale tells you you're successful, and with your free hand you guide his own back towards your core.

You stroke him slowly, tentatively and he lets out a strained "fuck" before caressing your pussy over your underwear. When he realizes how wet you are, he curses again before shoving the fabric aside. You whimper as he slowly, torturously, drags his fingers up and down your wet slit, bucking into his hand in a wordless plea for more.

Jin obliges, and you're glad the room is soundproof because the noise you make when he presses one of his thick fingers into you is depraved and needy.

Then his finger curls, and the cry you let out makes all of your earlier moans seem like church prayers.

"There?" he asks smugly, leaning back so he can get a good view of your face as drags the pad of his finger against that spot again. You think you babble an assent as he sets a delicious, relentless rhythm and you try to do the same, stroking him in a manner that only gets more uncoordinated as he drives you closer and closer to your peak.

"Jin," you pant desperately, grinding your hips into the curl of his fingers. He must have added another at some point, because the stretch feels so good that all you can see are the stars Jin has hung before you. "I'm – I'm gonna –"

"That's it, princess," he gasps, thrusting into your hand because you've long since ceased being able to focus on anything other than the relentless pleasure Jin is driving into you. "Come for me."

He doesn't even use his stigma, and yet you're powerless to resist. You fall apart with a wordless cry, spurred by his clever fingers, face contorting in pleasure that radiates from your core all the way to your toes. He stills his movements but presses his palm hard against your clit just when your spasms subside and you choke at the fresh, muted wave of pleasure.

You're still coming back to your senses when he withdraws his fingers and kisses you softly, stroking your hair with his free hand.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs into your neck, nipping and sucking at your tender skin. Honey oozes through your chest at his praise and gentle touch, the side of Jin that no one gets to see but you. You tug lightly at his hair to encourage him to kiss you again, and this time the slide of your tongues is more relaxed, easing you back into the waking world.

Jin is still hard in your grip, and when you resume your ministrations, his movements falter. You rub your palm around his tip and his moan vibrates against your tongue, and you feel yourself getting wet again.

"Jin, I need you," you murmur into his lips, withdrawing your hand from his pants only to shove them down and off his ass. Which you also take the opportunity to squeeze.

He sits up to kick them the rest of the way off and you do the same, yanking your skirt and panties down and tossing them wherever so you can admire the Adonis before you.

Every inch Jin's body looks like it was carved from marble by ancient Greek sculptors, each muscle taut and perfect. Well, except the several inches that constitute his cock, which is much larger than what was fashionable at the time. And you're not really sure how many sculptures there were with erect dicks.

"You're drooling."

With a start you wipe at your mouth, then scowl at the ghoul in indignation.

"Hey! No I wasn't!"

Jin snorts and takes your hand to pull you closer, and you very quickly forget everything when he kisses your palm, then the underside of your wrist. You shudder as the light touches send butterflies fluttering through your chest. Were those areas always so sensitive, or is it just because it's Jin?

"So cute, even when you're being a fucking idiot," he murmurs, eyes glittering with amusement as you huff and roll to face away from him. So rude. Even if hearing him call you cute turns your insides into goo.

Jin chuckles and presses his body to your back, and for a man everyone says is cold, all you can feel from his skin is heat. His hand skims over your breast before trailing down your stomach and you melt into him in spite of yourself.

"So you want it from behind?"

He says it just as his hand dips between your thighs, breath hot against your ear, and you forget to reply when he just barely presses his finger past your folds. You moan quietly, grinding your backside against his cock and Jin groans just as softly when he feels you still wet for him.

Suddenly his warmth vanishes, but before you can wonder what he's doing, he's pushing you onto your back and forcing your legs apart with his knees.

"Maybe next time," he muses, stroking your exposed pussy as you stare up at him with swollen lips and messy hair. "I want to see your face the first time you come on my cock."

Your face floods with heat at his filthy words, and his predatory gaze makes you feel more like prey than a princess. It only turns you on further, and when he gives his length a few cursory pumps before lining himself up, you swear your mouth actually does water.

Jin pauses, the blunt head of his cock just barely kissing your entrance.

"Tell me you want this," he rasps. His pupils are dilated, eyes heavy with desire and he looks like he'd love nothing more than to devour you whole. Yet he still waits, and it makes you want him even more.

You take his free hand, threading your fingers together, and pull him down so his forehead bumps yours.

"Please, Jin," you whisper, heart pounding. "I want this. I want you."

Jin kisses you just as his length presses against you, swallowing the needy whimper that escapes your throat. Instead of pushing in, he drags his cock up and down your slit, rubbing your clit with each stroke and you buck your hips towards him, wanting more.

"Jin," you gasp against his lips and tongue, hot and needy and achingly empty. "Can you please just – ahh!"

You moan as he finally presses into you, eyes rolling back as Jin's thick length cleaves into your walls. The stretch is agonizingly delicious, and he's so big that despite your wetness he has to go slow, pulling out shallowly just so he can fuck you deeper with each roll of his hips. By the time he's fully sheathed in your cunt, you're gasping and digging your nails into his back.

"You're doing so good for me, Princess," Jin breathes in a strained voice, pressing kisses to your neck as you whimper and wiggle beneath him.

"More," you whine, wrapping your legs around his hips as you try to take him deeper, desperate to take everything he has to offer.

"Fuck," he curses, grinding into you so hard you swear you can feel him in your throat. You pulse around him, slick walls gripping his cock like a vice and he curses again, grabbing your hips so he can properly fuck into you the way you both want.

Each thrust makes you see stars, and the room echoes with the indecent sound of skin slapping skin, Jin's harsh, uneven breathing, and your moans as you beg him for more.

Jin feels incredible, his cock hitting spots you weren't even aware of, and when he reaches between your bodies to massage your clit you can't help but buck wildly against him.

"Nng, fuck," you choke, because it's almost too much and somehow still not enough. With each thrust of his hips, each circle of his thumb on your clit, you lose more and more of your grip on reality and you yank his face to yours in a desperate clash of teeth and tongue.

"Don't stop," you gasp into his mouth as he fucks you into what feels like another plane of existence. You barely feel like a human anymore, but rather a bundle of nerves and pleasure growing tighter, tighter, until –

"Jin!" you wail, back arching as the tension snaps into rapture and you explode into a million pieces.

"Shit," Jin grunts, pace faltering as he feels you spasm uncontrollably around his cock. He buries his face into the side of your neck and you wrap your arms and legs around him, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Where–"

"Inside," you beg, tightening your legs around him as his thrusts grow harder and more erratic. Jin's answering groan is feral, animalistic, and when he spills inside of you he bites your shoulder hard enough to make you cry out.

"Fuck," he pants quietly, running his tongue over the bite in a silent apology before propping himself up on an arm to gaze down at you. You smile as you brush some of his sweaty hair out of his face, looking into beautiful icy eyes that thaw only for you.

"You're beautiful," Jin murmurs softly, leaning in to press a kiss on your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You're melting again, reduced to an embarrassing puddle of adoration at his gentle treatment.

"You too," you reply dreamily, in a haze of post-coital contentment as you snuggle into Jin's chest. You feel his chuckle vibrate against your skin and he wraps his free arm around you, holding you close. "Wait, so why were you upset?"

"Oh my fucking god."

[emotionallyunstableduck]

Safe space

Pairings: gojo x reader

Warnings: smidge of crying, gojo's a silly little attention seeker

a/n: I miss him so muchhhh. every week is torturous. My baby needs some comforting ASAP.

the last thing you were expecting to see was your ex-boyfriend Gojo Satoru standing in your doorway with a bruised eye and a busted lip.

"I almost died today" he said, almost not believing his own words, all the while you watched him in horror. "Satoru" he looks like a wet puppy you can't even bring yourself to be harsh "what the fuck happened to you". "I got beat up" he chuckled lowly "part of the job description i suppose". You pull him in seating him on your couch as your hands instinctively went to his face examining it as you gently touched the bruised areas "how did it get this bad" you said sort of wondering out loud "the simplest way to put it is that I got jumped" he tries to lighten the mood "jumped? how do you expect me to believe that satoru? how am i to believe that you of all people could take this much damage just by being jumped?". Why were you angry?

"i did not see them coming, I swear" he says, all giddy at your outburst. As usual, he loves to get a reaction out of you. "Can i stay the night?" his question popped out of nowhere "I- sure. Sure, stay the night. I'll get the guest room ready. " You give in, knowing full well you could never say no to him, not when he's like this. As you try to make past him, he pulls you back onto the couch, clutching onto your tee desperately. "Please stay." Those goddamn eyes. Everytime. It's almost like he knows the kind of effect they have on you.

"I'm only going to get your bed ready satoru" you try to free yourself but to no avail "I just want you right now. just wanna be close" i pulls you closer. All you could do was freeze up in his arms. The familiarity was piercing your heart.

Moments later you felt hot wet tears on you arm which instantly alarmed you. "Satoru" "I'm sorry I'm so sorry" he sobbed into you holding you close by your torso "I thought I was better off alone. I was wrong. So wrong. So so wrong. i'm sorry". His sobs were erratic and you ran your fingers through his hair in order to comfort him. "You were and will be the only best thing in my life. I want you to constitute my every waking second. It's the only way i can breath" his hands made their way up your tee grabbing and squeezing your waist. "Satoru you can't just show up and proclaim shit out of the blue" his only response was the chaste kiss he placed on your tummy before looking up at you with flushed face and those wet lashes and glossy lips. God why does he have to be this enamouring? Your face instantly heated up (the way I'll die from from a nosebleed if I ever see him like so).

"Y/N. Sweets. Please" that's all it took to break your resolve as you hug him back. He took it as a sing to pull you onto his lap. One of his large hands caressing your lower waist while the other cups your cheek as he look at you like you were something so divine for that is how he felt.

He slowly brought your face closer as he connected your lips encompassing your senses and numbing the surroundings. A little while later he pulled back leaving you dazed "god you make me crazy" he went right back in rougher, needier, sloppier. The raw emotion was spinning your head as you melted and gave up trying to decipher what's goin on. His hands all over your bare skin inching towards your chest as you struggled to catch up. Your little moans fuelled him as he pulled you even closer if that was even possible, sliding his tongue into your mouth sucking on yours. The only breaks were to take a sharp breath and to chant out little 'i love yous'.

You struggled to pull yourself together "Satoru your wounds" you say worried "oh these silly things" he snickered healing them with his reverse cursed energy. You just sat there in his lap dumbfounded as to who how you ever even trusted HIM.

"GOJO SATORU" you grabbed his collar "owwww so rough sweets. could have just asked me to remove my shirt" he said with his infamous shiteating grin "get outttt" "no wayyyy" he pulled you into his chest pepperring your neck with little kisses "I just got you back".

masterlist

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Part Six

Words: 5.8k

Just as you approach something resembling contentment, this broken world will exact its toll.

Warnings: smutty smut, trauma, grief, Joel hasn't come to terms with what happened in Salt Lake, Joel is bad at feelings, but pretty good with his hands. Minors DNI.

Part Five | Series Masterlist | Part Seven

You were busy again, the new table earning its keep almost immediately, and the ease that you moved around your treatment room, the way that you could bend without reaching over, push with your weight rather than your wrists, meant that you could concentrate more, heal more effectively. You hadn’t realised how much the clumsiness of the old dining table had been holding you back. Every day that you used it, you wanted to find a new way to thank Joel. Maybe even sometimes, with all of your clothes on.

Except that the idea also terrified you, in a way that you were struggling to really understand. The idea of him, of being naked with him, not that you really fully had been, of kissing him even, no that you had, was enough to send an absolute riot of butterflies careening through your guts and down into your legs, into your knees. The idea of him scared you, his reputation proceeded him, and you kept thinking of how wary Maria was, how protective Ellie seemed to be, how sweetly oblivious Tommy was most of the time which you were beginning to suspect was actually a choice. You wanted to pull them all into a room and forensically map out who the fuck Joel Miller actually was. You were aware you were thinking like a crazy person. You didn’t care.

Because then when he was with you, when you fell into his orbit, looked into his eyes, there was something heavier and realer and more tangible than your stupid, flighty, squawking fears. It worried you, that he made you into a different person when he was around you. You weren’t sure what that person was capable of getting up to, left to her own devices, but you had an inkling.

You knew that you were pushing him away, pushing it all away, because it scared you, but also it felt like the only sane thing to do, had kept you alive for years and years, had meant that when you lost people it hurt less, maybe. Being busy again, and fairly invested in maintaining your denial for as long as you could manage it, you got back to your usual routine of seeing the broken and weary people of Jackson early, before the work hours, and then steadily throughout the day. It afforded you the illusion of being sociable, of contributing to the community, without having to actually be in it. Without Ray and Marla, with Maria and Tommy wrapped up in the baby, with Joel being…Joel, you had collected a long list of clients and a dwindling list of friends. It could have made you sad if you thought about it, so you didn’t, and you were too busy anyway, and how could you be lonely with all these people in your house?

Besides which, in the quiet moments you could feel the tension in people, the uneasiness woven tight into the musculature of most of the residents you now saw. Not everyone knew Marla or Jacob or the others personally, not everyone even necessarily liked them, especially not fucking Jacob, but everyone had an investment in their safe and hopefully bountiful return.

To escape it, you went for long walks along the foreshore of Jackon’s lake at the bottom of the township, until the dying light forced you back. You were there, hands in the freezing water feeling out for flat stones you could warm in hot water and press into particularly assertive muscle knots, when you heard the yelling. You were up and sprinting, the twisty and icy path underneath you occasionally threatening to boot you into the snow, and if you’d had time to think about it you have marvelled at the difference in your reaction from Joel and Ellie’s homecoming to this one. The elation you felt at their return, the relief of it, not just for you and Marla and Ray, but for Jackon. For what it meant for this community. For your community.

Trying not to knock yourself out on the way to the gate meant that you didn’t initially notice the quiet. There was a smattering of people still out despite the cold, the encroaching darkness, but they weren’t rushing forward, weren’t really helping the returned residents, were in fact milling around, some just standing in quiet observance, and it occurred to you for a second that they were like onlookers at a funeral. You pushed forward into the crowd, trying to see past unmoving shoulders, past still bodies, moving towards the sounds of horses, of panting breaths you weren’t sure belonged to whom.

And then you arrived at the front, and you had a clear view. And you realised the panting breaths were your own.

There were only two horses, and only three riders. Marla at the reigns of one, Jacob slung over the back of her saddle, slumping over at an odd angle, his head rolled back in a way that you thought would really strain his cervical spine, until you realised he was tied to the horse, had been roped around Marla’s midsection, that he was nearly as pale as the snow around you, that he was very dead. The other rider stared, unblinking, into the distance and was eventually helped down and led to the infirmary, not ever having said a word.

Marla had seen you, had watched you fight your way to the front of the crowd, had searched you out. She was shivering, a splatter of blood across her chest and under her neck, and you couldn’t tell if it was hers or if it was Jacob’s or someone else’s entirely, and in that moment staring into her eyes you knew that it didn’t matter, that it would never matter, that whatever damage it was it had already been calculated, tallied, on a ledger somewhere none of you would ever be able to balance.

You motioned to a few of the men around you, gesturing to the ropes around Marla’s middle. ‘Cut him loose,’ you said, in a voice you didn’t recognise, and reached your arms up to hold Marla’s hand. You held it, limp and contrite in yours, while Jacob’s body was freed from hers. When he was lifted away she slumped forward, her back having held his weight for god knows how long, and you caught her, pulled her down from the horse on wobbling legs, let her crumple underneath you and set her down onto the pavement. Someone pulled a blanket over her shoulders and you held her in it, gripped her hard and tight and let her shake in your arms. You looked up into the eyes of Ray, who looked like he might throw up or pass out or both, and you pulled him down with you, wrapped him around her while he cried into her hairline, and you watched as the horses were led away.

‘Did you bring anything?’ someone asked from the crowd, quiet but hopeful, and you wanted to reach up and slap them for every moronic word they had dared speak into existence, had thought to utter in this sacred space of abject loss.

Marla never answered, and you squeezed her. She twisted in your arms to look up at you, an angry purple and yellow bruise forming having formed under her eye. You turned to Ray. ‘Help me get her to mine,’ you said.

--

You had the fire going, and you pushed your old armchair right up to it, folding Marla into it under a sea of blankets. Ray went to get something to bring her from the mess hall, something warming but easy to chew, and you perched beside her, slid down until her knees were in your lap and she was resting her head against the wing of the chair, and you stared, together, into the fire.

‘We barely made it back,’ she whispered, her voice dry, her lips chapped and windburned. You stayed still, not wanting to shake her, not wanting to do anything that might stop her from talking. ‘Rode through, all night. I wanted to bring him back, bring them all but I could only get him.’

‘Was it raiders?’ you asked, and she shook her head.

‘Both,’ she said, and you didn’t understand. ‘Raiders that had…kept a few clickers, had them locked up, had them uhhh…weaponised.’

You shuddered. ‘Like pets?’ you asked.

‘Like torture devices,’ she simply replied. You contemplated this for a second, couldn’t imagine it, the terror of being faced with that choice: raider or runner.

‘We got within a few hours of where we thought the pharmacy was,’ she went on, her voice catching. She continued to shake, her hands tremoring underneath the blanket, and you tried to tuck her in tighter, tried to warm her up. ‘We’d gone through a valley, ended up on the other side of a glade, it would have been so beautiful in the before times. We found a farmhouse, looked abandoned. Wasn’t.’

She was jiggling her foot and you put your hand out to hold it, feeling that her socks were wet. ‘By the time we realised they were already on us, were ready, had seen us coming.’

She looked at you, tears forming in her eyes. ‘They tried to lock us in the cage with them,’ she swallowed. ‘Jacob was really brave, fought them hard, stopped them from putting us in.’

If cold had gotten into her boots she must have been freezing, was risking losing a toe. You lifted the blankets to pull at her sock, putting your hand on her bare skin to warm it.

‘But one of them, two of them maybe, they got out,’ she continued. You held the ball of her foot in your hand, rubbing your thumb over the top of her foot in what you hoped were comforting little circles.

‘I just wanted to get him back here,’ she said, just as you felt it, a raised, rough ridge on her ankle, tendrils of heat snaking up her shin. You threw the blankets back, saw the bite there, the way the ropes of twisting fungus had already started their march up to her heart. You froze, your terrified eyes snapping to her wet, sorry, scared ones.

‘Don’t let Ray do it,’ she said.

--

It didn’t matter that you hadn’t been there before, you knew where it was. You wrapped on the door so hard you would later discover the skin on your knuckles had split. All you could hear was the ringing in your ears, your vision narrowed down to a pinprick, the look on Marla’s face so drawn, so scared, so resolute, imprinted on the inside of your eyelids. You kept wrapping, hopping from side to side, your tears mingling with the frigid air. You called for him on his front porch, your voice high and choking on the fear, on the grief in it.

He'd wrenched the door open, having pulled his boots on but not yet done up the laces, the furrow in his brow deep, his eyes wild when he clocked you, when he checked your six.

‘Jesus, are you? What is it?’ he spluttered, and you couldn’t let him finish, had to get the words out in case they poisoned you.

‘She’s bit, Joel,’ you spat out, watching his face fall.

‘Who, Ellie?’ he asked, panic rising in his voice, and you choked out a sob, shaking your head fiercely. He grabbed you by both shoulders, bending down to look you in the eye. You shook underneath him, wanted to launch yourself into his chest and bury yourself in it.

‘Marla,’ you said, shivering so hard your jaw was barely cooperating. ‘She came back bit.’

‘Where is she?’ he asked, and you told him. You’d locked her in your treatment room. She hadn’t turned yet, and you figured there was still an hour or two, maybe. The tremors you’d thought were the cold, shock.

‘Please, Joel,’ you said, and he was already heading back into the house to grab his rifle. Tears were streaming down your face now, your knees threatening to give. ‘Please be kind about it.’

He pulled you in, off his porch and into his living room. Set you down on the rug beside the fire.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘You stay here, you stay warm. You wait for me. You don’t come lookin’, you hear me?’

You nodded, and he shook his head at you. ‘Repeat it,’ he said.

‘I won’t come looking,’ you said, quiet and desperate like a child. He nodded, then, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You took a long breath in, felt the burn of it down your chest and into your lungs. Felt the electricity crackle between the two of you, arcing from his chest to yours through the air, let it fuel you for the next part.

--

The three of you had just left Chicago, two or so days into your trek towards Wyoming, to maybe find something better, to maybe find more of the same. Ray and Marla were ahead of you by about four paces, you deciding to hang back to let them chat. You could hear their murmurs, Ray’s giggle high and giddy when Marla made him laugh. You could imagine the two of them strolling down a sidewalk together, one hand holding their coffees with the other hand holding each other’s. You could see the golden light of the late afternoon in the trees, backlighting them as they chatted about their work, about their friends, about what movie they wanted to see on the weekend. You could imagine them going out for dinner of an evening, Marla resting her head on Ray’s shoulder as the sun set over the water, the two of them intertwined and suburban and blissfully, delightfully bored.

You were so lost in this reverie that you hadn’t realised they were talking to you until you nearly rammed into them, and you stopped to see them smiling, warmly at you.

‘You were a million miles away,’ Marla observed, and she reached out to pinch your arm.

‘Years,’ you said. ‘I was a million years away.’

--

 You sat with your legs folded underneath you on Joel’s floor, the fire warming your skin enough to remind you that you were alive. Your stomach ached, your chest burned, you rocked backwards and forwards and tucked your chin into your chest and sobbed, alternating between wiping your tears with the top of your shirt and just letting them fall onto the carpet.

You saw yourself as if you were floating outside your body, observed yourself get up on all fours and keen into the carpet, unleashing a wail unlike anything you’d ever heard. You thought, for a second, that this woman on the floor was unrecognisable, was barely human, scratching at the rug and trying to breathe through the sobs.

The night grew darker. The fire died down. You collapsed in on yourself, felt the last guide rope tethering you to the ground fail, and you slipped under, crouched on the floor with your forehead resting on your arms, your knees numb from the weight of pressing into the rug, your mind empty, time having stopped, the world having fallen off its axis. A small part of you observed in wonder at how much grief you could carry. A larger part, a wiser part, a part that had taken a back seat to let the banshee take the wheel for a while, knew that this was so much more than Marla. Knew that it was all of them, a ledger steeped in red.

In the darkness you became vaguely aware of footsteps, the sound of the fire being stoked, logs being added. Felt a blanket thrown over your shoulders, then warm hands on the small of your back guiding you, pulling you up and over to sit astride a warm body, a strong pair of legs. You wrapped your arms around him, clung to him like a koala to a Eucalypt, snuffled your tear-streaked face into his neck, into his shirt. He held you to him, a hand buried in your hair and cradling your skull in his palm, the other wrapped around your back, easing the fabric away and tucking under, to touch you, skin to skin. You heard whispers of words, mixed with your own sobs, your own gasps. He held you through all of it, on aching bones on the hard floor, until the crashing waves settled, until you finally washed ashore.

‘You don’t have a couch,’ you said, after a while, pulling your head up to observe the oddly sparse furniture arrangement. He snickered, leaning you back to brush the hair out of your eyes, away from your wet face.

You realised, after a moment, heat on your cheeks. ‘Oh,’ you said, simply. He gazed at you, watched you put two and two together, stood unshaken in all that he had sacrificed for you.

‘But where do you sit?’ you asked, and he nodded towards the old rocking chair he’d pulled in from the porch outside. You nodded your head, because it was perfect really, and because it made sense, and because you needed it to.

‘Is she gone?’ you asked, shifting on his lap to watch his face. He blinked slowly, nodded. You felt your face crumple, felt him tighten his hold on you. ‘Was it bad?’ you choked out, and he shook his head.

‘She was so brave,’ he said, gravelly voice just above a whisper. He reached out and cupped your face, wiped a tear away, held your gaze to him. ‘She was ready. She said when it was time.’

‘She didn’t…turn?’ you asked, clinging to his forearms now, letting him anchor you. He shook his head once more.

‘No, baby,’ he said, and you wanted to wrap yourself up in the sound of it, let it blanket you in warmth and quiet, burrow down into it and hibernate for the winter.

‘Thank you,’ you said, simply. He hummed in response, collecting a tear on his thumb and raising it to his lips, licking it clean. You gasped at the sight of it, his eyes never leaving yours, squirming on his lap, the sudden heat in your cunt catching you off guard. ‘Joel?’ you whispered, and he raised his eyebrows at you. ‘Are your legs numb?’ and he laughed then, because you had managed to surprise him, and after he caught his breath he sheepishly nodded. ‘Take me to bed, then,’ you said, climbing off him and extending a hand. You hauled him up, his knees creaking. For a moment the both of you stood, staring at each other in the light of the fire. You felt breathless with need for him, your head swimming, the sadness shifting just enough to let the heat in, the want. ‘Up the stairs,’ he told you. You slipped your hand into his paw.

--

Joel’s bedroom was sparse, the walnut oak bed pressed up against the wall, a stack of books on the floor beneath a bare lamp, a guitar in the corner. His scent was all over the sheets, all over the clothes strewn around the floor. You pressed yourself against him in the hope that you would absorb some of it into your cotton.

The moment you crossed the threshold his hands were on you, pulling your clothes from you like they had personally insulted him, shucking your jeans off your hips and pulling your panties down with them until you were bare, standing before him at the foot of his bed. He took a step back and you watched his face as his gaze devoured you, the heat of it so scorching that you could swear you could feel his fingers on you even standing three feet away. You trembled from the cold air and the intensity of it, and he saw in your face, read in you that you wanted to turn away from it, from the intimacy of it.

‘Don’t,’ he all but whispered, coming towards you and running his hands up on the outside of your arms. ‘Don’t be shy, not now,’ he said. He slipped a hand behind your back and his knees between yours, pushing you gently onto the bed behind you, laid his body over you and nipped at the skin behind your ear. You pulled at his flannel, trying to claw it from him without even unbuttoning it, groaning in frustration when the garment held fast. He snickered, his little lopsided grin, as he pulled it away.

You lifted yourself up on one arm, bringing the other to cradle him to you, licks and nibbles to his collar bone, to the patches of hair on his chin. His brought his hands to your breasts, pebbled the nipple with his fingers while he pushed and rolled them, squeezed them together just to watch them bounce. He was hard and heavy between your legs, still covered in his jeans, and you lifted shaking fingers to his belt buckle. He froze, a sharp intake of breath between his teeth, as he watched you. You faltered, worried for a second you had read it all wrong, that he was going to push you from him, that he had seen something in you, that you had revealed something wrong and gnarled.

‘Do you…should I?’ you stuttered, and he came to his senses again, his brow creasing when he saw you were floundering.

‘Oh, my sweet girl,’ he said, and you thought it would be kinder if he just set you on fire at that point, ‘darlin’ I was just awed for a second, that somethin’ as gorgeous as you would want a man like me. An old man like me.’

You felt the relief wash over you, your pulse quickening now but not from fear. ‘Seasoned,’ you grinned, bringing him back down to you, pulling him on top of you as his hands helped yours to free him, push his jeans over his hips. ‘Worn in,’ you went on, and he grinned at your little game. ‘Fine wine,’ you finished, and he snickered again.

‘Vinegar,’ he said, and you pushed his head down to your chest, fed him your breast, let him lave at your nipple while you gasped and clutched at his hair.

‘Experienced,’ you whimpered, and he huffed out a warm laugh into your breastbone. You wanted to unlock your ribs, swing them open like an ancient garden gate, and capture it there for safe keeping.

Free, now, the two of you naked and lying together on top of his blanket, the sheets rumpling underneath you as you rutted against each other. He reached a hand down to cup your sex, groaning when he felt how wet he had made you, how you were dripping for him. You gasped as he ran his fingers up and over your slit, gently teasing your lips apart, testing you, teasing you. You rolled your hips, trying to snare him, trying to slide him inside, but he worked against you, zigged when you zagged, and your frustrated little gasps delighted him.

‘Joel,’ you groaned, your voice tight across your chest, not enough air in your lungs to properly scold him. He ignored you, instead lifting his lips to his fingers and sampling a little taste. You watched him, eyes wide as his fell shut at the taste of you.

‘So sweet,’ he said, almost to himself, before he opened his eyes as if he just remembered you were there. ‘Here, baby,’ he said, and he fed yourself to you, his fingers sliding over your tongue as you suckled at them, his hot breath on your face as he watched you, pupils dark in the half-light of his lamp, sweat forming on his brow.

When you had sucked them clean he lowered them again, slipped them inside you, bending down to rest his ear on your mouth when you began to pant, to whimper.

‘Show me,’ he said, pulling your hand to your cunt and watching as you began slow, lazy circles around your clit. He furrowed his brow, pushed off you and down to watch properly, lifted a leg to prop you open, planting your foot on the mattress beneath you to open you wide and obscene in front of him. You blushed, moved to cover your face with your hands, but he stopped and caught you, brought your fingers back to your core before he slipped inside again. You raised your head to look at him beneath you and you realised he was learning you, studying your movements to replicate them later, letting you teach him how to touch you so that you’d never have to do it alone again.

Your first orgasm hit you hard. Under his careful, studious gaze you felt yourself unravel, your legs shaking where he held you open, his hand grasping at your ankle to keep you from slamming shut. So lost in the feeling of it, of the blooming heat expanding out and into your belly, of the undulations of your cunt around his fingers, that you barely noticed him slip his fingers from you and slide to the ground beside the bed, pushing your legs into your chest and holding them there, pressing you in half all the better to ease his tongue into your cunt and lick up your spend, kitten licks at your sensitive clit before plunging his tongue into your hole, breathing hard through his nose and groaning, uttering filth in the base of his throat as he devoured you, wrung your second orgasm from you in a matter of minutes, rolling from side to side and head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair as his mouth rode you, as he stayed with you up to your peak and then over it, savouring and lapping at your come, rutting into the side of the bed as he let your thighs down to rest on his shoulders, your breath ragged and rippling with pleasure, hands clutching to the blanket to steady himself, to catch his breath.

He gazed at you in repose, ran his eyes over your sopping cunt up to your heaving belly, to the curve of the underside of your breast, the nipples straining into the cold air, and then up to your face, your head thrown back as you came down, as you squirmed from the overstimulation still coursing through you, as you let your hands drop beside you, sated and glorious in his worship of you.

You swallowed, your mouth, lips, throat dry. With shaky hands you reached for him, grabbed at the air above his shoulders, felt him shift and rise up to meet you, felt his weight blanketing you as you came back to yourself. With one hand in your hair and the other tracing your cheek, your jaw, you opened your eyes to stare into his, the desire carved hard and deep into his features.

‘Take it,’ you whispered, watching as his bottom lip quivered with need. ‘Please, Joel.’

He shifted his weight to one arm, reached down between you as you lifted your legs to bracket his hips, crossing your feet at the ankles behind his back. You felt him guide his cock to the weeping maw of your cunt.

‘Please,’ you whispered again, as you felt him slip inside you, the burn and the stretch and the force of him, so hard and pulsing as he parted you. He dropped his head, sighing, and you planted your lips to his brow, whimpered at the weight of his cock inside you, at the weight of the two of you finally, finally joined.

‘She’s tight, baby,’ he said, his brow creasing. He moved his hips, shoving further into you in one shot, and you gasped, grabbed at his shoulders, brought his eyes back to yours. He paused, gazing into your eyes, read the trepidation in them. ‘S’ok baby,’ he cooed, leaning down to place a kiss on your cheekbone. ‘You can do it,’ he encouraged, and you felt the warmth of his reassurance radiate down your thighs. ‘We can take our time,’ he said, languidly pulling back from you before gently, achingly, taking his place again. ‘Got all night for ya,’ he said, and you realised he had started to ramble, and that under his hot breath, on top of his blanket in his sparse bedroom lit only by his bedside lamp, in the cold Jackson night where the snow dampened all the noise, all the loss, all the sharp edges down, you never wanted him to stop whispering his filthy encouragement to you, never wanted him to stop easing his way into you, to the core of you, marking you where only he belonged.

‘Doin’ so good for me,’ he went on, his eyes closing on their own, lost in the grip of your cunt around him, in the heat of you. Finally he was fully seated, the warmth of his belly coming to rest upon yours. He settled there, reluctant to move, until you squirmed underneath him, caged whimpers escaping your throat. He opened his eyes, his lopsided grin appearing above you, as he planted a kiss on your hairline, gazed down at you as you stretched around him. He brought his hand down to cup your jaw again, held you there under his stare, as he withdrew his hips and eased back in again, pushing deeper into you that you gasped when he bottomed out, his eyes never leaving yours as your mouth dropped open in surprise at the feeling he was pulling from you, at the need and the ache of your cunt spread so open and wanting for him, at the way he was so effortlessly taking you apart, so calmly and so warmly unravelling you.

‘Too good,’ you complained, your brow saddling and jaw clenching, as you felt your cunt grip and release, grip and release. He cooed at you, revelling in your whimpers, gasped as you did, shared in your breath, made you submit to the divinity he was pushing you towards. This was how your third orgasm found you.

Locked in his gaze you could only lie beneath him, holding him to you by the shoulders and groaning as he pistoned in and out, watching his eyes slam shut as he was dragged under, submitted to the pull, his come washing the fear and the stress and the grief out of you, replacing it only with scorching heat, with a kind of pleasure indistinguishable from a greedy, pernicious want, with something that, in another life, you could have shaped into love. 

--

You lay, entwined together, under his blanket. Your head on his chest, ear to his heartbeat, you felt your body rise and fall as he breathed underneath you. You hadn’t wanted the night to end, hadn’t wanted to close your eyes and wake to the aftermath. Together you lay and watched the sunrise. Occasionally Joel ran his fingers up and down your arm to let you know he was still there.

‘Joel?’ you whispered, and he hummed in response. You kept your head down, listening to his pulse quicken as you spoke. ‘Canna ask you something?’ you said, jaw resting on his ribs.

‘Uhhuh,’ he said, but his fingers were stopped now, frozen in place on your shoulder.

‘Before, when we were…’ you trailed off, because even though hours before he had been eyelevel with your swollen, puffy cunt, now suddenly talking about it felt too intimate. ‘Before,’ you started again, ‘you said you didn’t think I’d want a man like you.’

‘An old man,’ he corrected, and you smiled.

‘Seasoned,’ you corrected, and he groaned, theatrically. ‘But you said a man like you, then an old man like you,’ you reminded him. He wasn’t laughing anymore, and you could feel the temperature in the room drop. ‘What did you mean?’ you ploughed on, because you were in it now.

He thought for a moment, swallowing hard. You shifted in his arms, looked up at him, saw the flicker of panic there, before he reset his features in stone. You pulled away from him in surprise, not having seen that look directed at you in weeks, not since the first time he had appeared reticent and sore at your door. Your stomach dropped.

‘I gotta check on the horses,’ he said, rolling you out of the way and moving to get up. You sat up with him, grabbing at his arm.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to pull him back towards you, but so easily overpowered. He rolled his shoulder, shaking you off.

‘The two that came back, they need to be checked over. Waited for first light.’

‘Joel, I don’t understand what’s happening.’ He was standing, pacing around the room pulling his clothes back together, gathering yours and dropping them on the end of the bed. He stared at you, expectant, but you refused to move.

‘What kind of man did you mean, Joel?’ you pressed him, and he scoffed, pulling his jeans on and hastily doing up his shirt. He missed a few buttons, and in that moment you didn’t feel like helping him.

‘You know exactly what kind of man,’ he said.

You saw Maria’s tense shoulders when he came into her kitchen, bleeding. You saw her sitting in your kitchen as you held her feet to your chest, explaining how Tommy was different, how he had only wanted to impress his big brother.

Sort of dressed, he was now pacing, the morning light turning his skin a ghostly pale, and you thought for a moment he was haunting you. ‘You know exactly,’ he repeated. ‘Same reason you came running to me the second your friend needed killin’.’

You flinched like he’d slapped you, would have preferred if he had.

‘What kind of man, Joel?’ you asked, and he looked at you, then, tortured for a second before he wiped it away with his hand on his face.

‘A fuckin killer,’ he said, quiet and deathly in the chill of the morning.

You stared at him, heart racing. You were surprised and you also weren’t. You knew what this world demanded of people, the toll you had all paid for survival.

‘Infected?’ you asked, and he sighed, frustrated.

‘Don’t be so fuckin’ naïve,’ he said.

You remembered you were naked, but this was the first time he had really made you feel it, and you held the blanket to your chest, tight.

He wouldn’t look at you, staring instead out the window as Jackson woke.

‘I ain’t a good man,’ he said, quietly, and you shook your head.

‘I don’t believe that,’ you said, and he sneered at you then, picked up your clothes and threw them at you.

‘You don’t know shit about me,’ he said, and then he was gone. You listened as his heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs, the pause as he pulled his boots on, the slam of the door.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

@kathaaaaaaa

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 5 | part 6

synopsis the if only conundrum.

wc 4.6k

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

He’s too close, closer than he should be, far closer than your own good or his would sanction.

And it’s as though his stupid, familiar scent has immobilised you, the rough chlorine and vetiver like a disarming agent, liquefying your limbs. His lips draw nearer, less than an inch from yours now, and your pathetic heart jumps into your throat in tandem.

Is he having as much trouble catching a breath right now as you are?

Your gaze staccatos as you force it up to his features, halting on his bobbing Adam’s apple, the shadow of stubble on his neck. At his mouth now, you watch his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. Pause. His eyes are all pupil with a thin wafer of deep blue, like the rim of the horizon before it descends into velvet dusk.

He leans in further, reinforcing his hold on your jaw, and rather than doing the same, you find yourself freezing in place.

Perhaps it’s the fact that this is all becoming too real too fast—Rafe Cameron with his hand on your face, Rafe Cameron with zero regard for personal space. Rafe Cameron making the same move on you that he’s no doubt made on every other girl on his roster; he’s this close to sealing the deal, tasting your lips and marking you his, when you realise that you don’t want to be another name he gets to cross off his list.

If only you knew.

You press the heels of your palm against his chest hastily, hesitant more than firm, enough force for Rafe to stumble back in surprise.

His chest lurches in protest, his skin singed where your hands made contact.

“Rafe,” you resound, letting out another shaky breath. Unsure. “Stop.”

“I — shit,” he mutters back, his voice gruff, almost languid. He straightens a little and runs his fingers through his hair, the soft, dirty-blonde locks limp against his touch. “Why?”

You wince. “I could ask you the same question.”

Rafe falters, momentarily caught off guard, his thick brow furrowing as he looks back down at you. “Are you kidding?” He rasps, as if trying to catch his breath. “You have to know that not kissing you right now is fucking torture.”

“We… we can’t,” you say then, grappling for excuses that are quickly slipping through your fingers. “Our relationship is strictly professional, and —”

“Oh come on,” Rafe interrupts then, reclaiming his hold on your jaw so that he can prompt your gaze up to meet his. “The way we look at each other is the exact opposite of professional.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disarmed by the revelation, and you find yourself struggling to deny the truth of it without outright lying.

“The amount I think about you,” he continue lowly, his voice gravelly around the edges. “Would put Cromwell into a fucking coma.”

The things I want to do to you, he wants to add, would definitely have that effect. Maybe—definitely—that’s overkill. Perhaps it’s your closeness that’s rendered him defenceless, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s superimposed by your wide eyes and pretty mouth. Christ, you’re going to be the death of him. He wonders whether you know that you’re pressing your cheek into his palm right now, vying for more of him. You have these tells that he’s yearned for since before tonight, before this year, before the year prior and probably even before he tried to ask you out.

A beat. You want to believe him so badly your heart aches, but there’s a nagging in your chest that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

“Why now?” You whisper, uncertain.

“Didn’t think I had a chance til now,” he murmurs back.

What happens if it doesn’t work out? It taunts, refusing to relent. What happens if he loses interest just as you’re ready to accept it?

“It’s not the right time, Cameron,” you reply finally, letting out a languid sigh. You push away from him again, more sure this time than you were before. “It… it’ll overcomplicate things.”

“The way I feel about you already happens to do that,” he murmurs back, though it’s clear he’s beginning to acquiesce. He sighs too. “But,” he takes a step back, and your heart pulls, “shit… as much as I don’t want to, I get it.”

“Okay,” you say, swallowing thickly. Selfish as it is, you sort of wish he’d fought you on the fact harder.

“Okay,” he echoes, clearing his throat. Another beat as the pair of you regain your composure, or what’s left of it after the havoc wreaked by the promise of something more.

You nod in assent, try for a smile. It’s as you’re readying yourself for the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened speech that the pair of you are interrupted by the sound of a car fast approaching, the turbulent ignition like a blade through the silence.

Your father pulls into the driveway just as Rafe turns to face it, his headlights bathing the two of you in yellow light. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of Rafe’s body heat on your skin. It’s as though having a witness has shrunk the inches between your figures; you step away quickly, feel him do so in tandem, and try to act normal whilst feeling the exact opposite.

The ignition quietens, and your father climbs out of his car with subtle surprise etching his features.

“Mr Y/L/N!” Rafe exclaims, plastering on that charming smile of his. Effortlessly—like it’s nothing. Your heart pulls again. “How’re you doing?”

“Rafe,” he acknowledges, raising his eyebrows. Not unpleasantly; he just isn’t sure what to make of the pair of you outside of an Academy setting. “What brings you here?”

“I was just leaving,” he answers swiftly, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I… uh, Mrs Y/L/N was kind enough to invite me inside for dinner.”

“Ah.” Your father’s eyes dart to you, searching for an explanation. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Rafe shakes his head in response, turning toward you and beginning to walk down the porch steps backwards. “I’ll, uh,” he sounds more breathless speaking to you than he does your father, his heady gaze softening as it falls over you in paces, “I’ll see you later?”

“At the next meeting, yeah,” you answer with a nod, trying to sound nonchalant. (Failing miserably.)

He pivots on his heels and slides his keys out of his front pocket, his heart doing this odd little lurch as the distance between the pair of you increases. His skin burns despite the Autumn chill, the phantom of your touch still pressed into his torso.

Don’t turn back, he thinks. He hears your father’s footsteps ascend the porch, hears your front door open and close after you greet him. He doesn’t see the knowing look he shoots you, nor does he hear the flustered waver in your timbre. Or the way your gaze lingers on his figure. When he sits down in the driver’s seat and does catch a glimpse of his reflection in his rearview mirror, all he can see is the same mouth that should’ve tasted you by now. He closes his eyes, and all he sees is your pretty face looking up at him, blurred around the edges.

—

You’re doing a good job at being normal about it all.

Too good a job, it seems; two weeks on from your porch-side rendezvous, it appears as though Rafe Cameron has resigned himself to his apparent fate—that he’s never going to be able to call you his.

How do you know? You’ve returned to professional pleasantries sans any playful teasing—sans any lingering glances or too-close proximity, the unbearable tension between you notwithstanding.

And the worst part of it all, you’re quickly realising, is that it’s based on a fate that’s very obviously untrue. Because the thing is, you do feel something for him, try as you might to vehemently deny it. And you know that it’s selfish, hoping he keeps pursuing you despite shutting it down already, but there’s this part of you that wants him to want you despite it all.

Again, if only you knew.

Rafe Cameron’s favourite deflection tactic is moving on far too fast.

“Any other notices?” You ask, looking out over the room-full of tired prefects in front of you.

Dalton raises his arm, the rolled sleeve of his uniform shirt pulled taut. You narrow your eyes at him, skeptical about the merit of his announcement. “Notices that aren’t just party invitations,” you add, sending him a stern glare.

Dalton grins roguishly, lifting his other arm in surrender. “Third one this year you haven’t attended, Y/L/N. Where’s your team building spirit?”

You roll your eyes, your gaze darting to Rafe momentarily, a knee-jerk response. Usually, this is where he’d jump in and interject. Recently, however, it feels as though he’s more afraid of the consequences of a possible imposition.

It makes your undeserving pulse lurch, your lips pulling down into a frown without meaning to. “You know what, Haynes,” you say after a beat, looking back toward him. “You’re right. When’s the party?”

Rafe falters, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Dalton’s too busy looking pleased to notice this reception, and he pushes back against his rickety chair, balancing it on its hind-legs. “Tonight,” he answers, flashing you another grin. A muscle in Rafe’s jaw ticks. “At mine. Cameron’ll get you the addy, won’t you brother?”

A beat. When Rafe doesn’t respond right away, you look up at him expectantly, your brow furrowing at the odd expression on his face—almost strained.

Your heart flounders.

You begin overthinking the invitation and your subsequent acceptance; why did you assume he’d want you there, anyway, at a party with all of his friends in the middle of his affluent neighbourhood? What were you trying to achieve by agreeing to go to it, some non-Academy time to solidify all this awkwardness?

Besides, you’d never fit in with a crowd like theirs, not without his Rafe Cameron charm as a buffer.

“Yeah, course,” he answers after pause, an unreadable emotion flashing across his blue irises. If you’re being honest with yourself, it looks dangerously close to reluctance. You resist the urge to grimace.

“Alright,” you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. “If that was all, we’ll lock in another meeting for the same time next month.”

A murmur of assent moves over the room, punctuated by the clamour of backpack zips and car keys jangling. You hesitate before retrieving your own laptop and placing it into your tote, Rafe’s imposing figure still frozen in place beside you.

Unbeknownst to you, he’s going through his own, exhausting turmoil of emotions. They start and end with you, the way they always do; almost kiss turned rejection or not, he’s pretty sure that your implacability in his mind is inevitable.

He’s pretty sure he’s actually fucking fucked, all things considered. (Read: wants you so badly it genuinely hurts sometimes.) Sure, the risks that come with being together may overcomplicate this whole head student thing, but not doing so is torturing him enough to render this a mute point.

Because, really, when have you ever accepted an invitation to one of his parties? Of all the absolute douchebags that make up your graduating class, why did you have to settle for someone as mediocre as Dalton fucking Haynes?

“…Cameron?”

It’s the third time you’ve said his name, just loud enough to break his reverie. He blinks a few times, glancing down at you. “Yeah?”

“Listen,” you say, frowning a little. “If I’ve… uh, I don’t know,” you pause, wincing, “overstepped, or something…”

There’s this slight, guilty inflection to your tone, and it makes Rafe feel worse, as if that was fucking possible. “Are you kidding?” He asks, shaking his head and plastering on a grin. “Of course not. I’ve been trying to get you to one of these parties for months!”

Your frown acquiesces a smidge, and you look up at him, your wide eyes messing with his brain. “I just mean… they’re your friends, and I know they never actually expect me to come to any of these things —”

“No, you should come,” he interrupts. “Get to know everyone. The girls. The boys,” he raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is a playful jibe, “Dalt.”

You lift your own in surprise, making to shake your head. “I’m not —”

“He lives at the end of the Strand Street cul-de-sac, super close to my house,” he interrupts again. “D’you need a ride there?”

And very far away from your own, as Rafe already knows. You try not to read into the fact that he’s willing to go out of his way to pick you up.

“I’ll be okay,” you respond slowly. “Listen, Cameron, I’m not trying to —”

“I’ll look out for you, yeah?” He says then, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. You’re close enough for his elbow to nudge yours as he does so, shifting a jolt of static through your bones. “Be your wing-man or something.”

You’re unsure what to make of his insistence, so you pause, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. Maybe he’s already forgotten about the same almost that’s plaguing you; maybe this is his gentle way of telling you he’s over it. Or maybe, and your mouth goes dry as you consider it, he’s moved in with someone else and doesn’t want you feeling awkward about the fact that you haven’t.

He’s sweet when he wants to be, you think.

“Alright,” you say finally, forcing a smile.

He throws his backpack over one shoulder, jogging backward toward the door. “No bailing last minute, Y/L/N.”

He’s gone before you know it, disappearing around the corner and no doubt catching up with his football posse. Your smile fades. It isn’t lost on you that this is the first meeting after which he hasn’t offered you a ride home.

—

Dalton Haynes lives in a magnificent palazzo in the heart of the Eight, its polished glass windows aglow with technicolor lights. The sharp edges are bordered by a cloudless sky, sunset orange transforming into deeper plum.

From the heavy bass reverberating through the air as you near, it’s clear that the party is already in full swing.

“Y/L/N!” Dalton exclaims, joined by Kelce on the front porch. “Look at you! You made it!”

You smile bashfully, clearly a little out of your depth, allowing him to pull you into a side-hug once you’re at an arm’s length. “I made it,” you agree, nodding at the pair of them. “Everyone else inside?”

Kelce raises his eyebrows, sharing a knowing look with Dalton before grinning roguishly. “Cameron’s inside, yeah,” he answer, taking a generous pull of his half-empty beer. Beads of condensation roll down the aluminium can ominously. “But I think you need a drink in your hand before you start mingling.”

“Uh,” you hold out your empty hands expectantly, “bit difficult considering I didn’t actually bring any.”

“No biggie,” Dalton answers good-naturedly, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “What d’you usually drink Y/L/N? I’m sure we can find something you’d like in the fridge.”

“Usually?” You echo diffidently, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. You aren’t sure you’ve done enough underage drinking to justify a predisposition to any sort of liquor—the odd, too-warm beer at a bonfire, a glass of moderately priced champagne if you’re at a celebration. A Mai Tai, once, at that exclusive PTA dinner at the Island Club last year.

With Rafe. And the rest of the association, of course, but it’s Rafe you remember, in his tailored suit and polished dress shoes.

Rafe, with the glinting cuff-links and generous wad of cash redeemable for fancy drinks and bar-staff compliance. Rafe, with the charming grin and really really distracting biceps. Aftershave, vetiver, and the saccharine scent of orgeat syrup. You didn’t realise, until just now, how much of him you remember from that first night as head students.

“Yeah,” Dalton prompts, retrieving his arm from your shoulder to pull open the fridge and peer inside. He’s led you down the hallway and into the busy kitchen, his large house suffused by varyingly familiar upperclassmen. “We’ve got some of my sister’s leftover White Claws, half a bottle of Sav, three of those Mai Tai drinks, oh — and a few cans of my beer, which you’re absolutely welcome to but I assume that you aren’t a big Budweiser girl yourself.”

“Mai Tai’ll do,” you answer, “thank you.”

“Easy,” he nods, handing one over before closing the fridge and straightening. He clinks the rim of his can against yours, making a noise of approval when you hiss it open. “The head girl at a party,” he says, grinning as he tips back his beer to take a sip. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

You roll your eyes, sending him a faux-glare. “You make me sound like such a fucking bore.”

“Not my intention,” he answers, raising his arms in surrender. “You just intimidate the living Hell out of me, and this laidback environment tends to take the edge of that a bit.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working,” you say, turning to face the living room. You lean against the kitchen island in front of you as you survey the scene, the smooth marble like glacial lava on your forearms. And your gaze moves over the scene absentmindedly, a fact that isn’t lost on Dalton. It’s as if you’re trying to find someone in secret—catch a glimpse of their figure and then pretend that you didn’t.

He leans forward in tandem, taking another pull of his beer. “Oh, I’d never dream of flattering Cameron’s girl without his permission.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, you face whipping around to face him. “I’m not —”

“Oh, sure, maybe not right now,” he allows, raising his eyebrows. “But I think it’s pretty obvious you’re the reason that he’s been flirting with Leighton all evening, don’t you think?”

“Leighton?” You echo, frowning slightly. “Where’s —”

Dalton places his hands on your shoulders firmly, pivoting you on your heel so that you’re facing the kitchen window. It overlooks one side of his wraparound deck, and in amongst the ruckus, Rafe is standing too close to the girl named Leighton. She’s undeniably beautiful, all glowing limbs and cheeks that are rosied by the chill. And a hand on Rafe’s—your Rafe’s—bicep.

You blink. There’s an unfair wrench in your gut. Suddenly, the fact that you didn’t almost kiss him when you had the chance feels like a cruel twist of fate, entirely unbearable. He’s already moved on, the way you predicted that he would, but the vindication of being right doesn’t feel nearly as good as it should.

This isn’t his fault, you have to remind yourself. But that doesn’t matter, the nagging voice screams, seeing him with someone else still hurts like a bitch. Granted, a wholly unjustified bitch, seeing as you’re the one that insisted you keep this professional. You blink again. Her hand’s still abutted in all it’s manicured glory, on his stupid broad bicep as though it belongs there.

“Oh,” is all you say.

Dalton frowns. “Dude, did you hear anything I just said? The only reason he’s even talking to her is because of you.”

“You don’t know that,” you answer, forcibly peeling your gaze away from him. “Besides, nothing even happened between us.”

“That’s the point,” Dalton urges, sending you an assessing look. “Better an oops than a what if, right?”

You shrug helplessly, your gaze moving back toward Rafe without meaning to. He’s smiling down at the girl named Leighton, this real, genuine grin that makes you honest-to-God ache, and another ugly bout of jealousy sears through your ribcage, forcing you to resign yourself to your fate.

“Except,” you say finally, turning away from the kitchen window, “that there wasn’t ever a what if in the picture to begin with.” You pull away from the smooth marble countertop, making for the yawning stairwell before looking back expectantly. “What’re you waiting for, Haynes? You going to give me a tour of this place or what?”

—

The tour, whilst a useful way to pass time, fails to distract you from the envious turn of your stomach. It feels as though every window you peer through allows a crystal-clear view of Rafe Cameron and his latest conquest—his figure too-close to hers, his elbow nudging her slim waist, her pretty hand on his bicep, on his shoulder, ever-present.

“You need a top-up?” Dalton asks, pointing his can at yours questioningly. You’re halfway down the stairwell and fast approaching the kitchen, the burnt ochre hue of sunset transforming a deeper velvet.

You tip back your Mai Tai for its dregs, nodding in response.

“Y/N?”

He doesn’t use your first name very often. His gravelly timbre tends to oscillate between your surname and whatever pet-name he’s in the mood for; less so after you made it clear that it irks you.

If only he knew.

He’s thought about you a pathetic amount tonight. Where you are, when you’ll arrive, how he’ll play it cool when you’re with Dalton (fucking Haynes) despite wanting to die inside. And now, it feels as though his worst fears are manifesting before his eyes—gorgeous you in a singlet and jeans with a slice of waist exposed, with maddening spaghetti straps made of almost see-through material. With pretty eyes, prettier cheeks, glossy lips that he knows smell like peach. (And feel like satin, and taste like something illegal; taste like the absolute fucking death of him.)

If it isn’t already obvious, Rafe Cameron is spiralling. He doesn’t do that very often—ever.

As you complete your descent of the stairwell, he runs his fingers through his hair, drawing your attention to his taut biceps and strong forearms.

“Oh, hey!” You exclaim, a little sheepish. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Been here the whole time Y/L/N,” he responds evenly, his gaze darting to Dalton beside you. Less even, now. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Not long,” Dalton supplies, moving past him post-descent. “Just gave her a little tour of the humble abode.” He turns to back toward you expectantly. “Another Mai Tai, head girl?”

“You can go now, Haynes,” Rafe says, not bothering to look back at him.

Dalton raises his eyebrows at Rafe over his shoulder. “You’ll grab her the drink?”

Rafe ignores him, and you frown, evidently bemused by his unfriendly reception. “I’ll grab it myself Dalt,” you say, raising your empty can in farewell. “Thanks for keeping my company!”

He sends you a mock salute in response, and you swear there’s an imperceptible wink thrown in too. You frown harder, a question, but he’s too busy disappearing into the hallway to particularly notice it.

“So,” Rafe begins. A pause. “You and Haynes, huh?”

You look up at him, your pretty brow furrowed. “Did you guys get into a fight or something? Because this morning —”

“Yeah. Over you.”

You falter. “Me?”

Rafe sighs languidly, raking his fingers through his hair again. It prompts his figure an inch closer to yours, the scent of his musk and vetiver aftershave rendering your poor insides jelly. “Why didn’t you come find me when you got here, Y/L/N?”

“You were with a girl!” You protest. “I didn’t… I don’t know, you were busy.”

“You came to his party,” he continues slowly, his voice low, “I’ve invited you to so fucking many and his is the one that you finally attend.”

“For you, you idiot!” You exclaim, and then you falter, grimacing abashedly. “I mean,” you sigh, “I… I don’t know, I was sick of things being awkward.”

A pause. An unreadable emotion flickers over Rafe’s blue irises, and he takes a small step forward, caging you into the stairwell bannister. “For me?” He asks, his heady gaze trained on your features.

“Besides,” you continue, choosing to ignore him. “You — you were teasing me about the invitation, going on about how you’d play wing-man when I’m with Dalt.”

He raises his eyebrows. “‘Dalt’, huh?”

“You called him that,” you defend, “Not me. And — and you were with some other girl when I arrived —”

“Leighton’s a family friend,” he interrupts, inching closer still to rest his arm on the rounded newel at your side. His bicep on your shoulder now, a body-heat wall of muscle. “She was telling me about the college guy she’s seeing.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Rafe agrees.

A beat. You can hear the steady thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the music and party clamour like long forgotten white noise. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, breaking eye contact.

Rafe frowns. “For?”

“I know you didn’t want me to come tonight.”

Another beat. When he doesn’t respond—argue with you—right away, you feel your stomach drop, your unsure gaze moving back up to him.

His once-blue irises have given way to dilated pupils. You swallow again.

“True,” he murmurs finally, his voice rough.

“Because this is your crowd,” you explain unnecessarily, talking faster, “not mine. And your friend’s the one that’s hosting. And there’s no real reason for me to be here except you, but our relationship’s supposed to be strictly professional and I’m the one that’s been harping on about —”

“Because,” Rafe interrupts firmly, his calloused palm find the contour of your jaw and pulling you closer. “Not kissing you two weeks ago was hard enough as is.” He ducks his head to eye-level, his nose brushing over yours gently. “And I don’t think I have it in me to control myself any more.”

You inhale in surprise, your lips parting slightly. “That sounds complicated,” you murmur.

“So fucking complicated,” he agrees lowly, his spearmint-and-beer breath fanning over your warm cheeks. Your lashes flutter. “Christ Y/N,” you can feel his lips ghosting over yours, now, “will you let me in complicate it some more?”

You may lean in first, but Rafe leans in harder. His free palm finds your waist and presses you against the stairwell bannister, torso to torso with enough conviction to bruise a little, your figure like putty in his hands. And his mouth is all youthful and rough, infused by Budweiser, his warm tongue moving over yours with desperation. Like he doesn’t fucking believe any of this is happening—doesn’t believe how soft your skin feels, how sweet your lips taste, how wretchedly he wants to feel more of you, all of you.

His hand slips underneath your singlet to knead the bare skin he finds there, his bruised lips dragging along your chin to your jaw. “Complicated fucking neck,” he mutters gruffly, pressing teeth-scraping kisses along your throat. His hand slides down to the curve of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. “And shit, don’t get me started on how much these jeans are over-complicating everything.”

“Says you,” you gasp, your arms circling his neck to allow your fingers free reign on his hair. “Your hair’s cuter when it’s a little damp like this, y’know that?”

Rafe groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder in faux-defeat. “Compliments. Complicated.”

“No compliments,” you say as he lifts his head again, smiling. “Noted.”

“No talking,” Rafe agrees. He leans in again, pressing his lips to yours, hard. “Just kissing.”

“Kissing, huh?”

The voice makes the pair of you freeze, spring apart in tandem. Standing at the end of the hallway, a condensation-shiny Mai Tai in hand and triumphant grin on his face, Dalton Haynes’ knowing gaze is trained on your figures. “Please,” he adds then, raising his arms in surrender and beginning to walk backward, “don’t stop on my account.”

He disappears around the corner, and you turn back to Rafe, noticeably chagrined. Shit, you think, mostly because you want to kiss him again. You’re totally fucking fucked.

[bouncybongfairy]

Sleepy

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Fem Reader

Summary: After going days without sleep, you start to experience the effects of sleep deprivation: anxiety, hallucinations, irritability and lack of appetite. Ghost helps calm you down and rest after an intense mission.

Word Count: 1.0k+

TW: Protective Ghost, Comfort fluff, Soft Ghost

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

As a new recruit, you were getting chewed up and spit out everyday. The days were slowly starting to blur together and you weren’t sleeping well. The tiniest of sounds scaring you awake at least twice a night. Or having recurring night terrors from more gruesome missions. Everyone on the task force was starting to get concerned, it was evident you were suffering from a lack of rest. The group, you included, were walking back from a mission. You were drenched in blood after going completely feral in combat. Even strangers, you were walking ahead of everyone. Making it clear that you didn’t want to converse with anyone. Walking past Soap to get to your room, his eyes widened and looked over at Ghost and Keegan. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, she just went crazy,” Ghost sighed, the situation clearly stressing him out.

“Crazy is a nice way to put it,” Keegan scoffed, Ghost shot him a death glare but he continued anyway, “don’t look at me like that bro, you were there. You saw for yourself, she bit and I repeat: bit that guy’s finger off,” he defended himself. 

“y/n did that? You know she hasn't eaten since last night? And when she did it was only peanut butter and an apple,” Soap said, taken back by this report. Ghost gave both of them a dirty look before walking to your shared room. 

He walked in and saw you sitting on your bed. You haven't taken any of your gear off, just sitting in dark silence. Unlike others in your platoon, Ghost had a first hand look into why your behavior was so erratic. All he hears at night is you tossing and turning, not even mentioning your night terrors. He just pretends he doesn’t notice, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Shedding his gear but leaving his cotton mask on before walking over to you. He rests his hand on your shoulder, making you jump up. Slightly disoriented from being broken out of a haze, you pull out your knife. Ghost grabbed your wrist, gripping it so tight the blade drops from your hand. Slowly starting to come back to reality, sinking to your knees and crying. He helps you to the ground, letting you rest your weight against him. 

“I’m sorry,” you kept mumbling weakly. Still having full combat gear on was making you sweat. He was slowly taking your stuff off, unloading your gun and tossing it onto his bed while coaxing you down. 

“It’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” he said, standing you up and walking you to the bathroom. 

Sleep deprivation was starting to kick in, you haven’t eaten anything in a day. After the burst of adrenaline on the mission, you could barely walk. Sitting on the bathroom floor, enjoying the cold tile against your hot and flushed skin. Ghost turned on the water, letting the tub fill up then turning his attention back to you. Resting his hand on your forehead and cringing when he felt how warm you were. He lifts you up bridal style, letting your feet dip into the water first. You jump and cling onto him so tight, it makes two of your fingernails start bleeding. 

“Holy fuck it’s freezing,” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I know but you have to break the fever, and you’ll throw up if you take any medication right now,” he said, trying to pry you off him. 

“Please,” you pleaded with him, death gripping his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist. 

After struggling trying to get you off, he was becoming overwhelmed. Your face was tucked into his neck and your cheek was resting on his shoulder. Breathing hard against his ear while unknowingly rubbing yourself against his erection. Once he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t get you off, he got into the water. Figuring he was killing two birds with one stone by killing his hard-on with the freezing water and getting you into the tub. You struggled underneath him for a while, until the small amount of strength you had was gone. Teeth chattering and sniffling as you cried quietly, keeping your grip around his neck. 

“I’ve gone fucking crazy,” you whispered, ghost looked down at you. 

“No love, you’ve just gone days without sleep,” he said, wetting his hands and whipping the blood off your face. Trying his best to untangle the strands that were caked to your skin. 

“Stop. You know, like my brain is fucked up. I’m fucked up,” you cried, working yourself up again. Hyperventilating and trying to get out of the tub. 

He changed your positions, sitting up and pressing his back against the tub. Pulling your back into his chest and changing the subject. Resting his chin on the top of your head while he talked, gripping your wrist so you couldn’t get out. 

“You know I used to have night terrors because my brother would scare me awake?” he said, using his thumb to stroke your hand. 

“Yeah?” you mumbled. 

“Mmhm, but I grew out of it, just like you will eventually,” he said. 

“I have blood on my hands,” you slurred, at first he thought you meant metaphorically. Until he saw you looking down at your palms, trying to wash the ‘blood’ off. Ghost isn’t a rookie and knows what sleep deprived hallucinations look like. In his experience, validation rather than conflict helps deescalate things.

“Let me wash it off, don’t worry about it,” he said, rubbing your hands under the water. 

After a few moments of this, you finally fell asleep against his chest. He got out of the water, changed the two of you into dry clothes before joining you to get some rest

[wheatnoodle]

i love you, evangeline

og post | p1 | p2 | p3 | p4 | p5

~🌷🌻~

“so,” dustin says around a mouthful of french toast that has him spewing crumbs everywhere, “can i ask about…y’know…you becoming…you?”

“yeah, sure. ask away. we didn’t do secrets before this,” evie freezes briefly as she grabs a napkin to give him. her face cringes slightly. “sorry about that, by the way.”

dustin flaps the napkin to wave her worry off. “dude, you could literally get killed if you tell the wrong person.”

“way to remind us,” robin rolls her eyes over her coffee mug.

“anyways!” evie cuts in with a clap of her hands. “your questions?”

“oh! right. i wrote them down,” dustin says and pulls out his phone to open his notes.

“he wrote them down,” robin repeats sarcastically under her breath, earning a snort from evie and a glare from dustin that has her raising her hands in surrender.

dustin takes a sip of his orange juice and clears his throat. “okay. did you know before you left hawkins? how did you figure it out?”

“yeah, i knew before i left. i think right around when the whole…vecna thing happened was when i really understood what was up,” evie nods thoughtfully, “like, i always felt…different? or just lost, i guess. and then with starting to find words to put to my feelings, like transgender and dysphoria, it started to feel like maybe i wasn’t so weird. robin and i went shopping and tried on like skirts and stuff and that was wild. and then i started thinking about all the girls i had dated and what that meant, and honestly, i think i wanted to be them rather than be with them.”

“so if you didn’t want to be with them, are you gay? or…i guess straight? like you like dudes?” dustin asks, his brows drawn as he listens.

“y’know, i haven’t really thought too much about it but…yeah,” she shrugs. “i guess i’d say i’m straight since i like men.”

“cool,” he nods with a smile. “damn, so even as a girl, you and robin still won’t date.”

“oh dude, i was struggling helping her out with everything after her boob job. i swear, i was no better than a man,” robin says across the table.

“she wore an ace bandage as a blind fold,” evie laughs, tossing her head back. dustin giggles as he watches robin pick up the newspaper to smack evie with, her cheeks bright red.

“is it only robin and now me who knows?” he continues along with his questioning.

“you two and my dad’s secretary since he didn’t feel like answering the phone. she congratulated me, by the way,” evie smirks at the end. just picturing her dad’s face if he were to hear the news. the rage, the steam coming from his ears. screams that could be heard blocks away as he throws another lamp. and his loyal secretary of 8 years has already congratulated his daughter and told her how happy she is for her. robin high fives her every time she gets to mention it.

“damn! i cant imagine how much that took for you to cal him. nice work,” dustin smiles proudly. “would you ever want to tell more people from hawkins?”

she’s silent for a minute. it’s something she didn’t think she’d ever consider doing. and yet, she can’t outright say no.

“i think so. someday. i hope.”

“i could…ease them into the idea so it’s less of a shock? just like…gauge where everyone’s head is at in regards to transgender individuals, give you two updates, see where to go from there?” dustin suggests with a shrug. robin’s brows raise under bangs. now that’s an idea she hasn’t had yet.

“that sounds…good,” evie nods confidently after a second, a new smile blooming on her face. robin cheers from her seat and throws her arms in the air. “just be subtle! don’t walk in all ‘hey guys, how do you feel about hypermasculine jocks from small towns turning into women who wanna be barbie?’.”

“oh no, you stole my plan word for word,” dustin rolls his eyes. “no shit i’ll be subtle. it’s a shame a side effect of estrogen isn’t intelligence.”

“don’t forget i’m hosting you,” evie warns with a pointed finger.

“yes, mom,” he sighs heavily, “okay, you can stop me if this is too far. you said you got your boobs done, did you get…like…the surgery? like the surgery?”

“not too far, honestly. yeah, i got it about…a year ago, actually! ahh happy birthday to me!” evie claps excitedly.

“does it work?”

“DUSTIN!”

~

“i just don’t get why he hasn’t said anything. he said he would update us what she’s like, i mean c’mon, he’s the first one invited over! the first one allowed over! he promised to text when he got there, what if something happened? did everyone die? him and robin are silent! nobody answers their texts!”

“eddie! will you please just stop? dustin is fine and i am sure he isn’t wooing your fairy princess, love of your life, big stupid crush, ms evangeline,” gareth groans. he’s laying upside down on the couch in his and eddie’s apartment, curls dangling to the ground. it’s been forever of listening to eddie gush about robin’s roommate and now it’s just even worse with dustin staying with them. the least eddie could do is stop pacing in front of him, he’s making him motion sick watching his legs go back and forth.

finally, eddie flips down next to him with a heavy sigh. he takes a long swig of his beer, effectively draining half of it down his throat, before just staring at the ceiling.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. you’re right. everything’s fine. plus, it’d be pretty fucked of him to go flirt with her when i called dibs.”

“you can’t dibs a woman-“

“yeah, yeah, shut up.” eddie lightly kicks at gareth’s shoulder. he sighs again, his finger fiddling with the wrapper on his beer bottle. “…do you think he’s mentioned me?”

“that’s it, i need a knife.”

~🌷🌻~

taggie waggies:

@lololol-1234 @xo-r4e @paintsplatteredandimperfect @homohomohoe @charlies-candid-corner @tartarusfairy @howincrediblysapphicofyou @steddie-as-they-go @bestwifehaver @sexymothmanincarnate @zoeweee @romanticdestruction @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @breadboi66 @shadowofaliar @mollymawkwrites @lofaewrites @estrellami-1 @ronance-is-my-wife @afewproblems @heartsong18 @discount-izukumidoriya @mightbeasleep @bookbinderbitch @justforthedead89 @onehandedbitch @anxiouseds @sunfloweringstories @cyranyx @thegingerrapunzel @hequet @herebedragons404 @magpiemuseum @scheodingers-muppet @the-ghost-in-your-curtains @background-noise-headache @steddieloverrr @punctualhowell @musical-theatre-gay @its-a-me-a-morgan @chronically-stupid-human @stevesbipanic @says-swag-unironically

[callmedaleelah]

i’m gonna love you like it’s the last night

[ suguru geto psychological fiction au series ] - i

author’s note ; angst, mental health issues, heartbreak trope, long written chapter, no mention of (y/n), english is not my first language

[ master-list ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

You sit in the hospital’s waiting area, legs crossed, fingers nervously tapping the armrest of the chair. The room smells like antiseptic, its harsh, sterile scent settling uncomfortably in your nose. The gentle murmur of people coming and going barely registers; your mind is occupied by the weight of your thoughts.

It’s been six months since you were discharged from the psychiatric hospital, and today’s therapy session was just a routine check-in. But your thoughts have been restless, especially after a particularly sleepless night. The weight of the past still lingers. You’ve made progress, sure, but some wounds take more time to heal than others.

You’re staring blankly at the receptionist's desk when you hear a familiar sound—a low, deep voice that pulls you out of your head. Your heart skips a beat. You tilt your head slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

Suguru.

He’s walking down the hallway, flanked by a few others who seem engrossed in conversation with him. Dressed in a tailored suit, he looks striking, his presence commanding the space. His long hair is slicked back, and even from a distance, you can tell that time has been kind to him. Too kind.

The sight of him, so composed, so put together, is like a punch to your chest. Your throat tightens, your hands clamp together as they grow cold, and you force yourself to stare down at your lap. Your heartbeat quickens, thudding in your ears so loudly that it drowns out everything else.

After two years—two long, agonizing years—you never expected to see him again, let alone here, in a place that has become so intricately tied to your pain and healing. You want to disappear. You want him to walk past without seeing you, without knowing how far you’ve fallen since the last time you spoke.

But then, as if defying your silent prayer, you hear the unmistakable sound of his footsteps approaching. The air feels thick, heavy, almost suffocating, as his shoes come into view in front of you.

You freeze.

There’s no escape.

"I didn’t expect to meet you here," Suguru’s voice, calm and steady, cuts through the thick tension. It’s too familiar, yet it feels distant—like a memory you’ve tried so hard to bury. His presence is overwhelming, and before you can process what’s happening, he sits beside you.

Your body tenses, every muscle tightening in a futile attempt to hold yourself together. The room feels too small, the air too thin. You glance at him, briefly, and then back down at your hands, struggling to find something—anything—to say. Your throat feels dry, your palms sweating.

“Probably because you didn’t expect to see me at all,” you finally manage, trying to inject a bit of humor into your words, but your voice is shaky. You’re not sure if the joke lands, but you see the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

The sight of that smile does something to you—it sends a ripple of old, buried emotions surging to the surface, emotions you’ve spent months trying to suppress. He still has that effect on you. And that terrifies you.

Suguru’s eyes, dark and intense, flicker with a hint of something—surprise, maybe? But he quickly masks it, just like he always does. His calm demeanor never falters. He was always so composed, always in control, and now, sitting next to you, he’s no different. He looks so calm, so unaffected, while you feel like you’re barely keeping it together.

"How are you doing?" he asks gently, his voice soft but probing.

You hesitate. Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you think about lying, about brushing off the question with a simple, empty answer. But something in his gaze makes you pause, forces you to confront the truth that’s been gnawing at you for so long.

“You mean how I’m doing recently or how I’m doing after you, you know—” you glance at him, giving him a small, awkward smile. “—left me.”

The words hang between you like a fragile thread, and for a second, you see his composed mask crack. Just a little. His eyes widen, barely noticeable, but it’s there. He wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

He regains his composure quickly, nodding slightly, his calm exterior firmly back in place.

"If you mean how I’m doing recently, I’m fine," you continue, trying to keep your voice steady. "Yeah, I found a new hobby.”

Suguru’s brow arches, a faint look of curiosity crossing his face. "Oh? What is it?"

You let out a dry laugh, more for your own comfort than anything else. “Running. It clears my mind, you know? I only think about managing my breath."

You watch as Suguru chuckles softly at your words, the sound sending a pang through your chest. It’s almost too much—this casual conversation, this normalcy, when everything between you feels so broken.

Then, his voice lowers, and with a slight tilt of his head, he asks the question you were dreading.

"And how were you doing after, you know—i left you?"

For a moment, everything stops. The world narrows down to just you and him, sitting side by side in that cold, sterile hospital waiting room. You blink, trying to process his words, but it feels like they’ve stabbed you in the chest.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to answer. “I don’t really remember much about it,” you say, your voice quieter now. “But long story short, I survived.”

There’s a pause. A long, excruciating pause, where neither of you speaks. Your heart is racing, and your palms are sweating again, but you keep your gaze fixed on your hands, avoiding his eyes at all costs. You can feel the weight of his stare on you, the intensity of it burning into your skin.

Suguru shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers twitching as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. His presence is overwhelming, and every second that passes feels like an eternity.

"And how are you doing, Suguru?" you ask, your voice strained. Saying his name again feels wrong. It feels foreign on your tongue, like something you shouldn’t be saying anymore.

"I’m good," he answers quickly, too quickly. "Been busy with work.”

You nod, but his words hit you harder than you expect. "Good." He’s been good. Meanwhile, you’ve been drowning, barely keeping your head above water, and he’s been fine.

You nod, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the tightness in your chest tells a different story. The words “I’m good” echo in your mind like a cruel reminder of the contrast between his life and yours. You bounce your leg nervously, wishing your name would be called, wishing this awkwardness would end. Every second with him feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, and you’re one wrong word away from falling apart.

“Then I better not hold you up from work,” you mumble, your voice barely audible. You glance down at the floor, avoiding his eyes again, but you can still feel his gaze on you. It’s heavy, lingering, like he’s searching for something in your expression that you can’t afford to give.

Suguru hesitates, as if he’s contemplating whether to stay or leave. His fingers drum lightly on the armrest, a nervous habit you recognize from the past. But finally, he speaks again, his voice low, almost cautious.

“Why are you here?”

You freeze at the question. The truth is something you’ve been avoiding, even with yourself, but there’s no way to dodge it now. You take a deep breath, your fingers gripping the hem of your shirt as you try to summon the courage to speak.

“Therapy,” you say softly, still not looking at him. The word feels raw on your tongue, exposing a vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to hide. You hate that he’s seeing you like this—broken, fragile, not the person you once were.

“Oh,” is all he manages, and the silence that follows is suffocating.

You can feel the shift in him, the weight of his realization settling between you. His calm facade falters for just a second, but it’s enough for you to catch the flash of pain in his eyes. His jaw tightens, and he looks down, as if trying to make sense of it all.

You clear your throat, trying to break the tension, but the lump in your throat remains. “How’s work?” you ask, your voice shaky. Anything to steer the conversation away from your mental health. You’re not ready for that. Not with him.

Suguru’s expression softens, though his eyes are still clouded with concern. “Busy,” he repeats, though it feels more like a reflex than an actual answer. “Our company’s expanding, working with medical institutions. That’s why I’m here.”

“Sounds important,” you say, your voice strained as you force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

He nods, but you can see the discomfort in his posture. He shifts in his seat again, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to. The Suguru you knew was always in control, always calm and collected, but now there’s a tension between you that neither of you can ignore.

“How was university?” he asks, as if searching for a safe topic, a neutral ground where things won’t feel so heavy. “I’m sorry i didn’t come to your graduation last year like i… promised,”

You wince at the question, and for a moment, you don’t answer. It’s not something you want to talk about, not here, not now. But you know you can’t avoid it forever. You force yourself to meet his gaze, and when you do, you see the faintest flicker of worry in his eyes.

“No, it’s okay—I haven’t graduated,” you admit quietly, and his eyes widen in surprise. “I dropped out last year.”

The shock on his face is palpable, and for the first time since he sat down, you see his calm facade crack completely. “What?”

You swallow hard, the words coming out thick, like they’re stuck in your throat. “Last year… was harder than I expected. My cognitive function got… messed up. That’s what the doctors said, after my aunt brought me to the psychiatric hospital.”

Suguru blinks, his expression unreadable as the reality of your situation sinks in. His eyes are glistening now, but he blinks quickly, forcing back the tears that threaten to spill. You’ve never seen him cry—not once in all the years you knew him. But the sight of him fighting his emotions now nearly breaks you.

You force yourself to keep going, though your chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on you. “I couldn’t… think. I couldn’t focus on anything.” You pause, swallowing the lump in your throat as tears well up in your eyes. “I thought… losing you was hard enough. But then I tried to live without you and… it was worse.”

Your voice cracks at the last word, and you quickly wipe away a tear that escapes down your cheek. The silence between you feels unbearable now, the weight of your words settling into the space like a heavy fog.

“I didn’t know there was life after you, Suguru,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Some days I couldn’t even get out of bed. But other nights… I wanted to sleep forever. It was like I couldn’t control anything—my mind, my body. It was all too much.”

You finally meet his gaze, and the look in his eyes breaks something inside you. His calm exterior is gone now, replaced by raw emotion, his eyes wide with guilt and pain. His lips part as if he wants to speak, but no words come out. He’s stunned, frozen, unable to process what you’ve just told him.

Your breath is shaky as you try to pull yourself together, your hands trembling as you wipe away another tear. “I swear… I tried to let you go,” you continue, your voice barely holding together. “I thought if I just stopped thinking about you, I’d be okay. But it wasn’t that simple. It was like… there was no life without you in it.”

Suguru inhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists as he struggles to contain the surge of emotions coursing through him. His chest rises and falls with each shaky breath, his calm, collected facade shattered completely. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, his lips pressed into a tight line as if he’s physically restraining himself from breaking down.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I never… I didn’t realize how much I hurt you.”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes any longer. The intensity of the moment is too much, the raw emotion too overwhelming. Your chest feels like it’s been ripped open, exposing every vulnerable part of you that you’ve tried to protect for so long.

You hear Suguru exhale shakily, the sound of his breath unsteady as he tries to compose himself. But when you glance at him again, you see the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

“I… didn’t know,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

The apology hangs in the air between you, heavy with the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid. And for the first time in a long time, you see Suguru not as the calm, composed man he’s always been, but as someone who’s just as lost as you are.

[simphornies]

A/N: Short but you'll see why <3 Loves and kisses!

Word count: 1.1k (1,196) Warnings: blood, everyone's fighting, major injury, alastor being alastor

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Deal Breaker [ Vox x Angel!Reader ] part 5

Your ears were ringing, vision blurred. The dust from the rubble got caught in your throat making you cough. Pain was the first thing you felt when your senses came to. As soon as the dust cleared you realized that you’d been entrapped under the rubble, one wrong move and it could all cave in. You looked down and two of your wings were pinned, golden blood oozing from under it.

Charlie was trying to get you out of the rubble, her screams were faintly audible and you heard her digging through. Then it stopped after another loud boom. The pain overpowered your body, you couldn’t yank yourself out without ripping your wings apart. For once in your life, you felt absolutely helpless under the rubble with no way of contacting anybody. You just hoped that the others were okay.

The Vees had come with their army of goons and with the lack of preparation everyone in the hotel had, everyone was in a struggle. Lucifer and Alastor were enraged, their demon forms fully showing. With Alastor’s tendrils and Lucifer’s mobility, they fended off the majority of the attackers. They both aimed for Velvette as soon as they got an opening.

Velvette laughed and wielded an angelic spear, launching it straight at Lucifer. Lucifer got ready to dodge it but Alastor quickly caught it, to his dismay, before it could get too close. “Wrong move.” She grinned.

Lucifer turned quickly and saw that Valentino had a dagger up to Charlie’s neck. His eyes turned red and flew straight at him. “Ah ah.” He menacingly smiled, “Any closer and Little Bleeding Heart will get it.” He cut her neck just enough to make her start bleeding.

He laughed as he saw everyone freeze, “For an establishment filled with such power…” He grinned wider with pride, “You all are so weak.”

They were at a standstill, neither side couldn’t move but it was clear that the Vees had the advantage.

Back at Vox’s security room he sees the commotion at the hotel, his heart dropping as soon as he realizes you weren’t on the field. “Y/N…” He scanned through all the footage and not once did he see you appear. He saw the first attack that made the ceiling fall. He thought of the worst. He knew he wasn’t in good enough physical condition to fight, making him hesitate. He sucked it up and left for the hotel as fast as he could go, traveling through the wires.

“What do you want?” Vaggie screamed, spear pointed at Valentino from a distance.

He laughed, “We want Y/N. To fuck off from you and work for us.” The evil in his grin wasn’t hard to miss.

“Like hell we’d ever hand her over to you, you freaks.” Husk hissed. His statement turned Valentino’s smug grin into a frown.

“Watch it, cat,” He held the blade tighter to Charlie’s neck, “I’ll kill this little bitch right n—”

A punch launched Valentino forward, blade dropping behind him. Lucifer flew to Charlie the moment he saw the opening as she fell to the floor. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She coughed out. “But who-”

Everyone averted their attention to who landed the blow and to their surprise, Vox stood there seething with rage. “What the fuck, Vox?” Velvette screamed. It wasn’t long until she was surrounded by Alastor’s tendrils, all holding weapons. She groaned and crossed her arms, admitting defeat.

“I told you two to not fuck with, Y/N. Her business is with me and I change my mind however much I fucking want.” He angrily spoke, his voice laced with a stereo like effect. His cracked screen had sparks flying out of them, making him glitch every now and then.

The Vees got tied up and monitored by Lucifer while everyone else ran to find you under the rubble. You saw everything that happened thanks to the watch Vox gave you. Since Vox’s screen was cracked, you couldn’t get a hold of him and he was the only person that the watch could connect to. You just hoped everyone wasn’t hurt too bad.

Alastor stayed behind, facing Vox from across the battlefield. He glared at him, his smile becoming more menacing. “Greetings, old pal.” He snarled.

“Alastor.” Vox replied, “Look about Y/N, I’m s-”

“Keep her name-” He grew bigger in size, completely embracing his demon form, “OUT OF YOUR LYING MOUTH.” He hissed and launched his tendrils to attack him. Vox zapped away to dodge the attack, shooting electricity to make them fade away and to maintain his distance from him.

“Alastor! Let me expl-” A tendril managed to uppercut him, knocking him down. Alastor moved closer to him, looming over the injured Vox.

“My presence here in Hell surely stays an enigma. But blatant-” He kicks his side, tossing him a couple of feet. Vox clutched his side, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. “-and deliberate lies!” He stepped on him, savoring the sound of his ribs cracking underneath his shoes. “That damage my relations are where I draw the line.” His uncomfortable grin made Vox glitch out in fear, the sparks that flew out of the crack becoming more frequent. “I’ll make an example out of your wretched decisions to remind everyone not to mess with the Radio Demon.” He lifted his claws and lunged at Vox.

He was too weak to fight back or try to zap away. He knew his systems were in no condition to handle a fight, let alone one with Alastor. He looked up and watched as his claws came closer and closer.

For a moment, he thinks back on you. He remembered every detail he grew to love. He realized that he acted too quickly on his ideas. He remembered how you managed to soften his character, how you smiled whenever he’d give you gifts, how you were the common sense to his rash decisions. He remembered how your laugh would differ depending on the situation and he definitely remembered how it sounded when you were truly happy. He remembered the hospitality you provided him, the second chance you offered despite his reputation and his standing with Alastor. He realized that his pride prevented him from seeing the truth of it all.

He fell in love with you.

And he only came to realize it at the face of death.

He gritted his teeth, pushed his pain to the side and managed to zap away, avoiding Alastor’s claws. This move made him wince in pain. Alastor growled, “Putting up a senseless fight? You might just impress me.” He laughed.

Vox clenched his fists, “I’m not letting you kill me until I get to apologize to her.” He dodged an attack, “And I’m not letting anything stop me from telling her the full truth. And I put that on my soul. But I’m not hurting her more by attacking her friends. Especially you.”

He moved further away, “I surrender.” He raised his hands up in defeat. Alastor simply laughed at him before launching another set of tendrils toward him. Vox shut his eyes and braced for impact.

Taglist: @emekeneme @ghostdoodlen @chewbrry @dawko-fanpage @lofasofabread @hxzbinwrites @rapunzelbro @elsihiaweee @blackrose8425 @dickmastersworld @lofasofabread @rosiethevoxobesser @themetalbabygirl @markster666 @riskyraiker @fadingflowers-world(it won't let me tag the two of you but i'll send them)

[yeoosaangg]

៹ ANIMALS || KINKTOBER ─ DAY 2

➛ PAIRING:: JEONG YUNHO × FEM!READER

➛ NOW PLAYING:: ANIMALS — MAROON 5

⤷ ❝I CUT YOU OUT ENTIRELY, BUT I GET SO HIGH WHEN I'M INSIDE YOU.❞

➛ GENRE:: EXES TO LOVERS, IDOL!AU, SMUT

➛ WARNINGS:: PET PLAY, BREEDING KINK, COLLARING, DEGRADATION, FINGERING, GAGGING, OVERSTIMULATION, PRAISE, SIXTY-NINE, SQUIRTING, THIGH RIDING, THROAT FUCKING

── ⋆ ⋆ ── 𔘓 ── ⋆ ⋆ ──

Be an idol, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

They fucking lied.

Your legs are aching, your back's gonna give out, and your lungs are gonna collapse. This feels like torture.

CHOREOGRAPHER: You did a great job today, Y/n. We can finish the rest tomorrow.

You internally celebrate. You were so close to throwing yourself off the company building any second now if you stayed any longer.

The choreographer packs her things and leaves before you get the chance to even move towards your belongings.

You scroll through your food delivery app to see what you'd have for dinner. Maybe you'll just settle for a sandwich at home.

You grab your things and head out the door, only to bump into a hard chest. You apologize and bow to them, freezing when you look up at the familiar face.

Your ex-boyfriend, Jeong Yunho.

Y/N: Did you need the studio? I was just leaving.

YUNHO: No!

You raise an eyebrow at his tone, making him slightly flinch. And horny.

YUNHO: Sorry. I didn't come here to practice, I came here to talk to you.

Y/N: We have nothing to talk about.

YUNHO: Please?

You sigh at the sight of his pleading eyes. Despite the break up being six months ago, it still feels fresh. But he’s your weakness, so you invite him in.

You lock the door to avoid anyone from walking in and hearing your private conversation. Last time that happened was humiliating — for both of you.

You turn around and widen your eyes. Yunho was sat back on his knees and looked up at you with tears in his eyes, bottom lip trembling.

YUNHO: I am so sorry for handling our break up in the worst way possible. Just, please, don't hate me.

Y/N: I don't hate you, Yunho. It just really hurt me.

YUNHO: I know. And I'm so fucking sorry.

Y/N: Anything else?

YUNHO: I've tried to find a new mistress.

Oh...

You didn't expect that to hurt so much.

Y/N: How'd it go?

YUNHO: I don't know. I never showed up.

Y/N: That's very mean.

Yunho crawls to you and latches onto your leg. You pat his head, feeling him preen at your touch.

Still so pliant.

YUNHO: I don't want anyone that's not you, Mistress.

Fuck.

Y/N: Let go of me, Yunho.

He whines and shakes his head. He stands up and pulls you to the desk in the corner. He takes your things and sets them underneath so it doesn't get in your way.

He plugs his phone into the speakers and puts on a random playlist, making sure the music is loud but not enough to drown your voices out.

He walks back to you and straddles your lap. For someone so lean and tall, he looks so small and precious like this.

YUNHO: Don’t you miss me, Mistress? Because I’ve missed you. Only you can make me feel good.

You never truly noticed the effect you had on him until now.

It's unbelievable to witness.

You've corrupted Yunho, molded him into the perfect little pup for you. You've made him completely obsessed with you and the way you make him feel to the point he’s begging for you to fuck him.

He’s such a good boy — YOUR good boy.

Y/N: You've gotten so corrupt, darling.

YUNHO: Mistress made me this way. I was pure before I met you. And now that I've had you, I can't go back. Just thinking about you makes me feel so desperate and needy.

You feel yourself wanting to give in, to take him back and love all of him.

Y/N: Oh, puppy. I've turned such a sweet, innocent boy into a dumb whore that begs to be played with. Is that what you want?

YUNHO: Yes. Want you to play with me so bad.

Y/N: Show me how much, pup. Get naked for me.

It was cute watching him scramble to take his clothes off. He was so needy, he struggled to discard his shirt.

YUNHO: Mistress, please help me.

His whiny voice makes you chuckle. You help remove the article of clothing from his beautiful body, peppering kisses all over his face.

Y/N: Be a good boy and ride my thigh.

Yunho climbs onto your leg and does as he’s told. He captures your lips into a desperate kiss and grinds his hips down. You take hold of his cock and stroke him slowly.

YUNHO: Feels so good, Mistress. Missed your touch.

He pumps his hips to increase the rhythm of your hand, already close to an orgasm.

YUNHO: Please, please! Wanna come.

Y/N: Go ahead, puppy, come for me.

He whimpers so loud, moaning into your mouth as his seed coats your abdomen.

Y/N: Such a good boy. Came just for me.

YUNHO: All for you.

You run your fingers through his hair, kissing him deeply. His moans get lost in the back of your throat as he takes a breather.

Y/N: Lie down and stick your tongue out, pet.

He does as told and feels his cock twitch in anticipation. You discard your own clothes and kneel above his face. The sight of your dripping cunt makes Yunho moan.

You lower yourself onto his hot tongue, feeling him immediately latch onto your throbbing clit. You gasp, grinding on his face.

His tongue enters your begging hole, eliciting a pornographic moan from you. You grab his cock and lick his leaking tip, making him squirm.

Y/N: Patience, mutt. Or else I'll punish you.

You smack his thigh and tut at him.

YUNHO: M'sorry.

Such a good boy, indeed.

You decide to give him what he wants and wrap your mouth on his throbbing tip, bobbing your head up and down his fat, juicy cock.

He moans against your clit, the vibration making you choke on his cock.

You give his thighs a squeeze, signaling to fuck up into your mouth. He shoves two fingers into your pussy and thrusts his hips upward.

His moans resonate all over the room, his fingers working magic to your soaking cunt. You barely even registered the music playing in the background from how loud he is.

YUNHO: Gonna come down your throat. Can I, Mistress? Wanna come for you.

Poor, desperate puppy.

It's not like you can answer, so you tap his thighs to let him know he can come. You feel it shoot towards the back of your throat, so you swallow what you can while the rest spills from the sides of your mouth.

He sucks on your clit while pumping his fingers as you squirt on his face. He licks up and down your folds, not wasting a single drop of your delicious juices.

You climb off and coo at him. His face was glistening in your essence. You missed seeing him like this.

Y/N: On all fours, pup.

He does as told, but you guide him so he's facing the mirror.

Y/N: Watch yourself as I play with your hole. No looking away or I'll punish you.

YUNHO: M'good boy, promise.

You smile and spread his ass cheeks open. You give him a few kitten licks, feeling him shudder at the feeling. Then you rim his hole with your tongue, hearing him moan.

You look at him through the mirror and wink at him. He whines, wiggling his ass against your hot tongue. You scoff, pulling away to spank him twice.

Y/N: Whore, wanting my fingers in you so bad. I gotta take it slow, I have no lube.

YUNHO: M-My bag.

Of course he'd come prepared.

You kiss his hip and search through his bag. You smile at the sight of his puppy gifts. You place them all next to his head. His eyes shine at the tail plug in your hands.

Y/N: So sure I'd fuck you, hm?

YUNHO: Mhm.

God, he's done it again. He has you wrapped around his finger, and he knows it. But you don't mind.

You take the puppy ears and clip them onto his hair.

Y/N: Pretty puppy.

You eye his collar, knowing how much it meant to him when you first gave it to him. It has your initials branded onto the leather strap — a clear sign that he’s yours.

You carefully wrap it around his neck and plant kisses all over his face.

YUNHO: Does this mean you’ll take me back, Mistress?

Y/N: Yes, my beautiful pup. Never leave me again. I won't be able to handle it.

YUNHO: Never! Will forever stay with you, Mistress. Promise.

You leave gentle kisses along his neck as you coat your fingers in lube. You slowly push a finger into his needy hole, watching him struggle to keep his eyes open.

Y/N: Eyes open, pup. Watch me stretch you open.

He rapidly blinks, moaning as your finger goes in and out of his hole.

YUNHO: Mistress, more. Please give me more.

Y/N: More what, pup?

YUNHO: More fingies.

How cute, he's starting to slip further into his head space.

Y/N: Of course, darling.

He moans when you suddenly add two more fingers inside him, eyes rolling back into his head while shaking in pleasure. He giggles, mouth hanging open as he watches you fuck your fingers into his pretty hole.

You steady his hips with your free hand, brutally pumping your fingers in him. Drool coats his chin while his eyes lock with yours through the mirror.

Your free hand travels down and starts pumping his aching cock. He moans while desperately bucking into your hand. The movement allows him to fuck himself into your fingers and arch his back.

He was reduced to nothing but a whimpering and drooling mutt. This is when you found him most beautiful — all fucked out just for you.

He whines in frustration trying to say something but he's too deep in puppy space to speak properly.

Y/N: Gonna come, pup?

He rapidly nods, squirming as strings of his cum coats the practice floor.

Y/N: Good boy.

He hums, giving you a tired smile. You pull your fingers out slowly and hear him whimper at the loss of contact.

Y/N: Ready for your tail, darling?

Yunho nods while wiggling his ass to show that he wants it despite how wrecked his hole already feels. You add lube onto the plug, just so it can slide easier into your puppy.

He giggles as it slides in with ease. His hole swallows around the base of the plug, making him moan in satisfaction.

Y/N: Such a pretty pup. MY pup.

Yunho rolls onto his back, mindlessly rubbing at his erect nipples. You push his hands away, silently ordering him to keep them at his sides.

You take in his left nipple and bite down as much as he could take. His back arches off the floor, willing himself to not touch you unless you said so.

You cover his skin with hickeys and relish in the way he whines. It doesn't matter if the makeup artists have to cover them, he’s yours to claim.

Y/N: You’ve been such a good boy for me, puppy. So I’m going to give you a reward. This is something you've been wanting before we split.

Yunho looks at you with curious eyes. He didn't bring a strap-on with him, so he wonders what you have in mind.

You position yourself on all fours and lay your face on the floor, your hands behind your back as you wiggle your ass in the air.

Yunho’s eyes get super wide — is this really happening?

Y/N: Show me how much you've missed me, hm? Fill me up with your cum, pet.

Your words made Yunho let out a pornographic mewl. He's always been the one getting stuffed with your strap. He loves it, don't get him wrong, but he's always wanted to fuck you.

He crawls over to you and pushes your face deeper against the floor using his weight.

Y/N: That's it, darling. Fuck me like the mutt that you are.

Yunho growls and shoves his cock into your welcoming cunt. He's never felt such warmth and wetness before. This felt so euphoric, he almost came just from entering you.

He doesn't let you adjust to his huge girth, fucking into your pussy with an animalistic pace. One hand holds your wrists together while the other digs into your hips.

His cock is stretching you out so painfully good, you start screaming his name over and over again.

Despite getting fucked from behind, you manage to stare up at him with a dominant gaze. He loves that you still have control over him even when he's fucking you this way.

He leans his hips forward, hitting your sweet spot at a rapid pace.

Y/N: That’s it, puppy, use me like the whore I am. Give me your pups.

Yunho growls while slamming into your sticky cunt, strokes so desperate and rough. He moves his hand off your hip to rub your clit. He’s going to breed you, just like you asked for.

Y/N: I’m coming!

He can feel you squirt all over his thick cock, juices dripping down your thighs while he fucks you into overstimulation. His thrusts become sloppy, deep inside your womb.

He gets lost in fucking his cum deep into you, so you have to reel him back in.

Y/N: Pull out, darling. We should be mindful of our surroundings.

Yunho's still non-verbal, but he nods his head so you know he understands. He slowly pulls out and watches his cum drip out of your soaking pussy.

The experience was so surreal, he wonders if he’ll ever get to fuck you like this again.

Y/N: How about we go home so we can properly talk about our relationship. Does that sound like a good idea, baby?

Yunho nods while his chest fills with warmth. He’s happy to have you back in his life; now he’ll never let you go.

═══

➠ a/n: okay, so... i might have gotten carried away here. but i'm not sorry, tbh. thanks for reading ‹𝟹

[corviiids]

hello ⭐star⭐ for that one post about fanfic director’s commentary, hope you’re having a lovely day

thank u so much!!! i hope ur having a wonderful day too :3 ok hmm let's go with death note this time. let's talk about they both die at the end

(obviously death cw and suicidal ideation cw as well and also it's long again.)

so this one is kind of an undignified wrestle with mortality and legacy. no big dramatic strides made in that struggle, because i think getting satisfying closure about the acceptance of your own death is sort of gauche. i prefer a running stream of consciousness where you kinda flop around in the ring and kind of come to terms with things but in a really damp and hollow and itchy way.

throughout this fic i tried to use L's narration to contrast the source of his panic with the source of light's. both of them are acting sort of out of character in the sense that neither's behaviour is really aligned with the way they act in canon, and the reason i did that is sort of as a response to their own impending deaths. nobody's going to act like themselves in that circumstance. i even have them say it outright:

“I’m not really a nihilist,” says Light. “I wonder what you’d think of me if you’d met me on a normal day.” ... [L:] “I’m not ordinarily apathetic, either, by the way.”

one very simple detail showing that contrast is this:

L closes the door without locking it. He picks a direction at random and starts walking.

...

And it’d turned out they were nearby, so now they’re at Light’s apartment. “I didn’t think I’d be back here today,” he tells L, sticking his key in the lock. “Sorry if it’s messy.”

basically, light is in flight and L is in freeze. L doesn't bother locking his door when he leaves the house in the morning, but light does. L knows/accepts/has resolved that he won't be returning home that day. part of light still refuses to accept that, even though he leaves the house with the intention of ending his life.

i don't think it's fair to say that L's acceptance is more mature or that he's more at peace with his fate. it's more like...

so, L approaches situations with the perspective of looking at what is. he's truth-oriented. he accepts the facts of a given matter and then uses them to extrapolate what comes next. that extrapolation is really key to his character so it honestly bugs me a lot when people try to say that L is a purely logical character. he's not! he's running on intuition like 99% of the time and a lot of his extrapolations are wild and not evidence-based at all, but the reason for that is that he has an incredibly strong intuition based on how effectively he processes information. so L understands based on the phone call that he's going to die today, and there's really no point arguing around that fact. however, he can't actually figure out what his next steps are, because there are no next steps. he's going to die today.

throughout the story he struggles immensely with the fact that there is a piece of information he can't attain using the information he already has: he doesn't know when he's going to die, only that it's going to happen before midnight, and so he is completely unable to plan what he should do next, because he can't see any course of action through to its conclusion:

Two. Three. Two. Three. Four. Three. Two. L shakes his head. Can’t count up. Can’t count down. The numbers keep changing, but he can’t find zero. “No,” he says. Deductive reasoning, by its nature, requires premises—in order to find a fact, you must have a fact to begin with. You cannot begin with a baseline of nothing. With no reference, there can be no inference. L keeps counting, but there is no zero, or rather, there is a zero and he doesn’t know where it is. The next second could be his last, or the next, or the next, and all he can know is that at some point the ticking will stop and there is no way to orient himself to it because that point keeps moving .

this drives L crazy. that uncertainty is being represented by this incessant ticking in L's head which won't fade. ok so have you ever used a metronome? say you're counting in 4/4, so the click would play like ONE two three four ONE two three four. the rhythm is steady, but there's one emphasised beat to orient you to where you are in the measure. or, say, a ticking clock, where you can glance at it to see where you are in the 60 seconds that make up a minute. you can count down to when the next minute begins. or a timer, where you can see it counting down to zero. in L's head, he knows the ticking is counting down to the moment of his death, but he doesn't know what it's counting down to because he can't see it. he doesn't know where zero is, there's no emphasis to orient him, and he doesn't know which second he's at in the minute. he could start doing something and then die in the next three seconds, and it would be abrupt and jarring and unsatisfying, like the feeling you get when you take a breath and get winded. so he's in freeze. L accepts that he's going to die today, but he doesn't know when, and the whole time he's thinking about all the things he's never gotten to experience in his life because he's always sort of taken the concept of existence for granted. but he can't figure out how to take steps to try and check things off, because he's never actually made that list. and why make it now? because he might not get to finish them, and that's really unsatisfying. and how do you prioritise when you know you're not going to get to the end of your list and your list is infinity items long? he can't plan. he can't move. he's stuck. he panics, frozen.

light on the other hand has always had a plan for his future, and he's just watched that timeline rapidly shrink and cut all the opportunities off that he'd always been counting down towards. suddenly everything he's done up until now feels like a huge waste, because it was all a run-up to something that now doesn't exist. and he can't bear the fact that the control he'd always taken care to maintain over his life has suddenly been wrested away from him. that's why he starts the story out trying to kill himself - at the very least, he can control the when and cut the fear off.

Light swallows his mouthful of tuna and says, “If I can’t control my fate, I can at least bring it about myself.” “Does controlling your fate matter to you?” “That’s a stupid question,” says Light. “If you asked me yesterday I’d have had a hundred thousand things to say that mattered more to me than choosing how I’d die. My options have just kind of narrowed today, that’s all.”

L's right, though - light never would have done it. light wants to live more than he ever realised. i think light's had this moment of looking down the tunnel (hehe) and staring down his own impending death and realised he's not finished yet, but that's been taken out of his hands. he's realised that the mark he's left on the world has been so small and insignificant, and that if he dies now, that'll be all that's left of him. he's not willing to accept that. but that's the way things are. so he's in flight: run towards his own death so at least he can control the pace at which he dies? try to outrun the inevitable? try to speedrun a meaningful life to see if he can make some kind of mark before he stops existing for good?

“I don't know what we're walking to,” says Light. “I feel like I'm walking closer to my—to my own—” “We can stop.” “That just means it'll happen here instead. I don't want to die here, either.” “Where do you want to die?” “I don't,” Light says. His face crumples. “I just don’t. I'm not ready to be done.”

this is my favourite part of the fic tbh. it's based on a nightmare i had once that ended up changing my entire worldview. wahoo!

not to be a wanker but to an extent this is kind of what everyone's doing, technically, walking towards what will inevitably be your death, since time only moves in one direction and all that. but unlike everyone in the real world, light can see it. he wants to walk in the other direction, but it's all around him. he can see it growing closer the more he keeps moving, and all he wants to do is stop.

“What do I say?” Light asks desperately. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum.” Break. “Sorry I'll never give you grandchildren. Sorry I didn't get to graduate. Sorry you'll have to bury my dreams with me. Sorry for nineteen years that came to nothing in the end. It came to nothing.”

re: light refusing to speak to his family: i think he explains himself in the fic enough, but there's also another level where i think talking to his family about it means he'd have to formulate this fact into words which is difficult when he's not really accepted it himself, and on top of that, he would need to carry his family's grief and he's just not ready to do that. there's like a weird thing about talking to people who are already grieving you. i always felt really weird about that when talking to [friends/relations] who were terminally ill. light's relationship with his mother is kind of unexplored in canon but i wanted to go into it i think because your mother is someone who holds a unique spot in your life, i think, assuming you have a good relationship with her, and there is that reported phenomenon where people who are about to die tend to call out for their mothers. i guess this might be controversial but i think it's textually supported that light really cares about his family. i dont think light is ready to look at them and see them looking at him like he's someone who's already gone, and see all the things he never got to do with/for them. i honestly dont think hed survive it

ultimately it was really important to me that light died for no reason and that he didn't really have any material impact on anything. he dies trying to save a child, but someone else saves the kid first. light didn't have to take action at all. but of course, he did

As L stares, reaching hands scoop the toddler off the street from the other side.

i think in a sense it's up to personal opinion whether light had an impact or whether his friendship with L mattered at all before he died. after all, L died like an hour later, and it's not like he had anyone to pass those memories on to. he didn't even know light's surname. the memories of their last day together only exist with each other, and now they're both gone, so did it really matter? what does it mean to matter anyway? do you have to leave a legacy? is it enough that light managed to be L's only friend in the hours before L stopped existing? probably?

It's dark now. Properly dark. It's a new moon tonight, and though the stars do their best, there's little that can cut through the blackness in its absence.

...

L stares up at the moonless sky.

...

It might have been nice to die with the moon.

ofc light's name is written with the kanji for moon. just a silly joke lol.

L's death is something that's more likely to happen when you're alone, by the way. he gets mugged because he's an easy target sitting alone on a park floor. too bad he didn't have more friends and his only friend is dead.

also, the fact that he's a detective who gets murdered in a random act of crime was sort of another nod to the futility of the whole thing that light struggles with in canon. like, work your ass off, solve crime after crime, bring people to justice, but it never ends. crime continues. so is there a point? (yes, obviously.) but that's just a return to the struggle for legacy and meaning, where it's hard not to wonder whether the thing you're doing matters if it's not permanent / if you didn't solve something for good / if you didn't leave a mark that will never fade. i dunno. i think L did enough good in his lifetime. it wasn't enough to save him, but everyone dies eventually, so maybe it doesn't really matter?

i didn't want to give either of them the dignity of a full final thought. light definitely doesn't realise what's happening in the moment before he dies because he didn't see the truck, so i think he didn't have a chance to formulate one.

L watches a look of relief cross Light's face in the split second before the truck horn blares.

L of course gets cut off mid-sentence, just like he'd implicitly feared he might - trying to check things off the list, tie things off, before he's done:

What might a good final thought be? A final sight? He wonders if he could possibly find a star before

hopefully if you read the fic you got something out of it! it is, i think, intentionally pretty hollow and futile feeling, but not in a way that's supposed to make you feel hopeless or nihilistic. well, i hope not. i think there's something really cathartic that comes with the kind of closure you get specifically from accepting that sometimes there's no closure. that's how i felt writing it, so hopefully reading it is something similar. i dunno!