#he's been doing it for me for six months now

[tsunodaradio]

to be honest ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

“i’m sorry i had a machine hooked up to me and i couldn’t lie.” 

ꔮ starring: alex albon x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. inspired by and references the Does Alex Albon think he is No. 1 at Williams? | The Lie Detector video, secret (not for long, sucker) relationship. ꔮ commentary box: this idea has been clanging in my head for two weeks now, i fear 🐈‍⬛ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Alex had asked—begged—you not to watch the lie detector test video. 

You agreed, but not without teasing him about divulging some embarrassing secret. You figured it was something along those lines. Maybe they made him choose his favorite cat or reveal his ridiculous pre-race routine. Either way, your boyfriend seemed pretty serious about not wanting you to see that particular piece of content. 

Except it’s been impossible to avoid. 

Your algorithms are unsurprisingly fine-tuned to anything and everything Alex. Clips of his radio messages on Instagram reels, edits of him to Hamilton songs on your TikTok For You page. You’re idly scrolling through your Twitter feed when one particular post catches your attention. 

It’s not even the concept of a reveal that catches your attention. No, that was to be expected. 

What did they mean—Alex asked for it not to be mentioned? 

It’s one thing to keep you from watching. It’s a completely different situation to ask everybody else to stay mum, as if purposefully keeping you out of the loop.

That would make no sense. You try to shake the thought out of your head, try to go back to doom-scrolling, but it nags in the back of your brain. Alex wasn’t the type to hide things from you. The two of you were a secret to the rest of the world, sure, but there were no secrets between you. 

Right? 

You set your phone on Do Not Disturb. You scrub the kitchen clean. You take a scalding hot shower. None of it helps. 

By the time you’re back on your couch, red-faced from the heat of your bath and something else entirely, you make an executive decision. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, you decide. Alex has given you grace for much worse. 

You pull the video up.

The guilt you’re feeling ebbs at the familiar lilt of Alex’s accent. My heart is gonna be, like, two hundred.

He’s not even on the screen yet, but you can imagine the way his boyish smile would curve around the words. He’s not due to visit until much later, so this six-minute video will have to tide you over the feeling of missing him. And your curiosity. That, more than anything. 

For a moment, you nearly forget why you’re watching. It’s so easy to be distracted by Alex’s sheer expressiveness, by the way he’s always just a bit breathless when he’s laughing. You want nothing more than to reach into your phone and will him to be seated right next to you, alleged reveal be damned. 

Have you ever sat on the toilet so long, your legs fell asleep?, he’s asked, and you simultaneously snort with on-screen Alex. 

Many a times, he answers, and it’s registered as the truth. But it’s more because that’s my time to watch TikTok.

You’re all-too aware of that habit. The petty arguments of you slamming on the bathroom door, demanding for your turn, only for Alex to shout back that he’s finishing part 32 of some movie cut up into several videos, and he’ll be out soon, he swears. It’s the type of domestic image that paints how comfortable the two of you have been this past year, even if there was nobody else to see it. 

Did you have a celebrity crush growing up? 

Yes, on-screen Alex responds. When prodded, he adds rather sheepishly, Erm… Emma Watson. 

You knew that, too. When you first found out, you made Alex sit through the fourth movie so you could tease him relentlessly. Fed up, he had tackled you down onto the mattress during the Triwizard Tournament’s Second Task. The ensuing makeout session had been both heated and playful. A part of you can still feel it thrumming beneath your ribs, months later. 

You’re scheming how to orchestrate another Harry Potter marathon just as two things happen at once. 

First, the Alex on-screen gets asked—baited, more like—with a query of And does your girlfriend compete? 

Then, your front door swings open. The man himself calls out like he always does, “Honey, I’m home!” 

It’s an inside joke, one you can’t really dwell on. Your attention is halved. 

You’ve started out of shock, and your phone is playing on full volume. Just enough for your boyfriend to hear his own sputter of My—my what? from what you’d been watching. 

There’s the sound of something crashing in the entryway. Later, you’ll discover it’s Alex having dropped his duffel bag in his own panic. 

He’s at the mouth of the living room in the next second, but you’re too busy going slack-jawed at the scene in the challenge. The polygraph shoots up. The examiner shakes his head amusedly. The man on the screen fucking laughs, goading Alex, So there it is! You’ve got a girl, Albono?

“You’re watching the video!” Alex shrieks accusingly. 

In return, you screech, “You told everyone about me?!”

Alex darts forward. You mentally curse his racer reflexes and his long legs as he throws himself on top of you. He’s blissfully unaware of his own weight, and so you feel winded amid your attempts to fight back. 

“I didn’t—tell about you,” he argues, his arms flailing as he tries to wrestle your phone out of your hands. “That’s all I said!” 

Which is a damn lie, of course. You don’t even see your screen anymore, but you can hear the video playing out. 

Alex being asked, Would you say this is your soulmate? 

Alex, without missing a beat: Yes. Without a doubt, yes. 

The Alex on top of you groans. He buries his face in the crook of your neck like he might be able to run and hide from his answer, especially as the examiner declares, He’s not lying. 

You relent, hitting pause and casting your phone aside. It lands somewhere by the foot of the couch. “I can’t believe you watched it,” your boyfriend petulantly murmurs against your skin. 

“I can’t believe I’m your soulmate,” you shoot back, and he pinches your side in retaliation. 

“Seriously,” he huffs, adjusting his positioning so that he’s not crushing you too much. “What happened to trust, huh?” 

“Slow down, Gabriella Montez.” 

“Stop being a nerd. It makes me want to kiss you.” 

You’re giggling as Alex rolls off you, flopping to the other end of the couch. He’s all lanky limbs and furrowed brows, his glare fixed on your phone like Sky Sports has personally wronged him. You reach out to rub his ankles, and he instinctively relaxes as if his body is fine-tuned to respond to your touch. 

“I’m sorry for watching the video,” you say. 

Alex frowns. “You’re not sorry.” 

You’re not. 

He heaves out a long-held sigh. “I had to do this whole thing,” he grumbles absent-mindedly. “Hid my Instagram story from you and all that…” 

“You what?” 

“Anyway. Anyway.” Alex clears his throat, his frown curling into a thin pressed line. It’s a rueful kind of grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tick for when he’s guilty. “I was going to tell you.” 

“I bet you were,” you hum. 

You’re not mad. Not really. You know he’s been itching to go public, has wanted you in the Williams hospitality suite for God-knows-how-long. That laminated ID card that would proudly proclaim Guest of Alex Albon.

“They still don’t know you,” he offers. This time, he’s reaching out for you. Preemptively trying to soothe some imagined annoyance. Alex tugs you gently until you’re resting between his legs, his face burying in the back of your hair. 

“All they know is that you exist,” he adds, “and they don’t have to know anything else.” 

You feel a pang in your chest, one put there when you’re reminded of just how lucky you are to have somebody so patient. Someone so willing to set aside his wants for your comfort, your peace of mind. 

“Okay,” you say, voice now softer that Alex has his chin hooked over your shoulder. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry I had a machine hooked up to me and I couldn’t lie.” 

You laugh. “As long as you promise to never lie to me,” you note, nudging his ribs lightly. He lets out an exaggerated howl. 

“I would never,” he grumbles, and you know—you know that’s the truth, too. 

You tilt your head slightly, catching the complicated expression on Alex’s face. There’s that hint of insecurity, that touch of guilt, that flash of impatience. But all of it eases up when you lean in, and you kiss the doubt away. 

“I believe you,” you breathe against his lips, and he’s already smiling before he pulls you in for more. ⛐

BONUS —

[married-to-google-translater]

hey so how do you think Azul Ashengrotto would deal with a s/o who’s randomly at some point like “You know what, I think those siren myths are true cuz you could lure me into the ocean any day of the week”?

Azul Ashengrotto

"SKSKSKSKDKKSKSKS" Azul said calmly before he almost choked on his water and died.

How an octopus can suffocate in water is a big mystery to you.

However, it would be best to say this only after Azul has finished drinking water.

How Azul still reacts so strongly to your flirting even though you've been dating for over six months is also a big mystery.

Lots of mysteries in your relationship~

Now it might be better to help your blushing boyfriend.

Your friendly touch won't make Azul blush any less.

It might be better to say these things in private.

Azul has never felt as loved as she does with you before.

Could take another six months to get used to flirting in public.

However, that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it.

Azul really loves you a lot.

You should be careful where you write your name in the next few days.

Otherwise, an oopsie might happen and he might make you "accidentally" sign the marriage papers.

[holylulusworld]

Ghosted

Summary: Dating. You’re not doing this anymore.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, former Seth x fem!Reader (mentioned)

Warnings: mentions of past bad relationships, abandonment, being ghosted, unresolved breakup, angst, a hint of fluff, hopeful ending

Dating. Romance. Love. You’re not doing this anymore.

“Why not?” Your new colleague, a cocky and handsome guy, asks. He wanted you to have dinner with him, but like with every man before, you turned him down. “Did I say something wrong? I thought we were getting along very well, and there’s no company policy saying we can’t date.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” you simply reply, with no sadness or pain in your voice. You became indifferent when it comes to dating, love, or even interacting with men. “I know people say this all the time, but it’s not you, it’s me, Bucky.” You give him a cracked smile and pat his upper arm. “You are an all-right guy, I guess, but dating is not for me. Not anymore…”

Bucky is stunned. He believed there was something great blooming between the two of you. You ate together during lunch break, shared jokes, and helped each other whenever one of you needed a hand.

“What was that?” He scratches his beard. “I thought she liked me too. Huh…did I lose my mojo?” Bucky dips his head to glance at Jake, another colleague from IT.

“It’s not you,” Jake says, knowing about your history with dating. “You didn’t hear this from me, but…”

…And then, Jake, ever the tattletale, tells Bucky how you became indifferent when it comes to love.

Three years ago, …

It was perfect. He was perfect.

Your last relationship left you heartbroken, and you believed there was never going to be a nice guy you’d fall in love with again. But there you were, spinning in your living room in a brand-new dress, waiting for him to pick you up.

After only six months, you and Seth were going steady.

It surprised you that Seth and you immediately got along so well. At first, he looked like one of those self-centered guys. Handsome but shallow.

Luckily, he was not a quitter. Seth talked you into giving him a chance to prove he’s a better man than your ex. He was charming and suggested going to the library to listen to a new author talking about their book.

Seth was sweet and shyly wrapped his arm around your shoulders when the author read a sad passage of their book.

You talked for hours after leaving the library. He liked the same music, reading, and long walks in the park. Not to forget, he wanted to start doing charity work, too, and he loved pets.

You haven’t talked about adopting a dog or cat with him yet, but you have had lots of time. At least you thought so at that point while spinning in your dress.

A funny moment turned into hours of waiting, desperate calls, messages, and so many questions. You didn’t get an answer. Not that night or any other night for two months.

One night, Seth invited you for dinner, and the next day, he just ghosted you. No call. No message. No apology.

You spent weeks questioning yourself, your appearance, hell, even the food you served Seth when you cooked for him.

Out of the blue, the man you believed loved you, and you would spend the rest of your life with, was gone, without as much as an explanation.

It was two months later that you saw him at a restaurant with his ex—the woman he told you was in the past. He used you to make her jealous, so she left her boyfriend.

You laughed about your stupidity. How could you have been so blind and let a man walk all over you again? That day at the restaurant, you swore to yourself you’d never fall in love again… never…

Now, …

“Wow,” Bucky replies after Jake finally stops talking. He can’t believe someone did this to you. You are always kind and the nicest person he ever met. “Why would he do this to her?”

“I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “Some people are assholes and ghost others. I’m not saying it’s okay, but shit like this happens all the damn time.”

“I understand now that she doesn’t want to date anyone. Fuck,” he curses himself for asking you out. “I should apologize. Right?” Bucky looks at Jake, who’s busy scrolling through his phone. “Jake, can you stop with that for once?”

“Do whatever you want with the information I gave you. Just keep me out of this. You didn’t hear a word from me.”

Bucky awkwardly watches you from afar. Things have been strained between the two of you since you turned him down a week ago.

He averts his gaze when you look his way, sighing deeply. For days, he has tried to find the right words to apologize to you. Whatever he believed was going on between you and him was non-existent, and he feels like a fool.

He walks toward your office, his now cold coffee in his hand. Bucky looks at it, sighing again. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable.

“Come in,” you say as someone hesitantly knocks at your door. You’re surprised to see Bucky poke his head in. “Bucky, hey. Please come in.”

He steps inside, looking around your office as if he is trying to buy himself some time. “Hi,” Bucky shyly says. “Uh—I wanted to say I’m sorry for asking you out without a warning.” Bucky looks down at his shoes, nervously shuffling from one foot to the other.

You blink at his words. “It’s fine,” you hastily reply. “I’m sorry too. You’re a nice guy, and I like you, but… I’m not dating…anyone.”

He nods and looks away. “I never wanted to make things awkward between us or make you feel uncomfortable. I like you too much to do such a shitty thing. Please forget I ever said a thing.”

“It’s not your fault that most of the men are shitty,” you murmur and give him a cracked smile. “If things were different, I’d gladly go out with you.”

Bucky smiles for a second before he turns around and leaves your office without another word.

He wishes things were different, but you’re too heartbroken, and there’s no way he’ll ever convince you that he’d rather die than hurt you.

“Handsome, you’re back,” the waitress at his favorite restaurant greets Bucky. She makes an insider joke only he understands and subtly asks about his best friend, Steve. “Where is your shadow today?”

“He’s out of town.” Her face falls, and Bucky is quick to say, “For business. Next time, he’ll be around too.”

“I reserved the best table for you,” she says and winks at Bucky. He follows her without a word. The table he reserved was for the two of you; now he’ll eat alone as so often.

“Thank you,” Bucky says and sits down. The waitress hands him the menu, asking if he wants the usual. He nods, not in the mood to decide on anything but how to forget about you and his feelings.

She walks away to give his orders to the kitchen, a sly smile on her face. While Bucky tries to busy himself with his phone and scrolls through the pictures of his cat Alpine, she’s greeting the next guest.

“Maybe one of our regulars would be generous enough to share his table with you, miss,” she says, suddenly standing in front of Bucky’s table. “Mr. Barnes, would you help this lady out? She wants to eat here, but there’s no free table.

He gets up to leave the table to whoever the waitress brought to his table. “She can—” His eyes widen as you stand in front of his table. “I can eat at home…uh…she can have the table.”

“We could share.” You are as shocked as Bucky, but somehow, you don’t want him to go. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, sure…” He pulls the chair for you. “My pleasure, Y/N.”

You glance at his phone, giggling because his gallery is full of pictures of a white furball. A cute white cat with the bluest eyes you ever saw. Well, except for the pair he owns.

“You like cats?”

“I like this one,” he replies, with a smile. “That’s Alpine, the queen of my castle. She’s picky and a drama queen when it comes to food, my attention, or…anything in between.” He shrugs. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You nod and smile back. A warm feeling spreads through your chest when Bucky starts talking about his cat and how he found her at a shelter. He tells you that he didn’t go there to adopt a pet, only to accompany his friend Steve, who wanted to pick up his dog.

“I ended up taking her home,” Bucky explains and shows you another picture. “Shit…sorry. I didn’t want to talk about my cat all the time. Uh—I’ll be silent now so you can eat and go home.”

“Hey, uh—” You touch his hand, stopping Bucky from closing the gallery. “Why don’t you tell me more about your cat?”

[elswhore]

𝐏. 𝐁 ── IN EVERY OTHER UNIVERSE

in a media driven scheme, you, paige bueckers’ ex girlfriend, fake a rekindled romance to boost her career, despite a painful breakup caused by your reckless influence, the act blurs into real love, reigniting paige’s feelings and your own. but everything fell apart when your chaotic lifestyle pulls her into drugs, weakening her physically and mentally.

warning! might be sensitive for others.

as of now, the conference room was a cold cage of glass and steel, the manhattan skyline a distant blur through the windows.

you sat across from ethan, paige bueckers’ agent, his polished smile as sharp as the pen he slid toward you.

the table was a battlefield of contracts, x analytics, mock ups of ad campaigns, all screaming one truth, the world wanted you and paige back together, even if it was a lie.

you hadn’t seen her in sixteen months, not since the night she’d stood in your cramped apartment, tears streaming down her face, saying.

“I love you, but you’re killing me, i have to let you go.” now, tthan was offering a resurrection.

“it’s a no-brainer” he said, his bluetooth earpiece glinting like a weapon.

“paige’s career is slipping—WNBA pressure, bad press, fans losing interest, you two together? that’s the spark we need, six months, fake it for the cameras, do the shoots, the appearances, you both get paid, and paige gets her spotlight back, the fans are obsessed with your love story.”

you laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in your chest. “love story? she walked away, she won’t do this.” ethan’s eyes flicked to the glass wall behind you.

“she already said yes.” you turned, and there she was, paige, standing in the hallway, her blonde hair loose, her hands twisting the hem of her UConn hoodie.

her blue eyes met yours, and it was like a punch to the soul, love, pain, longing, all tangled in a single glance.

she looked away, and your heart cracked open, you’d been her shadow back then, the reckless artist with paint stained hands and a heart too wild for her disciplined world.

you’d met at a uconn party, her laugh pulling you in like gravity, she was a supernova, bright, unstoppable, the basketball prodigy who carried a team on her back.

you were her opposite, chasing highs to dull your insecurities, dragging her into your chaos because you thought love meant sharing everything, even the darkness.

she’d tried to keep up, but it broke her, missed practices, sleepless nights, fights that left you both bleeding.

she’d walked away, and you’d spiraled, drowning in parties, drugs, and the ghost of her.

ethan’s voice cut through your thoughts. “sign it, you’re not exactly thriving either.” he was right.

you were scraping by, painting murals for dive bars, selling sketches online, your life a blur of hangovers and regret.

you signed the contract, not for the money, but for her, because even a lie with paige was better than a truth without her.

paige came in later, her steps hesitant, she sat across from you, her voice barely above a whisper.

“this is just business, y/n. we’re not… we’re not us anymore.” you nodded, but your eyes were locked on hers, searching for the girl who’d once whispered i love you under a blanket of stars.

“just business.” you said, but the words tasted like ash.

──────────────────────────────

the first photoshoot was in a sun drenched LA studio, the kind of place where dreams were manufactured.

you and paige stood on a mock basketball court, dressed in matching gatorade gear, her arm around your waist.

the photographer, a loud woman named lena, shouted.

“paige, tilt your head! y/n, look at her like she’s your everything!” you did, because she was.

paige’s smile was practiced, but when you whispered “you look like you’re about to dunk on me in these sneakers”

she laughed, real and bright, her nose scrunching the way it used to.

the cameras caught it, and lena screamed “that’s the shot!” the photos hit X that night, and the internet exploded.

“paige and y/n are BACK!”

“this is the love we’ve been praying for!”

fan accounts posted edits, your hands brushing, her smile softening, set to heart wrenching ballads, nike booked another campaign, gatorade pushed a commercial, and a luxury perfume brand offered a seven figure deal.

you were everywhere, billboards in times square, vogue covers, a mural in brooklyn with your faces intertwined, captioned “love wins.”

the appearances were a marathon, you held hands at a lakers game, her fingers warm but tense, the jumbotron zooming in on your “couple” moment.

you danced at a charity gala, her in a sapphire gown, you in a velvet suit, the cameras eating up every spin.

you posted X updates, her cooking pancakes in your kitchen, you stealing her hoodie, captioned “she’s my thief.”

the world bought it, but every moment was a tightrope, one misstep from collapse.

behind closed doors, you were ghosts to each other, you’d meet at her sleek manhattan apartment to plan “candid” moments, scripting flirty lines like actors in a play.

“we have to sell it.” paige would say, but her eyes lingered on you, tracing the curve of your jaw, the paint smudges on your hands.

you’d catch her staring and smile, and she’d blush, the air thick with unspoken things.

one night, after a shoot for a watch brand, you ended up on her balcony, the city humming below.

she sipped a sparkling water, her hair catching the moonlight. You held a whiskey, the burn steadying you.

“you ever think about us?” you asked, voice barely audible.

she didn’t look at you. “every day.” she said, her voice breaking.

“but we’re not good for each other, y/n, we never were.”

you wanted to argue, to tell her you could be better.

but the truth was heavy between you.

instead, you reached for her hand, and she let you, her fingers curling around yours like a lifeline.

“but in another universe, we'll be together.” she whispered, echoing her earlier words, and you felt your heart splinter.

──────────────────────────────

the first crack came at a festival in miami, a neon-drenched chaos of music and heat, you’d been booked for a “couple’s” appearance, posing for paparazzi and hyping a sponsor’s energy drink.

paige was electric, her hair loose, her smile a beacon for the cameras, but you saw the shadows, the way her hands trembled, the way she flinched at sudden sounds.

the WNBA season was brutal, the media scrutiny relentless, and the lie you were living was eating her alive.

you’d been drinking, the tequila blurring your edges, In a vip tent, away from the flashing lights, you pulled her close.

“dance with me, p.” you said, your voice soft, pleading, she hesitated, her eyes searching yours, but the music was a pulse, and she let you lead her, her body swaying against yours.

the crowd faded, and for a moment, it was just you and her, moving like you used to, her laugh warm against your neck.

then she kissed you, it was sudden, desperate, her lips crashing into yours like she was drowning and you were air.

you kissed her back, your hands tangling in her hair, pouring every ounce of your love into it, the world melted away, and it was 21 again, you and her against the universe.

when she pulled back, her eyes were wet, her breath ragged.

“i shouldn’t have done that.” she said, but she didn’t let go.

“i love you, y/n, i love you so much it’s tearing me apart.” you held her face, your thumbs brushing her tears.

“i love you too.” you said, the words spilling out like a prayer.

“in this universe, in every universe.” she smiled, broken and beautiful, and kissed you again, softer this time, like a promise she couldn’t keep.

from then on, the lie became truth, you’d sneak into her apartment after shoots, curling up on her couch with pizza and old rom-coms.

you’d text her at 3 a.m., and she’d call, her voice sleepy but warm, telling you about her day.

you’d steal kisses in empty stairwells, hold her hand under tables, laugh like the world wasn’t watching.

the fake relationship wasn’t fake anymore, it was a fragile, burning thing, too bright to last.

but love with you was a storm, and paige was caught in it.

you didn’t mean to pull her back into your chaos, but it crept in, slow and insidious.

it started at a party in la, a glittering mess of celebrities and excess.

you’d been stressed, the weight of the charade crushing you, so you slipped into a bathroom and snorted a line, the rush instant and sharp.

paige found you, her eyes wide with worry. “what are you doing?” you wiped your nose, grinning.

“just a pick-me-up, want some?” she shook her head, her voice firm.

“no, y/n, i can’t, you know that.” but she stayed, watching you with a mix of fear and fascination, the next time you offered, a joint, passed with a teasing smile, she didn’t say no.

“for you.” she said, taking a hit, coughing but laughing.

you cheered, pulling her into a kiss, and for a night, it felt like freedom.

it wasn’t freedom.

it was a trap.

──────────────────────────────

paige unraveled, and you were the thread pulling her apart, at first, it was subtle, she’d oversleep, miss a morning run, her jump shots rimming out in practice.

she’d always been a machine, the kind of athlete who could sprint suicides at dawn and still charm a press conference.

but now, her eyes were shadowed, her hands shook, and her smile was a mask.

her coach noticed, then her teammates, then the analysts.

x posts started circling

“what’s wrong with paige bueckers?”

“y/n’s dragging her down again.” you saw it too, but you were drowning in your own demons.

the drugs were your escape, from the guilt of hurting her, the pressure of the spotlight, the fear that she’d leave again.

you’d party till the world blurred, dragging her along, promising it was just fun, just a break.

she’d resist, her voice sharp. “this isn’t me, y/n!”—but then she’d look at you, and her resolve would crumble, because she loved you, and love made her weak.

one night, in a haze of smoke and strobe lights, you handed her a pill, some new thing a dealer had slipped you.

“it’s safe.” you lied, your voice slurred.

“it’ll make you feel like you’re flying.”

she stared at the pill, then at you, her eyes searching for the girl she’d loved.

“i'm doing this for you.” she said, her voice barely audible, and swallowed it.

you watched her change, and it was your fault.

the pills became a ritual, then a need.

she’d take them before games, her hands trembling as she tied her sneakers.

she’d pop them at parties, her laughter too loud, her eyes too empty.

you’d fight, screaming matches that left you both raw, the walls of her apartment echoing with your pain.

“you’re killing yourself!” you’d yell, the hypocrisy choking you.

“this isn’t you, paige!”

“you made me this way!” she’d scream, tears streaming down her face.

“i was fine before you came back! i was good!”

but she’d cling to you after, her body shaking, her voice small.

“i need you, y/n, don’t leave me.” and you’d stay, because you needed her too, even if it was poison.

the media turned vicious.

paparazzi caught you stumbling out of clubs, paige’s arm around you, her face pale.

headlines screamed.

“paige bueckers’ downfall: y/n’s toxic influence.”

“love or ruin? the paige and y/n tragedy.”

the brands pulled back, but the drama fed the fans.

they loved the star crossed lovers, the doomed romance, the shakespearean fall.

you tried to stop, to pull her out of the spiral, but it was too late.

one night, she looked at you, her eyes hollow, and said.

“i don’t know who i am anymore.” you held her, sobbing into her hair, but you couldn’t fix what you’d broken.

──────────────────────────────

the breaking point came at a club in chicago, a sneaker launch party pulsing with bass and heat.

paige was drunk, her movements sloppy, her eyes glassy.

you’d been arguing all day about the baggie of pills in her bag, about her missed practices, about the way she looked at you like you were her savior and her curse.

“you need to stop.” you’d said in the hotel, your voice cracking.

“you’re throwing everything away, paige.” she’d laughed, a bitter sound.

“you don’t get to play saint, y/n, you’re the one who started this.”

at the club, she stormed to the bar, downing shots like they were water.

you followed, the crowd parting around you.

“paige, please.” you said, grabbing her arm.

“let’s go home.” she yanked away, her face twisted with pain.

“home? what home? you ruined me, y/n, you took everything.”

the words cut deeper than any knife, but before you could respond, she swayed, her eyes rolling back.

you caught her as she collapsed, her body limp in your arms.

the crowd gasped, someone screamed for help, and you held her, your heart pounding, her pulse faint under your fingers.

the hospital was a nightmare of fluorescent lights and antiseptic.

sarah, her teammate, called you, her voice shaking “she overdosed, y/n, fentanyl, she’s alive, but it’s bad.”

paige woke up the next day, her skin gray, her eyes empty, you sat by her bed, your hands trembling, your face streaked with tears.

when she saw you, she didn’t smile, didn’t cry, just looked at you like you were a stranger.

“get out.” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“i can’t do this anymore, you’re killing me, y/n, you’re killing us.”

you stood, your legs shaking, and left, her words echoing in your skull.

the media called it a “health scare.” and the fake relationship dissolved.

the billboards faded, the X posts quieted, and you became a ghost, haunting a world that no longer wanted you.

──────────────────────────────

paige died seven weeks later.

it was a relapse, they said, a quiet slip no one saw coming.

she’d been trying to get clean, her teammate azzi told the press, but the weight of it all, her career, the media, you, was too much.

she was found in her apartment, a needle by her side, her heart still, her face peaceful in a way it hadn’t been in months.

the world mourned her, a star gone too soon.

X was a flood of grief.

“Rest in peace, Paige Bueckers.”

“You were our light.”

tributes poured in—teammates, fans, celebrities—but none of them knew the truth.

they didn’t know you, the shadow in her story, the one who’d loved her and destroyed her.

you couldn’t breathe.

the guilt was a monster, clawing at your chest.

you stopped painting, stopped eating, stopped living.

you saw her everywhere.

her smile on billboards.

her laugh in coffee shops.

her eyes in the mirror when you couldn’t face yourself.

you’d wake up screaming her name, your hands reaching for a girl who wasn’t there.

then you found the journal.

it was in a box of her things, sent by her mother, who’d written a note.

“she’d want you to have this.” the leather was worn, the pages filled with paige’s messy scrawl, her heart spilled in ink.

it was her secret, a record of her love, her fear, her ruin.

“i saw y/n today.” she wrote, early in the fake relationship.

“she’s still my sun, even when she burns. i want to save her, but I’m scared I’ll drown instead.”

“we kissed tonight, and it was like breathing again, but loving her is a storm, and i’m not strong enough to weather it.”

“the drugs are eating me alive, and y/n’s the only thing keeping me here, she’s my heart, my poison, i want to stop, but i can’t let her go. i'd rather die than lose her again.”

the last entry, dated the day before her death.

“im trying to be better, for me, for her, but i see her face, and im weak. if I go, I hope she knows i loved her till the end, in every other universe, we’re happy. i have to believe that.”

you read it until the pages blurred, your sobs echoing in your empty apartment.

she’d loved you, even when it killed her, and that truth was a knife, twisting deeper with every word.

you wrote her a letter, pages of apologies, i love yous, and promises you’d never keep.

you left it by the journal, next to an empty bottle of pills, the world closing in.

──────────────────────────────

the city was a graveyard of memories, her voice in dive bars, her touch in hotel rooms, her face on every screen.

you’d walk past the brooklyn mural, your faces faded but still there, and it felt like drowning.

you couldn’t escape her, couldn’t escape yourself.

the building was one you’d been to with her, for a shoot that felt like a dream.

the roof was quiet, the city a glittering sprawl below, stars winking above like they knew her secrets.

you stood at the edge, the wind cold but distant, your heart a shattered thing.

you thought of her laugh, her hands, the way she’d kissed you like you were her universe.

you thought of the girl you’d been.

yhe one who’d loved her before you became her ruin.

you closed your eyes, her journal’s words echoing in your mind.

“in every other universe, we’re happy.”

you saw her smile, her eyes bright, her hand reaching for yours in a world where you didn’t break her.

“i’ll be with you, in every other universe.”

you whispered, your voice soft, a vow to the stars.

you stepped forward.

weightless.

falling toward her.

toward a universe where you were together.

۶ৎ — @addl0vee @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp @avvwritesstufff @prettygirl-gabi @yailtsv @bebitts @heartsforari @usuallyshadowybasement @authentic-girl03 @private-but-not-a-secret @evanpeterstoe @destinybueckers44 @youmeandjennessey @starfulani @cherryswisherz @bueckersworld @paiges-1vur

[realmsofdreams]

face the north

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader, cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: six moons after leaving king’s landing, you’ve found refuge in winterfell with your son, daeron, shedding the targaryen name and embracing a quieter life. lord cregan stark offers you kindness and protection, and you begin to heal, finding strength in motherhood and the north’s stark beauty. but a letter from helaena arrives, revealing that alys rivers and her newborn child, aemond bastard, now reside in the red keep, stirring up old wounds and fresh doubts.

warnings: emotional angst and themes of betrayal, lingering heartbreak and internal conflict, subtle hints of potential romantic tension (not explicit), no physical violence, but heavy emotional weight, cliffhanger ending.

@dc-marvel-girl96 @ylva-syverson @immyowndefender @palomarv @sweetstrawberrianne

part 1 - part 2

“he’s growing fast,”

cregan said, voice low, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“strong, like his mother.”

daeron, now ten months old, giggled in your lap, his tiny hands grasping at the wooden wolf carving cregan had whittled for him. the stark lord sat across from you, his dark eyes soft as he watched your son play.

you managed a small smile, though your heart felt heavy.

“he’s all i have now,” you murmured, brushing daeron’s silver hair back.

it was true, here, in the north, you were no longer lady targaryen, no longer bound to a name that carried betrayal. you were just you, a woman carving out a life for her child. winterfell had been kind, its people welcoming despite their wariness of southerners. cregan, especially, had been a steady presence, never pushing, always there, offering a quiet strength that made you feel safe.

six months had passed since you’d left king’s landing, since you’d stood before aemond and shattered his pleas with words that still haunted you. you hated bastards so much… now you’re having a child with a bastard. you’d meant to wound him, and you had but the memory of his face, broken, pleading, lingered like a ghost. you’d tried to bury it, to focus on daeron, on the snow-dusted hills and the life you were building. but some wounds refused to heal.

a servant entered, bowing low, a scroll clutched in her hands.

“my lady,” she said, hesitating at the title you no longer claimed. “a raven from king’s landing.”

you took the scroll, its wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon. helaena’s hand, you knew at once, her gentle script unmistakable. cregan watched you, his gaze steady but questioning.

“do you want me to stay?” he asked.

“please excuse me,” you said softly, though you weren’t sure why. “i’ll read it alone.”

he nodded, rising with a quiet grace, and left you by the fire. daeron babbled, oblivious, as you broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. your eyes skimmed the words, and the warmth of the hall seemed to drain away.

‘to my dear friend in the north,

i write with a heavy heart, hoping this finds you and daeron well. winterfell suits you, i think its strength matches your own. but i must warn you of tidings from the south. alys rivers has come to king’s landing, her child born, a boy, with targaryen eyes. aemond has allowed her to stay in the red keep, claiming duty to his blood. the court whispers, and i fear this news will reach you one way or another. he is a shadow of himself, torn between guilt and pride, but i thought you should know. you deserve peace, but the south has a way of pulling us back. write to me, if you will. i miss your voice.

yours in kinship,

helaena targaryen’

the parchment trembled in your hands. alys rivers, in the red keep. her child, a son, like yours living under the same roof where you’d once dreamed of a future with aemond. and aemond, letting her stay. the betrayal, months old, roared back to life, sharp and searing. you pressed a hand to your chest, willing your breath to steady, but tears stung your eyes. daeron sensed your shift, his giggles fading as he reached for your face.

“oh, my love,” you whispered, kissing his brow, grounding yourself in his warmth.

but your mind raced. why had aemond done this? was it guilt, duty, or something worse, some lingering affection for her? you’d thought leaving would sever the tie, but here it was, tugging you back into the storm.

the door creaked, and cregan stepped back in, his expression cautious.

“bad news?” he asked, reading your face.

you set the letter down, swallowing hard.

“alys rivers,” you said, voice low.

“the woman who… she’s in king’s landing now, with her child. aemond’s child. he’s let them stay.”

cregan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of anger in his eyes, not at you, but at the man who’d caused this.

“he’s a fool,” he said plainly.

“to wound you once was shame enough. to let her linger in your place? that’s cruelty.”

you looked away, the fire blurring through unshed tears.

“i thought i was free of him,” you admitted, voice breaking.

“but every time i try to move forward, he’s there, in my head. in my heart. i hate it.”

cregan knelt beside you, not touching, just close enough to feel his warmth.

“you’re stronger than this pain,” he said, voice steady.

“you’ve built a life here, for you and the lad. he doesn’t get to take that from you.”

you met his gaze, finding solace in its honesty.

“what if he comes for me?”

you whispered, the fear slipping out before you could stop it.

“what if he wants daeron?”

“then he’ll face the north,” cregan said, a quiet fierceness in his tone. “and me.”

you nodded, grateful, though the ache remained. that night, you lay awake, daeron asleep beside you, the letter’s words looping in your mind. alys in the red keep. aemond’s son. the life you’d left behind, clawing at your heels. you thought of the words you’d hurled at aemond, the venom in them, and wondered if they’d hurt him as much as he’d hurt you. part of you hoped they had. part of you hated that you cared.

the next morning, as you walked the snowy courtyard with daeron bundled in furs, a shout rang out from the gates.

“rider from the south!” a guard called, and your heart stopped.

you turned, clutching daeron tighter, as hooves thudded against the snow. a cloaked figure dismounted, their face hidden, but the sigil on their cloak, a dragon, gleamed in the pale light.

who were they?

a messenger with a summons?

or

aemond himself, come to beg or demand? the question hung in the air, sharp as a blade, as the rider approached, and winterfell’s walls seemed to close in around you.

[aldisobey]

HE IS RISEN

Here to share some of my favorites with you from the first two bits. It caught the moooood tonight. This morning. Its my friday. Below because obnoxiously long? You're warned

Well, as immediately as whatever was living on his gloved hands would allow. He often had to let it go through the voicemail the first time as he divested himself of gloves, but there was almost always an immediate second call.

Storytelling masterwork. Look at the character building. Look at all the information we get. A glimpse at the work he does, the urgency of the previous nannies. I love stuff like this.

The other was an incident involving Johanna the cat, which resulted in Emmrich talking her through the process of dismantling the basement drop ceiling.

Here it is again. That world and character building. We get Johanna the cat. We get Rook and Emmrich being pretty capable as as a team too, or maybe I just hate audio instructions. Also cat shenanigans.

Rook had offered insight into what such a partnership might be.

The way I can feel a tiny heartbeat in my throat. Dangerous thoughts sir.

But then, that thought veered too closely to something that Emmrich had spent a great deal of time trying to ignore over the last six month

Ah he knows. But circling round it. Has that peace to think. The insight to want such perhaps?

He couldn’t be blamed, therefore, for answering the phone with a hurried and abrupt prompt of, “What’s happened?”

And all that build up and charcter leads to such a heavy drop, and a deep knowing of his thoughts without having to spell them out in moment

“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing immediately to gather his things.

Few words heavy emotin. This paints the deep worry and concern. I live for it.

there was an odd quality to her voice—stifled, as though with congestion. She’d been experiencing no such ailment this morning at breakfast, when she’d come in from her apartment..."Oh dear," tutted Emmrich

You pepper the world building so perfectly. Now we now their living situation, their schedule, how aware he is how attentive she is, how they both might. Oh dear is alright Rook's having a medical emergency but skirt aaaaaaa. And the mug!!!

Minanter River the previous afternoon and likely wouldn’t surface until she’d gleaned the name of the man’s tax adjuster from the color of his liver.

More workd building more character building shile moving scrne along you do see how fuckin well balanced this is don't you

He comforted himself with it as he sprinted towards the parking garage, open suit jacket flailing behind him.

I just like this mental image. Pause here and watch him run a bit.

“You’ll be alright, my dear,” Emmrich said. “Where’s Manfred?”

AAAAAA the pause was worth it. Made that my dear SLAP

“That’s quite fine, darling. Breathe—slow, deep. You’ll hear the door open in a few minutes. It will be a neighbor coming to take Manfred. I don’t want you to get up. I’ll come find you when I get home.”

A DARLING THE SLOW THE DEEP A HALL OF FAME and just lay down he'll come find here??! Its wild over here!?

Nonetheless, he kept the touch as perfunctory as possible—a brief, chaste touch to the very apple of her kneecap.

He might tooo direct the preciseness of it. Thinkin a bit much about it him.

He’d nearly tried to convince her to let him carry her to the car.

Such a simple sentence. Having me grinding my teeth.

He made himself veer away from those thoughts when he realized that it was his own bed he was imagining tucking her into.

ITS ALL SO DOMESTIC wait i get it enlightenment later

“So you must be Mrs. Volkarin,” said Reldevar immediately, holding out a hand for Rook to shake.

Bless you Dr

“Your husband’s got it in one, Rook.

St. Reldevar I'm lighting candles in your honor. How he stayed silent snd not beat red. That strained smile oh he is GOIN through it

sort of car-crash impulse. It happened very quickly, and he couldn’t quite make himself look away;

This entire paragraph is simply wild i am. Its just a butt. Its just a man looking at a butt. Why cant I turn away something is wrong here

Emmrich floundered for his own self-control.

And then the

Rook tossed her head in Emmrich’s direction, seemed to almost wink.

I love you Rook you know EXACTLY what youre up to. I love you for it.

"Yes,” Emmrich murmured. “I can certainly do that.”

Ooh no look at the time intermission for me. I love this story. I'll read it again.

Nanny AU? Nanny AU.

Emmrich was somewhat used to receiving panicked phone calls at work. The nanny situation with Manfred had been tumultuous for quite some time—there had been a year or so there where Manfred had burned through nannies like a fire through kindling. Four professionals had come and gone, and Emmrich had learned that very few things were sacred when one had an overly precocious genius-level three-year-old at home; especially one’s work hours. He’d taken to answering the phone immediately upon feeling it vibrate in his back pocket. Well, as immediately as whatever was living on his gloved hands would allow. He often had to let it go through the voicemail the first time as he divested himself of gloves, but there was almost always an immediate second call.

That was, until Rook.

In the six months since hiring her, Emmrich had only received two phone calls at work. Rook seemed to almost pathologically respect Emmrich’s working hours, and only called during utmost emergencies. The first, only a week into the current arrangement, had been to inform him that Manfred had vomited at school and she needed him to call the school and give them her information so that she could pick him up. The other was an incident involving Johanna the cat, which resulted in Emmrich talking her through the process of dismantling the basement drop ceiling.

Rook’s respect of his work hours was one of the many reasons why Emmrich had come to deeply appreciate her presence in his life—aside from her positive influence on Manfred, of course, and her skill in helping to nurture and educate him. Emmrich had known, of course, that single parenthood was an undertaking not to be taken lightly, and he would certainly never regret the decision to create his little family, but the lack of a partner in the endeavor had rankled at times. Rook had offered insight into what such a partnership might be.

But then, that thought veered too closely to something that Emmrich had spent a great deal of time trying to ignore over the last six months.

In any case, the dropoff in sudden calls had allowed Emmrich to reclaim a piece of his own sense of peace that he hadn’t even realized had gone missing. He’d at least stopped walking into work while wondering what unplanned issues would arise during the day.

On the other hand, he now knew that on the occasions that his phone did ring at work—with Rook’s particular ringtone to indicate to him that it was her calling—it was truly an emergency.

He couldn’t be blamed, therefore, for answering the phone with a hurried and abrupt prompt of, “What’s happened?” when Rook’s ringtone pierced the calm and quiet of his office on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Manfred’s fine,” she said immediately, prompting yet another rush of gratitude from him—she was intuitive that way. The relief flooded back out of his system, however, when Rook followed it up with, “I’m really sorry to bother you, Emmrich, but I think I need to go to the hospital, so you should probably come home.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing immediately to gather his things. On a handful of occasions, he’d been summoned home to take over care if a nanny had some unforeseen event—issues with their own childcare, sudden mid-day illness, and on one occasion an on-the-spot resignation. That had been a memorable and unfortunate day.

A medical emergency was a new and horrifying occurrence.

“Manfred crawled under the hedgerow and I had to chase him through the field behind the house,” Rook said, and there was an odd quality to her voice—stifled, as though with congestion. She’d been experiencing no such ailment this morning at breakfast, when she’d come in from her apartment in the guesthouse and helped him clean up the carnage of Manfred’s oatmeal. She, herself, had smelled of strawberries. Her skirt had fluttered just a little too high as she ran down the driveway to hand him his forgotten travel mug as he ducked into his car.

“Oh dear,” Emmrich tutted, locking his office behind him as he swept into the hallway. He made the split-second decision to simply text Johanna—the person, not the cat—that he’d had a family emergency and would follow up with her about the day’s cases at a later time. Johanna was unlikely to notice his absence, as it was; she was elbows-deep in some unfortunate soul pulled from the Minanter River the previous afternoon and likely wouldn’t surface until she’d gleaned the name of the man’s tax adjuster from the color of his liver.

“And he’s fine,” Rook reiterated, as though she genuinely thought that that was still his major concern after she’d told him that she was intending to seek emergency medical attention for something that Emmrich’s very own three-year-old had subjected her to. “But there was deathroot? Growing in the field? And I’m super allergic. Usually I just break out in hives, but there was so much of it, and I was wearing a sundress, and anyway I’m having trouble breathing—"

“Do you have an epi-pen?”

“No,” Rook said, “Like I said—it’s never been this bad before. I think I might have inhaled some of the pollen.”

“Calm down,” Emmrich said, sinking into his medical training and pushing the alarm to the back of his mind. It had been years since his practice had taken its turn towards the deceased, and he was unused to treating living patients, but the knowledge was still there. He comforted himself with it as he sprinted towards the parking garage, open suit jacket flailing behind him. “There should be Benadryl in the master bedroom ensuite. Chew two capsules, open a window and sit down. If you feel your throat closing or start feeling lightheaded, you need to call emergency. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” Rook’s voice was faint—less assured than he’d ever heard her.

“You’ll be alright, my dear,” Emmrich said. “Where’s Manfred?”

“I put him in his room with some toys. He’s probably making a mess, but there’s nothing he can hurt himself with and I didn’t trust myself—”

“That’s quite fine, darling. Breathe—slow, deep. You’ll hear the door open in a few minutes. It will be a neighbor coming to take Manfred. I don’t want you to get up. I’ll come find you when I get home.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Rook said, and the fact that this was her token argument showed her state.

“I’ll not let you drive yourself to the hospital in the state you’re in,” Emmrich said firmly. “I’ll be there shortly. Stay calm.”

Rook’s low, mumbled agreement and the tone of the call ending sounded as Emmrich started his car and the phone connected to the sound system. As he peeled backwards out of his assigned parking spot and executed a maneuver of suspect legality to merge summarily onto the roadway, he initiated a second call.

The line picked up immediately, as he suspected it would.

“Myrna,” he said, even before she’d finished her cool, perfunctory Hello? as she answered the phone. “Are you or Vorgoth working from the home office today?”

-0-

“I’m really sorry about all of this, Emmrich.”

For at least the third time since a nurse had led them into this awful little room, Emmrich offered Rook a strained smile and patted her knee. She’d put on leggings before his arrival at the house, probably to cover up the scrapes and bruises from her excursion through the hedgerow and deathroot patch, and his hand met nothing but soft, body-warm cotton. Nonetheless, he kept the touch as perfunctory as possible—a brief, chaste touch to the very apple of her kneecap.

“Don’t apologize, Rook,” he said, shifting restlessly in his plastic chair. Rook was perched in a large vinyl medical recliner, knees drawn up to her chest and face pressed to her own thighs. Her breathing had become slightly less labored in the last hour or so, after he’d arrived at the house to find her sitting on the chaise lounge in the master bedroom reading nook, face ashen and hands fisted into one of his mother’s quilts. He’d nearly tried to convince her to let him carry her to the car.

As her breathing eased, however, she began to itch and the rash worsened—large plaques of urticaria covering a vast swath of her skin. Emmrich kept a careful vigil on the patches, on the color of her lips, looking for any sign of a worsening reaction.

They had her on a pulse oximeter, which was beeping steadily at 74 beats per minute and 99% oxygen saturation—both good signs. A nurse had taken her blood pressure upon their arrival, frowned slightly, and left. Emmrich suspected this to mean that it had been slightly elevated, which was to be expected with the stress of the situation and the antihistamine he’d directed her to take earlier.

They’d been waiting for over an hour for the attending physician.

“I don’t know what’s taking so long,” Rook sighed into her knees, as she itched frantically at a plaque of hives on her shoulder.

“Unfortunately, with your vitals, you’re likely not considered top priority at the moment,” Emmrich murmured.

“I want to go home,” Rook muttered, a tone of abject misery to her voice, and Emmrich wanted nothing more than to fulfill her desire. Take her home, put her to bed and offer her something warm and comforting to drink.

He made himself veer away from those thoughts when he realized that it was his own bed he was imagining tucking her into.

A wholly inappropriate thought to have about one’s live-in nanny, said a voice in the back of his head, which unfortunately sounded too much like Johanna for comfort. You decrepit old popinjay, it added as though to confirm.

Emmrich indulged in a sigh of his own, buried his face in the heel of his hand, and said, “A little longer, darling.” When he realized what he’d said—and he’d used that word earlier as well, hadn’t he?—he looked back up in time to catch an odd, soft expression cross Rook’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wearily. “Habit.”

“I like it,” she whispered. She looked very small, sad and…young sitting there, wrapped around herself in a tense bundle.

Before Emmrich could say or do anything, the curtain of the triage room slid aside. This, of course, was for the best.

“Sigrid?” said the man who’d just arrived—the attending physician, by all indications, given he was wearing the darker blue scrubs that this hospital used to indicate such a role, and Emmrich in fact recognized him as one of the ER physicians he’d had encounters with in his role as medical examiner.

“Yes,” said Rook, though it took Emmrich a moment to remember that yes, that actually was her legal name. The one she never used and seemed averse to anyone else using, either. To evidence this, she added, “Though, I go by Rook—it should be in my paperwork as my preferred—”

“Oh, it does say that,” said the physician, tugging a rolling chair several unnecessary feet across the cramped room. He mounted it backwards and tapped his clipboard. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to this whole preferred name thing. Us old dogs have to learn a few new tricks, I suppose. So you’re Rook, she/her pronouns, and who’ve you brought with you today?” He looked to Emmrich, furrowed his brows, and said, “Oh, Doctor Volkarin. I almost didn’t recognize you out of the morgue.”

Emmrich offered a brief, wane smile. “Doctor Reldevar.”

“So you must be Mrs. Volkarin,” said Reldevar immediately, holding out a hand for Rook to shake.

Oddly, Rook didn’t deny it—she shook Reldevar’s hand, though unsmiling, and offered Emmrich a brief shrug when the good doctor looked back down at his clipboard.

“Oh, sorry, stuck my foot in my mouth again,” Reldevar said, still examining the clipboard, “You kept your maiden name, huh? Lots of women doing that these days. Anyway, Rook, it looks like you’re in today about some breathing trouble?”

“An allergic reaction to deathweed, it would seem,” Emmrich said, taking the burden of speaking away from her—which she offered him a small, grateful smile for behind her knees. “Poor Rook is very allergic, and crawled through a patch this afternoon after Manfred—that is, my son—ran off into the field behind our house. I believe she inhaled some of the pollen and received quite considerable topical exposure. She was badly scraped by the thorns. I directed her to take an antihistamine to stop the worst of the initial reaction, but steroids will probably be necessary to prevent another, worse recurrence of the reaction due to the extent of exposure.”

Reldevar hummed, pursed his lips, flipped through the pages of Rook’s paperwork for a further moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed in Emmrich’s direction. “Your husband’s got it in one, Rook. We’ll fix you up with a steroid injection here in the hospital and we’ll watch you for a little bit to make sure the reaction is going down, and then we’ll send you home with…eh, probably a prednisone prescription and a topical ointment for those hives. How’s that sound?”

“Um, fine?” said Rook, still itching, and Reldevar presented her with his hand to shake again.

“Sounds good,” he said, and leaned over to shake Emmrich’s hand as well. “Take care, Doctor.” He winked. “Take the missus home and give her a day away from the kid, huh? Sounds like he’s a handful.”

Emmrich responded with nothing but a strained smile, and Reldevar took his leave back out the curtain of the triage room.

As the curtain was still swinging, Rook took in a deep breath and said, “I just felt like it was harder to explain the situation—”

“Of course,” Emmrich said, wiggling his hands equivocally in front of himself. “That’s entirely—”

“—and I thought, maybe he’d listen to me if he thought—”

“Oh, absolutely.”

They fell into an odd, awkward silence of the sort that they’d never really had to suffer through. Rook was almost universally easy to talk to, at least so far as Emmrich was concerned, and conversation had always flowed easily between them—whether it had to do with Manfred, various professional conversations that had to take place due to Emmrich’s position as Rook’s employer and de facto landlord, or conversations of a more personal nature.

Rook settled back into the recliner, looking small and tired, and Emmrich could do nothing but reach over to pat her knee again.

It took another half an hour for a nurse to arrive with the promised steroid injection.

“So this needs to go into a large muscle,” said the nurse. “We usually do the muscle in one of your glutes—meaning this area here—” the nurse gestured to her own rear, somewhere in the area where thigh became butt. “If that’s alright with you, I just need you to lift your dress and pull your leggings to the side.”

Rook sighed, but showed no significant reluctance to the idea—even despite Emmrich’s continued presence. He knew, obviously, that this was his cue to excuse himself or at least look away, but he was trapped by some sort of car-crash impulse. It happened very quickly, and he couldn’t quite make himself look away; Rook rose from her chair, pulled her sundress up around her waist and lowered her leggings just far enough to reveal the buttery expanse of one smooth thigh and asscheek. She was clearly wearing very scant undergarments. The only real indication that she was wearing panties at all was the barest peek of a dark purple thong cresting the apple of her hip.

“This might sting a little more than your average flu shot,” the nurse cautioned as she swiped an alcohol wipe onto Rook’s flank. “It’ll ache a bit tomorrow. But once we’re done, you can go home, so that’s good…”

Emmrich became aware of just how hard he’d been clenching his jaw when Rook gasped at the prick of the syringe and his mouth, quite involuntarily, fell open just slightly. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. His legs, crossed over each other in a habitual mannerism, ached from how tensely he was holding himself. Between them, his traitorous prick stirred, intrigued by a breathless sound from a beautiful woman and the sight of her nearly bare ass.

“Oh, shit, you weren’t kidding,” Rook said, fingers visibly whitening on the armrest of the chair she’d bent herself over. “That hurts. Oh, Maker, that fucking burns—”

“Sorry,” the nurse said, genuine sympathy in her voice as she capped the syringe. She dropped it into a nearby sharps container and fastened a piece of gauze over the pinprick of blood now welling up on Rook’s otherwise pristine skin. Emmrich floundered for his own self-control. “Good news is, you’re done! The doctor already sent your prescription over to your pharmacy on file. Your discharge papers are on the table here. Any questions?”

“Oh, I live with a doctor.” Rook tossed her head in Emmrich’s direction, seemed to almost wink. “He’ll take care of me, and I just really want to go home.”

“Medical examiner,” Emmrich said, perhaps a little louder than he’d meant to. Rook had yet to pull her leggings back up all the way—the purple thong abided, teasing him from underneath the hiked-up hem of her dress. “I do have—technically, yes, I’m a medical doctor—"

“Fair enough,” said the nurse, in what was perhaps the politest way possible to say I do not have time for this. To Rook, she added, “Feel better!” and then took her leave to the tune of the curtain rings rattling on the rod and the swish of scrubs.

“Your leggings, my dear,” Emmrich said into the subsequent silence—or, at least, the lack of conversation; the rooms around them were still full of sound. Beeping heart monitors, coughing patients and the tapping of shoes on tile.

“Oh,” said Rook, who in that very moment seemed to remember that her entire hip and most of her right asscheek were uncovered. She pulled them up, wincing at the drag over her recently abused flesh, and sighed into her palm. “Take me home, please?”

“Yes,” Emmrich murmured. “I can certainly do that.”

-0-

Upon walking through the door, Johanna immediately made her discontent at the hour of their arrival known. It was indeed quite significantly past her typical dinnertime, and she was a creature of habit—but Emmrich still considered the unrepentant yowling a bit excessive.

“Oh, hush,” he admonished her, ushering Rook in the door with a hand at the small of her back. She’d deteriorated rapidly on the car ride home—visibly tiring and becoming distressed and impatient with the persistent itching of her skin. She was bright red in places, including her shoulders and arms, and her normally pinned hair had come down in large drapes against her face and the back of her neck. At some point, Emmrich had offered her a discarded cardigan from the backseat, and she now wore it draped around her shoulders. It was gray, a little lumpy, and inspired an incongruous urge of possessiveness to curl itself around Emmrich’s heart every time he glanced at her.

“Rook,” he began as he turned on the foyer light, “It would comfort me greatly if you stayed in the guest room tonight, instead of returning to your flat in the guest house. It’s entirely up to you, of course, but it would ease my mind if—”

“Believe me, Emmrich, the last thing I want to do right now is walk all the way to the guest house,” Rook sighed. Hearteningly, she pulled his cardigan tighter around herself. “I’ll make up the bedroom for myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Emmrich said, in almost the tone he used to admonish Manfred when he indulged his more mischievous impulses. “I’ll make up the bedroom and run you a bath. It would be a good idea to remove any remaining material from your skin before you sleep.”

“Emmrich, I can’t let you—” Rook sighed, grunted, and attempted to reach her hand down the back of her shirt to, presumably, scratch at a patch of urticaria on an inaccessible portion of her back. “You’re my—I can’t put you out like that—”

“Nonsense,” Emmrich replied, determined to make that the end of the conversation. He mounted the stairs rapidly, using his superior height to his advantage for once, and he’d already begun filling the guest bathroom tub with nearly-scalding water by the time he saw Rook make her way into the bedroom through the cracked door.

Of the bedrooms in his house, one of them was the master—which featured a full ensuite bathroom with whirlpool tub and generously-sized rainfall shower stall. Manfred’s bedroom was attached Jack-and-Jill style to Emmrich's office via a childproofed bath that featured a toilet with a potty seat installed, child-height vanity and a shower bath strewn with all manner of toys. The fourth bedroom was smallest and therefore had the smallest bathroom—a simple three-quarters bath with only a tub, though it was claw-footed and generous in size. Emmrich knelt on the plush rug and ran the bath, peering through the cracked door and attempting to convince himself not to.

It was unlikely Rook wasn’t aware of his presence in the bathroom—she could hear the water running, and would almost certainly know that he hadn’t left it to run unattended, if only through habit given the current absence of three-year-olds on the premises. Even so, as she was meandering through the room and passing in and out of view, she was shedding clothes.

First the cardigan, which bared the angry rash on her arms and shoulders. Then the shoes and the leggings—when she next wandered by, Emmrich realized that she had scraped her knees up quite badly, likely while pursuing Manfred under the hedgerow. She stood center in the room for a moment (Emmrich drew a hand through the pooling water in the tub and, upon realizing it was scalding hot, switched the faucet to cool for a moment) and pulled the pins out of her hair. Disappeared. When she next came back into view—

Well, the dress had gone, and he discovered that the thong and bra set had a pattern of skulls.

Emmrich finally convinced his eyes downwards. He was unsurprised but nonetheless mortified to find the telltale swell of an erection evident against his inner thigh. He sighed and rubbed some of the cool water across his forehead.

If this woman was a test from the Maker—or something even more esoteric; a challenge to his vows as a physician perhaps? A sudden hurdle for his self-control and dedication to gentlemanliness to overcome?—she was certainly serving her purpose masterfully.

“Emmrich?”

She’d found a robe—fluffy and white, something he’d put in the closet long ago that might have been left behind when a lover made an unceremonious exit from his life. He’d laundered it regularly for years on the off chance that it would find use again, by a paramour or a guest. Emmrich was utterly unsure which of those labels Rook fell under, especially in the moment.

She seemed to almost know what she’d done—he would certainly not go so far as to say the parade in front of the bathroom door had been intentional, but she at least seemed not to care if he’d been watching. She at least seemed content with the idea that he knew the color of her underwear and the shape of the tattoo on her hip.

It was, interestingly, a black bird. A rook, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Yes?” Emmrich responded, with an only slightly-too-long pause as she stood in the bathroom doorway and he attempted to make his tongue form sounds.

“Do you have any of that oatmeal bath left from when Manfred had HFMD?”

“Oh! I very well may.” Grateful for a reason to flee and collect himself, Emmrich did so. The colloidal oatmeal was in the back of the cabinet in Manfred’s bathroom—half a box left over from Manfred’s recent bout of Hand, Food and Mouth Disease. A disgusting five days of Emmrich’s life which he was not eager to relive.

Manfred’s fingernails were still regrowing.

Luckily, the thought of weeping blisters did wonders for the exorcism of blood from certain areas of the body. When Emmrich returned to the bathroom, his erection had flagged, and he was able to finish running the bath with all of the professional courtesy demanded of his Hippocratic oath and the employee-employer relationship he held with the attractive and berobed woman sitting on the toilet lid.

“Test the water temperature before you get in,” Emmrich cautioned as he turned off the spigot. “I’m afraid I may have run it too hot to start.”

He’d expected Rook to simply agree, or wait until he’d exited the bathroom, or at least simply use her hand to test it. To his incredulity, she immediately slunk over, pulled the hem of the robe above her knee and dipped a toe in.

The color of her nail polish matched her underwear. He did not know why—or perhaps he was just lying to himself—but it was this particular detail that brought his cock instantly, painfully back to full hardness.

He could not stop himself from imagining those toes in his mouth.

“I think I will also start my nighttime ablutions,” he said, perhaps hoarsely—he could not bring himself to care in the moment.

“Sure,” Rook said vaguely, watching the oatmeal swirl in the tub. “Thanks, Emmrich. Oh—would you help me put the ointment on after this? There are places on my back that I can’t reach.”

“Of course,” Emmrich said, feeling like his head would pop off his shoulders.

He put as many doors between himself and Rook as he possibly could. The guest bathroom, the guest room, his own bedroom door and then the door to his own ensuite. He spent a moment against the back of the bathroom door, eyes squeezed shut, talking himself off the edge.

“Oh, fuck it,” he hissed, and tore into his trousers with the furiousness of a man possessed. He stumbled to the shower, removing clothes as he went, and almost stumbled into the shower stall with his socks still on. The cold water did absolutely nothing to soothe his hot skin or boiling blood—as he slid down onto his knees and tilted his head back under the rainfall of the showerhead, he was already stroking himself with a franticness more typically seen in those half his age.

Maker, she made him feel half his age. When she pranced through his kitchen wearing a sundress and a smile. When she poked her head into his study at night to tell him that she’d read his son to sleep, asked him how his day had gone, sat on the settee and talked to him for an hour. When she let him call her darling and pretended to be his wife.

Oh, it was almost too easy to imagine it. To pretend.

He stripped his cock, pictured her hand. Her mouth. Her small breasts in their purple skull-and-lace vesture. The way he would worship her with his hands and mouth. How did she taste, how did she sound, what was the color of her—

He gasped, fingers curled into the tile of the shower floor, and came into the lukewarm water swirling around his knees.

The shame kicked in almost immediately, even as he watched the evidence of his depravity vanish down the drain. He was a man in his fifties, a father, a doctor. This sort of behavior was so completely below him, so completely inappropriate—

But damn, had it felt good. The last three years, since the blessing of Manfred came into his life, he’d allowed himself to become almost completely divorced from his own sexuality. It had been over a year since he’d had sex, and even masturbation had seemed like too much effort most nights. When he did work up the energy to reach a hand down, he did so while conditioning his hair and making lists in his head.

The relief of a true release was almost as stark as the accompanying self-loathing.

 Later, as he carefully rubbed the ointment onto Rook’s back and pointedly did not let himself look beyond the patches of rash he was focusing on, he mumbled, “I want you to know, Rook, that I…value you.”

Rook turned, hair pooled over her shoulder. She was not embarrassed of the fact that her shirt was hanging loosely off her neck, and he could not avoid seeing the peak of one brown nipple.

“I know,” she said, and Emmrich could almost convince himself that she was simply tired, or trusted him as a medical professional, or did not even consider that he might look based simply on his age.

Almost—were it not for the small, satisfied smirk he saw in the vanity mirror as she turned back around.

[tgmsunmontue]

A picture is worth 1000 words - 17/?

Hangster post-TGM events, Jake and Bradley becoming friends on Instagram through increasingly competitive thirst traps.

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN

PART SEVENTEEN

                Bradley looks at the empty fridge in vaguely disguised horror before remembering abruptly that Jake definitely cooks. That he probably eats all his meals with his family when he’s home, breakfast yesterday morning clear evidence of that. There is however plenty of hot drink options, multiple different types of hot chocolate coupled with a variety of mugs with cartoon characters on him. Months ago the idea of Hangman having these in his kitchen would have been preposterous, now though it is so very Jake. It doesn’t surprise him anymore.

                “Hey… morning. Brought you coffee.”

                “Mmm… I could get used to this.”

                “Yeah?”

                “Definitely.”

                Jake’s watching him, eyes intent but there’s a spark of mischievousness and Bradley sets both mugs on the side table, well out of the way and then he crawls onto the bed, pinning the sheet and blanket over Jake’s legs, grins as he places kisses up over his chest, feeling ridiculously happy and he needs to get over the fact that it carries a twinge of guilt for some reason. He squashes it. He’s allowed to be happy.

                “Proper morning kiss…”

                “Mmm. Could get used to that too.”

                “Good. Going to be a regular occurrence.”

                “Bold of you to assume I’m not going to kick you out…”

                “Haha,” Bradley says, rolling his eyes, because he knows Jake is trying to annoy him now; they’d talked plenty last night about starting something serious and he suspects Jake’s in as deep as he is. It’s a little bit terrifying but also equally exciting. Hell. He’s here staying with Jake’s family.

                “I’m sure you can convince me otherwise.”

                “You mean the coffee wasn’t enough?”

                “It was a good start.”

                “You drive a hard bargain. How do you feel about blowjobs?”

                He doesn’t let Jake answer, covers his mouth with his own, feels Jake’s hands travel over the bare skin of his stomach and sides, grip at his ass through the borrowed sweatpants.

                “Mmm…” Jake hums. “Smart man.”

                “Yeah?”

                “Knew you’d figure out all my weaknesses.”

                Bradley laughs, nips one of Jake’s earlobes playfully.

                “Already?”

                “I’m an open book…”

                “You are not,” Bradley mutters, because seeing Jake at home like this is all new.

                “I’m an open book at home. I’m more professional at work.”

                “Professional? Is that what you’re calling it?”

                “We’re all competitive and a little arrogant at work…”

                “A little?”

                “I think you like it…”

                Bradley opens his mouth to disagree then closes it again. Jake is smirking at him, like he knows what his attitude and cockiness does to Bradley and he shakes his head, bends his head down for another kiss.

[iceysnow]

going through my docs and found this half-baked slop. for reference, I read a whole lot of identity reveal fics when I made this. He was the mightiest mortal alive. Within him resided the wisdom of Solomon, the legendary strength of Hercules, the inexhaustible stamina of Atlas, the potent powers of Zeus, the unwavering courage of Achilles, and the swift speed of Mercury. He bordered on the divine.

Yet, No god was a frail ten-year-old boy. At least, no one would expect a god to be as such. 

This wasn't supposed to happen, they weren't supposed to know. But now, the knowledge lay bare between them.

Their gazes fixed onto his diminutive stature, struggling hard to compare the boy to the imposing figure they had known. Hard to believe. Even Batman had been stunned by his appearance. The villain responsible for this sat unconscious, fell the instant the forced transformation took hold. All that remained was a disheveled child.

“I-I can explain… “ Explain what, what was he supposed to explain!? ‘Oh yeah, I tricked you guys for a whole year into thinking I was a functional adult. The thing is, I’m actually a ten-year-old orphan who was forced to protect all of magic by six gods and a wizard. Oopsie daisy! Please don't kick me out!’ There was no way that would work. 

And even if, by some miracle, they were receptive, this was the Justice League. Sure, Batman had Robin, and Superman had Superboy (almost every top-ranking hero has a mini-me and yet he’s the outlier)—but they operated under intense supervision. Billy seriously doubted his pantheon would qualify as "responsible adults" in their eyes.

"I don't think there's any explaining you can do." Supermans arms crossed, a clear frustration etched upon his face. 

"I know, but—!" his voice cracked. Crap, I'm terrible at this.

“You look seven.” Batman chimes in, remaining stoic. 

“I’m ten!” he wasn't even that small. Granted, he was on the shorter side, but that's the best you can get when you’re a malnourished street rat. Yeah, he got an apartment with Uncle Dudley’s help last month (the gods had kept complaining, and complaining, and they wouldn’t stop), that still didn’t erase his time in the gutter.

They frowned at his outburst. Was he being too loud? Or was it something else? It was probably the latter, a disquieting feeling settling in his gut. The wave of sympathy and pity washing over their faces confirmed his fears. Honestly, was it so unbelievable?

Superman speaks up again, breaking the silence."See, that's the problem. This is unhealthy—especially for someone your age." he reprimanded in that familiar, condescending tone that always grated Billy's nerves. It felt belittling, oppressive, inherently dismissive.

He hated it. 

"You were all perfectly fine with me on the mission last week!!" He knew that their concern stemmed from a place of care, that they would likely react this way to any child in his situation. None of these words of acknowledgement equaled words of acceptance.

"We didn’t know last week." Superman countered

“I didn’t want you to know!” 

"What we're trying to say is—you shouldn't have lied about something like this. If you wanted to join a hero team…" Hal slowed down, pausing his words. (Even behind his mask, Billy could sense the pity radiating off him) "Young Justice is too old for you…but…"

"That's exactly the problem! It doesn't matter about the team; you're too young to be dealing with these kinds of threats!" Barry swung his arms around, snarling when words couldn’t be spoken through tongue, instead communicating through half-baked gestures.  "If you're ten now, that means you became a hero when you were barely eight! Nightwing hardly passed for Batman, and he was nine!”

And at that, those words, Billy lost it.

 “Do you think I wanted to do this! Do you really think EVERYONE gets to choose!?”

This was stupid, they were stupid! What was even stupider was he could already see the turning cogs in their heads.

[iinarizaki]

pro freak

things just don't go so well on a call for poor Aizawa...and he needs you 🫵 tags: 18+, 4.0k, aizawa x f!reader (sorta, I don't think I used any pronouns or gendered petnames with this one), guys it's sex pollen there's like unprotected marathon sex, cunnilingus, cum, sweat, masturbation (m!), dry humping, things are happening.

“Ha! Even the great Eraserhead can’t beat me. So sad how the heroes are falling since All Might’s retirement!” The lanky twenty-something currently attempting to do circles around him taunts him with that annoying, grating voice of his. 

Attempting is the key word here. While still being surprisingly fast, Aizawa has still managed to stun him twice but there was some stupid counter to his quirk that is proving full capture a little challenging. And the– admittedly foolish as he knows much better– added distraction of being almost late to a dinner date with you is tugging his full attention from the urban jungle that he chases this young idiot through, swinging from buildings and lamp posts like that one fictional American superhero All Might compared him to one day not too long ago… Spider-boy or something. 

It’s just the thought of disappointing you, of missing the expensive reservation that he somewhat reluctantly booked six months in advance at some hyper popular restaurant you wistfully mentioned wanting to go to after seeing an instagram reel…

Just to see you happy. 

Knowing it’s work related and you would forgive him easily is a weak comfort but he would rather not have to ask for forgiveness in the first place. Having you in his life is something he never realized he needed until one day you just seemed to show up and he quickly realized that it would kill part of him if you weren’t around. 

He just needs to hurry and wrap this guy up, then alert the police or Best Jeanist or whoever else is close enough to pick him up. It’s not like he really cares if he gets all the glory…

Especially on a minor incident like this. The guy was stealing from an improperly unsecured bank truck and knocked out the guards. It’s basically kid shit. 

As he tries to quickly consider his options and form a plan, an opening appears when his opponent turns his head to taunt him further, only to clip the side of a building, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, his plastic helmet cracking on the sidewalk. He dives forward with his scarf, activating his quirk and using his scarf to carry him closer to further incapacitate him when he passes the opening of a street and out of his peripheral he sees something coming towards him at speed.

Before he can react, a cloud of something pink is thrown at him. He flinches when it slips through the slats in his visor, the powder burning his already sensitive eyes harshly. Thinking quickly despite the burning sensation that now spreads down his neck, rolling over his shoulders and making him shudder. 

Taking a literal blind chance, he flicks one end of his scarf out to suspend himself from a street light. Unable to stop his momentum, he swings wildly, bumping his leg painfully as he wraps his other scarf around the second perpetrator.

His shoulder protests holding his weight, Aizawa forcing himself to bite back a grunt and the growing hot feeling beginning to thrum through his veins. He carefully drops himself to the ground before launching the now freed second end of his scarf to wrap the first of the hooligans that still lays unconscious. 

“What is this?” He asks sharply to the grumbling form on the ground, trying to open his eyes but every time he tries it just burns so badly that his eyelids can only flutter. 

“My quirk. You got hit with a full dose of my love dust!” 

Aizawa grimaces, and not just at the corniness of the bullshit these young villains have been spouting recently. 

“And what does it do?” He asks sharply as he uses his chin to bump the comms button on his watch. “Eraserhead here. Need assistance.”

“Already have your location. Best Jeanist is in the area and on his way. Hang tight.” Dispatch crackles back via his earpiece. 

“It’s in the name, wise-ass.” His aggressor snaps back with a clear grin that Aizawa can hear in his voice while the dispatcher spoke. Honestly he couldn’t be more happy that he can’t see the full expression on their face, though the burn is starting to subside, leaving more of that weird pleasurable tingle in its wake that seems to be intensifying. 

“We’ll just have to ask you two more questions at the station.” He sighs, forcing himself to breathe normally when that pleasurable tingle spreads past his shoulders in earnest, snaking down towards his groin. 

“If you make it that long.” The dust villain mutters before they start to laugh, earning a renewed glare of disgust from Aizawa. 

Before he can inquire further into whatever the hell that means, the sound of confident steps approaches from behind as Best Jeanist interrupts them. 

“Good evening, Eraserhead. Seems like you’ve gotten into a bit of a situation.” Best Jeanist’s proper tone clips along, never overly friendly, but that’s something he’s always appreciated about him. All professionalism and getting the job done so they can just go home. 

“Yeah, uh, hey, Jeanist. There’s just this one and the kid on the corner.” 

“Understood. I have backup on the way.” Best Jeanist just nods, strings whipping out to secure the two of them so Aizawa can undo his scarf.

“Ugh but c’mon, you need to let me go, I have class tomorrow! We didn’t even do anything!” The whining would-be villain at his feet huffs. 

“Should have thought about that before throwing weird dirt at me.”

“It’s not dirt.” 

Well that can be said for sure. The the initial burn was closer to lightning, sparking through him harshly, but now burn is slowly licking its way down his spine, over his abdominals, almost too uncomfortable at first before it subsides into a pleasant buzz, his thoughts drifting to you now– in compromising positions, whimpers and breathy moans replaying in total replay. 

Everything in him begs to go see you, very nearly overwhelming him as he attempts to stay professional and alert…except he brings his hands up to his eyes and makes the mistake of rubbing at them to see if he can open them yet. 

The heat that explodes immediately catches him off guard by how potent it is. He staggers forward, the sensation almost bringing him to his knees. 

“Are you alright, Eraserhead?” Best Jeanist asks curiously. “Do I need to call for a medic?” 

“No, it’s fine. I will go see Recovery Girl myself.” He says quickly, not really wanting anyone else to know about whatever this ‘love dust’ is. 

Getting attacked in battle was easier than now having to sit in Recovery Girl’s station, his scarf unraveled from his neck and strategically placed in his lap while she finishes running her tests. 

It’s not like he can just knock out their well-meaning nurse, nor does he want to but the embarrassment is terrible and invasive, and being rock hard while she shakes her head at him and chastises him is even fucking worse. His skin feels like it’s on fire, desire to be with you heavy in his gut and balls even heavier. 

Fortunately between texts to you to let you know that ‘yes, I’m safe’ but ‘sorry I won’t be home in time to go to dinner. Go ahead and take a friend. We’ll go another time.’ and keeping his hands and mind busy with an end of his scarf keeps his thoughts from wandering too badly. Folding an edge, then smoothing it out, folding it back down, rinse and repeat.

“You need to be more careful.” Recovery Girl scolds him. “But you’ll be fine. It’s just a case of um, well, increased libido for at least the next several hours. Nothing I can do about it unfortunately.” 

A fresh fat bead of sweat rolls down his neck uncomfortably and Aizawa fixes her with a tired, blank stare, only to be taken aback completely by her next question: 

“Have you ever heard of sex pollen?” 

“Excuse me?” He half asks, half says way too quickly. He was young and curious once and some of the stupid things he’s confiscated from the students over the years from drawings to handwritten fanfiction have been wildly inappropriate in nature…But he’s not going to talk to Recovery Girl about sex pollen. 

He must maintain some shred of distance and self respect today. 

A beat goes by as Recovery Girl debates explaining it to him before she just waves him off. “Eh, forget about it. It’ll probably go away by tomorrow. Maybe if you found a partner it would go away quicker?”

Clearly a reference to you, but he does feel a little…weird about seeking you out when he finally gets home just to work out the lingering effects of a villain’s quirk. Even if the craving he has for you right now physically hurts him. 

“I’ll just head home and wait it out. Thanks.” With that, he quickly stands, still trying to keep the mess of his scarf in front of him to conceal the biggest issue with him wanting to stay lowkey about all of this. 

“Good luck.” Recovery Girl offers as she finishes her report, what he’s fairly certain is a grandmotherly giggle managing to sneak through the crack of the door as it shuts behind him. 

By the time Aizawa gets to the apartment he shares with you and starts to unlock the door, he’s feverish. His thoughts are cloudy, he’s hot and sweaty all over, and worst of all, his cock has throbbed painfully nonstop at not being paid any attention to in the last couple hours since his initial exposure. 

Separate warring feelings of relief and disappointment flood through him when he steps through the door and it’s dark, only the hum of the appliances in the air to suggest that the power is on, and the place you usually occupy on the couch by this time of the evening is empty and cold. Maybe, hopefully, you did take his suggestion and took a friend to your reservations. 

But God, his heart and cock aches for you. 

At any rate, he quickly undresses and throws his still contaminated clothes in the washer before he finds himself attempting to remedy the issue himself in the shower, the leading thought of removing any remnants of dust that hasn’t soaked into his skin yet quickly forgotten when he accidentally grabs your body wash instead of his own. 

Cool water running over his defined back and surrounded by the scent that has become so you, he finally begins to palm at his cock, red and swollen and begging for attention. His head falls forward to rest on the shower wall, long dark hair curtaining his face as a pant escapes his lips. 

It feels good, a slight relief to take some of that gnawing edge off, but his hand is not your hand, and pulling from his expansive memories of experiences with you is not helping the same way it usually does. He strokes himself, squeezes, tries all the tricks he’s come to enjoy over the years with growing desperation to cum, but every time he’s so very close it fizzles out. 

The water runs freezing by the time Aizawa gets out and dries off, pulling his wet hair back in a loose bun, yet the heat that burns under his skin still rages, and he’s more frustrated than he has ever been in his entire life. 

He curses under his breath as he strides to the bedroom. Heading straight for his wardrobe, he grabs a pair of boxers to wear, the thought of putting on any more clothes than that right now makes him feel as if he very well could die. And the only person who can help him is…

Well, Aizawa needs to check his phone to see if you’ve texted him back since he was in the shower. It’s been nearly an hour judging by the time on the clock by your side of the bed. He pads back out to the living room, a small groan rumbling in his throat as sweat starts to roll down his back and chest again. 

As he picks up his phone from the kitchen counter, the front door opens and it takes all he can possibly muster not to immediately sweep you off your feet. 

“I’m home!” You call. “Shota?” 

“In the kitchen.” He calls back, attempting to clear his throat when his voice comes out a little husky. 

“How are you feeling? I stopped to get some things for you and I sweet talked them into letting me bring you home some takeout from that restaurant.” You flounce in with a sparkle in your eye, setting plastic bags down before moving in to hug him. Something he immediately dissuades by holding a hand up that stops you in your tracks, a confused frown pinching your brow as you wait for him to explain. 

“Don’t come too close right now. Sorry.” It’s a dagger to his heart to have to refuse you right now. Aizawa bites his lip, looking away from you, one of his hands coming up to rest on the back of his neck, “Thank you for dinner.”

“What's wrong?” He looks back towards you, watching as your concerned gaze roams him, searching for any obvious signs that he is hurt but coming up with none aside from a bruise forming on his calf from his slight collision with the light pole during the chase. 

“I was attacked by a villain with a, uh, quirk that makes you very horny for a while.” 

“Oh.” The frown turns into a look of surprise, before you start giggling, the sound even sweeter than usual and so fucking dangerous but the final nail in his terrible coffin is when you pair it with a gesture to the treacherous bulge in his boxers. “I was wondering why you were so happy to see me.” 

His face feels even hotter, and he pitches forward to rest his elbows on the counter, planting his head in his hands with a long groan. 

“Don’t bully me.” He grumbles, muffled behind his hands. “It is so hard not to drag you off to bed right now.” 

What answers him is another giggle that is both his salvation and his destruction. 

“Awww, poor thing, how can I help you?” Your voice gets closer, all but purring in his ear, and he wants so badly to bury his face between your legs, sink into your pretty cunt over and over again, hear you cry out in pleasure until you’re hoarse, leave you covered in love bites and cum and— 

He starts to deny you but the second your lips plant a soft blissful kiss against his shoulder, one of your hands starting to rub over his tense back, letting your nails drag down lightly, his brain short circuits. He moans into his hands, dropping them down to turn and seek you and your pretty lips instead. 

You meet him halfway, soft lips brushing against his and another needy noise rumbles in his throat as one of your hands rubs over his chest through his dark, neatly trimmed chest hair. A scrape of your nail over his nipple and he pushes you up against the counter, hips rolling against your half perched thigh. 

Stars sparkle behind his eyelids with the friction against his cock, the relief almost palpable. He breaks from the kiss to mouth at your neck, hot breath fanning out over your skin as you hum so sweetly.

“Thank you.” He breathes, fucking himself against your thigh desperately, “Fuck, thank you.”  

“Come, Shota. You’re doing so good.” You purr, stroking fingers along his scruffy jaw and down to drag your nails over his shoulder lightly again.

Quickly and with the force of a train, finally his first orgasm drowns him, vision whiting out as he clutches on to you tightly, tensing as he fills his boxers with ropes of warm cum. 

Aizawa shudders while the last sparks of pleasure roll through him, rough pants and soft hums tucked into the crook of your neck. But he only gets to enjoy how satisfied he feels for a moment before that awful hot thirst grabs him by the throat again. 

“How do you feel now?” You ask, continuing to rub your hand up and down one side of his back soothingly.

“Hah, we’re not done yet.” He rasps against your neck, easily hooking his arms around you and picking you up to sweep you away. You laugh in his arms as he quickly strides down the hallway and into your bedroom, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

You’re so satisfying in his arms, substantial and gorgeous and everything he could ever hope to get lost in as he drops you down onto the soft covers of the bed. Immediately you start shedding your clothing, everything thrown off in a rush to the four corners of the room. 

A few sticky rogue webs of cum take their sweet time to break as Aizawa steps out of his boxers. His cock lurches upwards, tapping against his stomach before he’s kneeling on the bed and draping himself over you with a blistering hunger and need you have only rarely seen before. 

He kisses you again, all teeth and tongue and whimpering desire, his breath catching when you return his kisses with the same desperation. As much as he needs to fuck you with abandon, he forces himself to slow down, beginning to kiss down your body until he’s half off the bed, supporting most of his weight on one outstretched foot before he spreads your thighs a little wider to reach your soft glistening cunt. 

“You’re so pretty.” He compliments before he spreads your folds with his nose, bumping your clit as he licks broadly with his tongue. He moans against you, not usually minding your taste, but today you just taste incredible. Like the finest fresh strawberry in the world. 

“Oh, god.” You whine under the overwhelming onslaught of his mouth. He smiles when you cant your hips into his mouth, feeling a fresh gush of wetness on his tongue. He introduces two fingers, so gently stroking over your folds before they delve into you with abandon. 

Ever aware, Aizawa knows all your spots. All the little tricks to have you coming completely undone before he’s even been inside of you yet, anything he can do to hear you crying out his name and leave you struggling to walk on boneless legs, he’ll do. 

And he takes advantage of that now, latching onto your clit and crooking his fingers to brush against that rough spot that always makes you see stars, fucking into you with punishing speed and accuracy as your hips jerk and you desperately try to muffle yourself even just a little bit, but he doesn’t care about the neighbors hearing tonight. 

His thoughts are filled with only you and fucking this quirk bullshit out of his system. His hips grind against the edge of the bed with every sweet moan of his name, his cock twitching when you tumble over the edge, cunt clenching tightly around his fingers. Your hands tangle into his hair tightly, loose pieces falling over his drenched face. 

Pulling his fingers from you, he sucks them clean, wiping the spit and remainders of your juices off on the covers before he pushes back up onto the bed, tendrils of still damp black hair brushing against your collarbone. 

“So, how was dinner?” He asks between heavy breaths as he reaches down and grabs his cock, angling it down to slip into you easily and to the hilt with one stroke. 

You keen at the fullness, still sensitive from your orgasm just a few moments ago, the most gorgeous sight to him when your head tilts back into the blankets and exposes your neck for him to mark up, let everybody know that you are his. 

It’s so juvenile, Aizawa is more than aware, but he saw Hawks flirting with you the other day and it ignited a little something in him, even though he knows you would never betray him like that. 

“Ah, it was sooo good. There was—Ah, Shota,” You start off strong, voice dying off into a whine. “Wish you had been there.” 

Obscene noises fill any silence as he rocks his hips into you, barely pulling out before he’s hitting himself again roughly, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t. I tried to make it.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” You coo, “I’ll tell you more about it after you’re done railing me as long as you tell me how you got hit by— harder, please, oh fuck —this sex quirk.” 

Aizawa snorts though heavy breaths, “Deal.” 

The sight of you underneath him, sweat slicking your skin from the heat radiating off him, smelling so sweet and musky and sexy, he dips his head down and licks over your chest, up to just under your jaw as he snaps his hips into you, salty and sweet and driving him wild. 

Every stroke inside of you feels like the first one, the pleasure leaving his head swimming as he continues the quick pace of snapping his hips into you once more, another orgasm blinding him harshly as he falls forward onto you, barely braced by an arm he throws out to catch himself. He continues to grind into you, curses and whimpers of your name are panted against your collarbone as warm ropes of cum paint your walls.

“Sorry.” He groans, relieved as it seems to be wearing off now, that sense of urgency gripping his body and mind easing off. “I think it’s over.”

“I don’t know, I think this is pretty hot.” You laugh. “Seeing you so wrecked is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Shota.” 

“Glad someone is enjoying this.”

“And you aren’t?” 

“Oh, I am. You taste so fucking good.” He kisses you, slipping a little tongue before he pulls away and licks at a bead of sweat on your chest. “So good.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” You laugh, pushing a stray damp strand of his hair back behind his ear.

“Uh huh.” He rolls his eyes, a sense of dread filling him when that now familiar heat fogs over his mind again, racing down his back towards his groin. “Fuck.” 

“Again?” 

“Uh huh.” He shudders when you purposefully clench around him. He begins to rock into you again, his hip popping and starting to ache. 

“I heard that.” You comment. “Let me get on top. Have a rest.” 

He rolls the two of you so he’s underneath you, carefully enough that his cock barely moves from where it’s buried in your warm cunt. You sit up and Aizawa can’t help but moan when you shift and the erotic sight of the mixture of your fluids slips from your pussy down his shaft, pooling on the dark hair around the base of his cock. 

You start to move your hips and his eyes are fixed on how gorgeous you look like this, his cock disappearing between your thighs, the slick sound of wet skin on skin, the way your chest jiggles, he remains transfixed as you push yourself to keep the rough pace he set a few moments ago. 

“Shota,” You moan, “Touch me. Please.”

His heart hammers in his chest as he meets the rhythm of your hips, pistoning up into you desperately as he brings his fingers up to caress your chest and rub at your clit in short fast circles that leave you keening. 

When you fall apart on him and Aizawa cums again with a hoarse cry, disgusted yet beyond turned on by the slick mess he’s making out of you, he’s so grateful that it’s you by his side. 

The effects of the quirk subside by the morning after a night filled with exhausted love-making, leaving the two of you sore and soaked in cum and hickies and exhausted— and throwing this set of sheets out as soon as possible.

[andy-15-07]

More tommyyyyyy

Can you write sth where there's a misunderstanding and he thinks f!reader doesn't want him bc he is too old ? (Reader of course does not care and is deeply in love with him...) ❣️

Old Bones, Younger Hearts

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x reader

Word Count:1885| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

The Last Of Us Masterlist

Tommy’s boots crunched softly on the frost-hardened dirt path as he made his way back to your little cabin on the edge of Jackson. Dawn’s pale light was just brushing the sky, and the settlement was stirring,guards taking up posts, chairs scraping porches, and the distant click of the generator sputtering to life. He paused at your front door, squared his broad shoulders, and rapped twice, heart thundering in his chest.

When you opened the door, yawning, hair in chaotic ringlets, and a steaming mug of coffee in hand, something constricted his chest. You offered him that brilliant half-asleep smile that always felt like sunshine after too many months underground. “Morning, cowboy,” you murmured.

“Morning,” he replied quietly, stepping in. He glanced down at himself,worn leather jacket, faded jeans, scruffy brown hair mussed from sleeping in his clothes. Nothing too awful, but still. He brushed past you toward the tiny kitchen area. “Coffee’s good.”

You poured him a cup and set it on the battered wooden table. Your cabin was modest,two rooms, a little wood-burning stove, a rusted record player in the corner. You’d painted wildflowers along the windowsill, and on the wall hung a photograph of you and Tommy from last spring: standing in the field outside Jackson, sunlight dancing across your faces. He sat heavily opposite you, eyes flicking around the room until they settled on that photo. He cleared his throat.

“We need to talk.”

You blinked, surprised. “We do?” You reached for your own mug. “Uh… okay. What’s up?”

He lifted the photo off the table and turned it face-down. His hands trembled,something you’d never seen before in him. You swallowed. “About New Order duties? The supply run?”

Tommy shook his head. “Not that.” He leaned forward, the low morning light catching in his green eyes. “It’s… us.”

Your heartbeat spiked. You’d sensed something off this morning,a flutter in the pit of your stomach,but you’d chalked it up to the cold. “Tommy…”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I,I’ve been thinking. About us.” He closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. “I think maybe… maybe I’m too old for you.”

The words hit you like an ice shard. You stared at him, uncomprehending. “Too old?” you echoed, voice small.

Tommy’s eyes snapped open, the guilt and fear swimming in them. “It’s,look, I know you’re young. I’m thirty-two,hell, I feel like fifty some days. You’re what, twenty-five? Twenty-six? And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Then there’s me… I’m old. My bones ache, my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. One day I’ll be gone, and… and I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

Your heart twisted in your chest. “Tommy, come on. You know how I feel about you.”

He shook his head, voice quavering. “You deserve someone who can sprint through a warehouse, dodge a clicker, haul you out of trouble without breaking a sweat. Someone who,”

You slid off your chair, stomped over to him, and grabbed his face in both hands. “Stop.” Your voice was fierce. “Listen to me. I love you. Not some version of you that’s forever young and strong. I love you,right now, with your laugh, your stubborn jaw, your crooked smile, your… your scars. All of it.”

His eyes glistened with moisture. He swallowed hard. “You’re just saying that so I don’t leave you.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “I mean it, you idiot. You think I care about age? You think days left on your body matter more to me than the moments we have together? You can’t,” You choked on the next words. “You can’t let that stupid, fucking fear steal what we have.”

Tommy’s lips trembled, and he swallowed. “I don’t want you wasting your life on me.”

“You’re not a waste of anything.” You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw. “You’re my life.” You paused, breathless. “Now please, stop talking crazy.”

He closed his eyes against your palm and nodded slowly. “Okay.” His voice was muffled. “Okay.”

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “Good. So.” You stepped back. “How about breakfast?”

Tommy glanced at the stove, then back at you. “I think we’ve got some stale biscuits. And those eggs I traded for last week.”

You grinned and moved to the counter. “Sounds perfect.” As you cracked eggs into the pan, you heard him drop the photo of you two back onto the table. It slid, face-up. When you caught his eye, he said quietly, “Don’t ever hide that. It’s beautiful.”

You smiled back, heart soaring. “I won’t.”

Later that day, you found Tommy sitting on the porch of your cabin, guitar in his lap, playing a few soft chords that caught the sunlight. You carried out two steaming mugs of lemonade, handing him one. He looked up, surprised.

“Thanks,” he said.

You settled beside him on the weathered bench. “You know,” you said casually, “I was thinking we could go shooting at the range this afternoon. Dust off your elbows.”

He glanced over, half-smile tugging at his lips. “Think I can still hit a target?”

You nudged his shoulder. “Let’s find out.”

He set his mug down and scooted closer. “You’re sure you don’t mind the… age gap?”

Your eyebrows rose. “Tommy Miller, will you drop it?”

He closed his eyes, pained. He picked at the guitar’s body, as though turning the wood grain would unstick his thoughts. “I can’t help it. I worry I’m not gonna be around as long as you. I… I don’t deserve someone with so much life ahead of her.”

You reached for his hand. “Age doesn’t scare me. I want a man with some stories under his belt.” You poked his arm playfully. “Like music lessons from Harry the mechanic, two fights in Pittsburgh, and the time,and I quote, you got kicked by a horse and said, ‘That’s the Spirit of Jackson for ya.’”

He snorted, tension easing from his shoulders. “I said that?” He grinned. “Well, I meant it.”

You smiled, leaning against his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

He tapped at his guitar strings. “I’m a little rough around the edges.”

“Edges are good,” you murmured. “Keeps things interesting.” You pressed a light kiss to his temple. “Now let’s go embarrass you in the shooting range.”

He stood, stretching like a cat. “Fine. But only if you promise not to laugh when I miss.”

“Oh, I’ll laugh,” you admitted. “But only after I miss in an even more spectacular fashion.”

He laughed, and you felt it in your bones: the worry, the misunderstanding, the fear,it all washed away. He looped his arm through yours, and you made your way down the dusty road together, hands clasped.

At the range, you set up two old wooden targets twenty yards downrange. You handed Tommy his revolver; you took your 9mm. The sun was high now, baking the ground, and the air smelled of sand, oil, and spent gunpowder.

“First shot to ten yards?” Tommy asked.

“Deal,” you said. He nodded, took aim. You backed up to the line.

He fired. Crack. The bullet tore through the bull’s-eye. He fist-pumped. “Ha! Beat that.”

You peeked at your own target,your shot was just outside the circle. You frowned, then turned, feigning offense. “What? Those wooden targets are unfair!” You moved five yards back. “Rematch.”

He laughed. “Here we go again.”

You fired twice,both shots smack in the center. You jumped up and down. “Yes!” Your laughter echoed off the walls of the range.

Tommy laughed too. “Alright, alright, you got me there.” He holstered his revolver. “So… guess I still got it.”

You stepped closer, pressing your hands into his chest. “You got more than ‘got it,’” you said softly. “You’ve got me. And no… no damn clock on your bones changes that.”

He wrapped his arms around you in a fierce hug. “Thank God,” he whispered, voice thick. Then he dipped his head and kissed you,slow, sure, everything you needed.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, you and Tommy climbed onto your cabin’s roof, legs dangling over the edge. The sky blushed pink and orange; a gentle breeze cooled the heat of the day.

You nestled into his side, arm across his waist. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, the collar still smelling like him,leather and patchouli soap.

“Promise me,” he said suddenly, voice low and trembling, “Promise you’ll still want me when I’m gray… and limping around with a cane.”

You turned in his arms and lifted his chin. “Promise I’ll love you in a wheelchair, a walker, or strapped to a rocket bound for the moon.”

He laughed, breathless. “Rocket to the moon?”

“Anything to keep it interesting.” You winked. “Besides, you’ll still have that charming devil-may-care attitude.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll have to work hard to keep you.”

You pressed your lips to his. “You’d better.”

Silence settled, warm and comfortable. You traced constellations in the sky,Orion’s Belt, the Pleiades,telling him their stories in a soft, wandering monologue.

“Did Travis say he’d join us next time?” Tommy asked.

You smiled. “He did. Wants in on our rooftop tradition.”

“He’d better bring snacks,” Tommy said.

“I’ll hold him to it.” You relaxed against his chest. “You know… I almost worried today. Thinking you might push me away.”

Tommy’s grip around you tightened. “Sorry.”

You shook your head. “No apologies. You just… you showed me how much I mean to you. And that,” You paused, smiled. “That means everything.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You mean everything.”

Two nights later, you found him again on your porch, guitar in lap, humming a tune. The night was still, stars glittering like spilled diamonds.

You slipped out in your pajamas, bare feet on the cold wood. “Writing songs now?”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Thinking about it.”

You settled beside him. “You know, if you’re gonna write me a ballad, you’d better make it good.”

He strummed a chord, then looked at you. “Let me try something.” He cleared his throat and began:

“Old bones and younger hearts Meet where the firelight glows, Age is just a number drawn In lines only love shows…”

Your breath caught. His voice was rough but tender. You sank further into his side. He continued:

“If time is thine enemy, Then love is our disguise; We’ll dance through fleeting years, Hand in hand ’neath these skies…”

By the time he finished, you were blinking away tears. He set the guitar aside and cupped your face. “I wrote that with you in mind.”

You leaned in and kissed him, fierce and grateful. “It’s perfect.”

He chuckled softly. “Good. Because I don’t think I could write another one.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time.”

He pulled you close. “Yeah?” His voice was hopeful.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m here for every minute.”

He held you tight and buried his face in your hair. “I love you,” he murmured.

You stroked his hair. “I love you too, Tommy Miller. Old man, young man,whatever you are, you’re mine.”

He hummed contentedly, and you both sat there in the gentle glow of the porch light, two hearts beating in time, age nothing more than a number lost in a song.

[humanrindswrites]

practice - four

summary: after 6 months of being long-distance, it's finally premiere night, and y/n is ready to take a huge step in her relationship with bill

pairing: bill skarsgård x female reader

warnings: NSFW, smut, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, protected sex, loss of virginity, mentions of masturbation and phone sex, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 5778 words (oops)

a/n: i've teased enough about this part and how long it is and now it's finally here so I hope you enjoy 💕

one | two | three | four | epilogue

Y/N had always known that her job meant that she would never be in a ‘normal’ relationship, but she’d never expected her first-ever relationship to be long-distance.

From the very first day of pre-production, she knew Bill had another project lined up right after theirs, but the fact that she wasn't going to see him in person for another six months didn't settle in until she was standing in the airport with him, trying her best not to cry.

”You can always come with me, you know,” Bill said as she clung to him like a baby koala, afraid to let him go.

“You know I can’t,” she said, her voice watery and just audible over the surrounding crowd. “I’ve been away from the studio for too long.”

While Y/N’s usual acting gigs weren’t as far-flung as Bill’s were, she was still kept busy. She could have worked anywhere, but she knew that her regular cast mates on her animated series would miss her if she went globe-trotting with her boyfriend.

Boyfriend. 

Just the word made Y/N feel giddy like she’d drunk too much champagne. Even though she and Bill weren’t public with their relationship, she wanted to scream from the rooftops that they were together. Telling her parents would have to do for now.

“If you ever get the chance, let me know,” Bill said. “I’ll talk to the director, and I’ll buy your plane ticket for you.” 

He took her face in his hands and gently angled her head up so he could see her. Her eyes were shining with tears that threatened to fall as she looked up at him. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Y/N whispered and stood up on her toes to rest her forehead against his. She didn't care that the people around them were starting to stare and whisper to one another; this wasn't about them; it was about her and Bill. They were the only people in the world at that moment.

She felt him smile softly before he gently pressed his lips to hers, giving her one last kiss before he left. 

“I’ll miss you too, baby,” he mumbled against her mouth, not in any rush to pull away from her. “I’ll call you as much as I can.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” She drew him in and kissed him again, her mouth lingering against his as she moulded her body into his, making sure that it remembered him.

She could have stayed there until her legs gave out if it wasn’t for Bill’s assistant tapping him on the shoulder to pull him away.

“Looks like we’ve gotta go,” he said as he stroked her face with the back of his fingers before he picked up his carry-on bag and went to follow his assistant. “I’ll call you as soon as we land.”

“Safe travels,” Y/N called after him as he disappeared into the crowd.

And just like that, he was gone.

True to his word, Bill had called and FaceTimed Y/N as much as he could, no matter where in the world he was or what time it was. Even if she was already in bed and half asleep, she would still answer for him.

Most of the time he’d call her to just talk or see how she was, but her favourites were when he was desperate to hear her voice as he stroked his cock. She loved hearing him purr down the phone, encouraging her to touch herself along with him until she was crying out for him and he would spill his cum into his hand. Her fingers still paled in comparison to his on her body, but they would have to do until she saw him again.

Y/N felt like a completely different person than when they first met; she was no longer the shy, timid girl who wasn’t even comfortable being naked alone, but instead a woman becoming more and more confident the more she shared her body with him.

Unfortunately, she was never able to fly out to see him; she simply couldn’t find the time between recording sessions. But, somehow, she never felt lonely without him since she knew he was just a call away. The virtual tours he’d given of his numerous living spaces had been comforting; she’d seen where he was staying in Vancouver and Prague, but her favourite was seeing his home in Stockholm.

“There’s still time for you to fly out here,” Bill had said over FaceTime one night. Or, rather, afternoon. “I’ll get you a ticket, you don’t have to pay for anything.”

“I wish I could, but I just can’t find the time,” Y/N said as she turned over in her bed, trying to suppress a yawn. “I’ve got to get so much stuff done before we go to New York.”

“Tired?” he said with a soft chuckle when he noticed her struggle to keep her eyes open.

“Mm-hh.” It was past midnight in LA but late morning in Stockholm when he’d called, but she still picked up, fumbling with her phone on her nightstand and almost dropping it in the process. “I don’t mind being up a little longer.”

“You really should sleep, especially if you’ve got stuff to do tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a fitting in the morning for my premiere outfit,” she mumbled, her words slurring together as she sank further into her bed. “I don’t even know what colour I want.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered back open, and she saw Bill studying her face and chest, more specifically her cleavage. She wore a navy blue camisole that was slowly being pulled down by her constant rolling around, showing him just enough of her breasts to distract him from his thoughts.

She could see that his green eyes were dilated, the pupils blown out as he gazed at her through the screen, and his lower lip was slightly caught between his teeth.

“What about blue?” he said when he finally dragged his eyes away from her chest. “You look good in every colour, but I think blue suits you the most.”

“Hmm, blue…” Y/N trailed off as her eyes drifted closed again, sleep finally pulling her into its claws. 

“Y/N?” he softly said once she’d gone quiet, and her phone fell out of her hand.

Bill waited for a few seconds to make sure she was asleep before breathing out a soft laugh, a soft smile creeping over his face.

“Sleep well, baby,” he said before ending the call. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Six months went as fast as they’d come.

Press week was finally here, and Y/N could barely contain her excitement at getting to see Bill again after so long. The five-hour flight from LA to New York felt like it took a whole day, and knowing that she wouldn’t see him for another day once she’d landed made her feel restless.

As soon as she’d got a message from him that he’d landed, she rushed out of her hotel room and made her way down to the lobby to wait for him. Even though she knew that the traffic in New York was a constant pain, she didn’t mind waiting for him. It was nice to get out of her room for a couple of hours.

The hotel that production had put her and the rest of the cast up in was a lot nicer than the mid-range hotels she was used to staying in whenever she attended conventions or the cheap motels she and her parents used when they’d travelled to California for auditions when she was a child. She couldn’t help but feel out of place in the marble-clad lobby as she watched people mill around in designer clothes while she perched on a plush velvet sofa in her trusty yoga pants and hoodie.

The sun was starting to set, and Y/N could feel herself sinking into the couch when the sound of suitcase wheels caught her attention. She stiffly sat up and turned around in her seat to look where the sound had come from and beamed to herself when she saw that familiar tall silhouette in the doorway. Y/N jumped to her feet, almost slipping on the smooth floor as she got up, and scurried through the giant room to meet Bill halfway.

As soon as he saw her, he let go of his suitcase and held his arms out for her to run into. He was mostly the same as the last time she’d seen him; his hair was slightly shorter and he was a little more muscular, but to her, he was still perfect.

She breathed him in as she tightly wrapped her arms around him, her eyes squeezed shut so that she wouldn’t cry as he returned her embrace and stroked her back tenderly. She couldn’t believe that it had really been six months since she’d last seen him in person; they’d talked on the phone so often that it was like he’d always been by her side.

Her head still rested on his chest, she heard Bill talk to his assistant who went to sign him in while they continued to stand in the lobby, tangled in each other. All she wanted at that moment was to be completely alone with him, but she would have to settle for being surrounded by other hotel guests for now.

“I missed you,” she said softly, her voice just loud enough for only him to hear. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he said, his voice rolling in his chest.

They finally broke apart from each other just as Bill’s assistant came over to give him his room key, and Y/N followed him, her hand in his as he led her up to his room. She offered to help him with his bags, but, ever the gentleman, he declined and rolled them through himself.

As soon as they were completely alone, Y/N found herself pushed up against a wall, with Bill’s mouth on hers. He kissed her as if he were starved, holding her face with both of his hands as she clawed at his shirt.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he mumbled in between kisses as he trailed them from her mouth to her neck. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this ever since I left.”

Y/N opened her mouth to speak but could only let out a small whimper as his hands travelled down her body to pull her hoodie off her. He dropped the garment to the floor and stooped down slightly to pick her up, her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the bed and placed her down on her back. 

Her body started to tingle when his hands slid under her shirt, skimming her bare skin until he reached her breasts. His mouth latched onto her jaw as he squeezed her breasts softly, his long fingers dipping underneath the band of her bra to toy with her nipples.

She could feel her clit start to tingle and swell the more he touched her, his hands stroking their way down her body to hold her hips still. 

But something about it didn’t feel right.

“W-wait,” Y/N choked out when his fingers skirted dangerously close to her clothed pussy. “Baby, wait.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“I just…” she started before turning her face away from him.

Deep down, she wanted to keep going. She wanted him to touch her there and make her feel good, but the time just wasn’t right. 

“Hey, it’s okay, you can tell me.”

“I’m just not ready for that,” she finally said in a small voice. “Sorry.”

“If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready,” he said and stroked her face tenderly. “We don’t have to do anything right now.”

He rolled off of her, keeping her in his arms as they lay together on the mattress. She could have stayed like that forever, his arms around her waist and her fingers in his hair as they simply enjoyed each other’s company.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Bill said when he eventually tore himself away from her. “I got you something.”

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” Y/N said as she stood up and watched him root through his carry-on bag. Although she was curious to see what it was.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he said once he’d found what he was looking for. Y/N shot him a suspicious look. “Close them.”

Y/N rolled her eyes before closing them and covering them with her hands for added effect. She felt him gently turn her body to stand where he wanted her and brush her hair to the side before draping something around her throat. She couldn’t help but shiver when she felt something cold touch her skin and fought the urge to open her eyes again before he’d finished putting it on her.

“You can open them now,” he said, his voice close to her ear before he softly kissed her shoulder.

She took her hands away from her face and slowly opened her eyes again to see their reflections in the mirror before them. Around her neck, Bill had placed a necklace; its delicate silver chain circled her throat, and a heart-shaped diamond pendant sat just underneath the base of her throat, the light blue stone shining in the low light of the hotel room.

Y/N gasped softly as her hand drifted up to touch the pendant, turning it around so she could watch how it sparkled. It didn’t go with her outfit at all, but she didn’t care about that.

“Oh my god,” she breathed as she turned around in Bill’s arms and stood on her toes to softly kiss him. “It’s beautiful.”

“I guess that means you like it,” he said against her mouth.

“I love it. Thank you. I never want to take it off.” She set herself back down and pulled away from him so she could see him again. “I don’t have anything for you, though.”

“You don’t have to get me anything, baby,” he said softly as he raised his hand to cradle her face in his palm. “I’ve got you.”

Of all the new experiences Y/N had been having lately, a premiere was not what she’d expected to be the most intimidating. Talking to people and repeating the same answers had just become routine, but those interviews took place in quiet rooms where she had one or two people with her, not outdoors near a screaming crowd that made it difficult for her to hear anything.

She took a deep breath before stepping onto the red carpet, her legs wobbling slightly as she adjusted to walking in her new heels. A tall mirror was fixed to the wall at the entrance, and she gave herself one last glance before stepping out. Despite having a reasonably long career, she’d never seen herself looking the way she did: her hair had been styled into loose curls that draped over her shoulders, her makeup was light enough to highlight her features but just dramatic enough for the event, and she wore a floor-length strapless gown in midnight blue with a bodice that skimmed her torso and pushed her breasts up just enough to show a tasteful amount of cleavage. The only jewellery she wore was a pair of simple diamond earrings and the necklace Bill had given her earlier. It rested on her chest, sparkling in the bright lights.

She looked and felt like a movie star.

Y/N could have looked at her reflection forever if a warm hand on her bare shoulder hadn’t pulled her out of her thoughts. She shifted her body away from the mirror to look behind her and saw Bill standing close to her. A smile broke out across her face as she stepped into his arms, trying to keep her face away from his blue suit as he hugged her tightly.

“Hey, look,” she said when she pulled away from him. “We match.”

“We do,” he said with a smile of his own, holding her forearms so he could get a good look at her. “You look beautiful. I told you blue was your colour.”

Y/N felt her face burn, and she briefly turned her eyes away from him before looking at him again. His eyes were soft and dilated as he looked at her, and his tongue briefly darted out to wet his lips as if he was trying his best not to kiss her in front of everyone. She wanted to feel him so badly, she didn’t care that they were surrounded by people who would broadcast their relationship to the world; she needed to kiss him, to have his hands on her. 

Anything.

The premiere went a lot easier than Y/N had expected; she was still nervous and Bill kept close to her as much as he could in between signing autographs, posing for photos, and taking interviews of his own. She would glance over in his direction to make sure that he was still there, and he would give her a soft, comforting smile in return as if to tell her that she was doing well.

It certainly helped her calm down, but her feelings had been replaced by something entirely different. 

She’d known the whole time they were together that she wanted Bill to be her first, the one to take her virginity, but she didn’t realise just how badly she wanted him until they stood in front of the cameras, his hand skimming over the curve of her waist until it rested on her hip, gently pulling her into him.

Y/N was one hundred per cent, undeniably in love with Bill.

She may have been reduced to a nervous, stuttering mess around him before, but now she felt like she was warm from the inside out. Even when she couldn’t think of the words to say to him, she didn’t feel like she was going to make a fool of herself. It was as if he understood her down to her core, and she understood him just as much.

She wanted to have him entirely, body and soul, for as long as she could.

By the time everything was over, Y/N had made her mind up: she didn’t want to wait any longer.

Once she was alone in her hotel room, she pulled out her phone and tapped out a message to Bill.

Room 308, I'm ready now.

He’s not coming, Y/N thought as she lay on the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling. You should have waited until tomorrow, he’s probably already gone to bed.

As soon as she’d got back to her room, Y/N had taken her dress off, removed her makeup, brushed her hair out, and taken a shower, making sure she was as clean as possible, using scents that she knew Bill liked on her. But that was an hour ago.

It was nearing 2 am, and instead of getting ready for bed, she was lying on top of the sheets, wearing only a fluffy white robe and the necklace that she still hadn't taken off. Her eyes were starting to grow heavy with sleep, and she could feel herself sink further into the mattress when a soft knock at the door caught her attention.

Y/N pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed and planted her bare feet on the plush carpet before making sure that her robe was properly tied. The last thing she wanted was to flash her late-night visitor.

She stood on her toes to squint through the peephole, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Bill standing on the other side, looking like he’d just tumbled out of bed. He’d changed out of his suit into a plain t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair was dishevelled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and his eyes were tired.

Y/N immediately opened the door and held it open wide enough for him to step inside.

“Oh my god, were you asleep?” she asked as she shuffled backwards slightly and let the door close behind them. “I’m so sorry, Bill, I should have waited until tomorrow for this-”

“Are you sure?” he asked, cutting off her babbling. “Are you sure you’re ready now?”

“What?” Y/N asked, momentarily forgetting why she had asked him to come to her room in the first place.

“Y/N, I would wait forever for you, but I need to hear you say it,” he said, his voice low as he kept his body close to her, her back almost touching the door. “Tell me what you want.”

Y/N took in a shuddering breath and swallowed thickly as she tried to find the words she wanted to come out of her mouth. She’d come so far since that first kiss; she felt like a completely different person, but this was one last hurdle that she needed to overcome.

“I want you,” she finally said, trying to keep her voice steady as her heart hammered in her chest. “I want all of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his fingers twitching as he fought the urge to reach out and touch her.

“Yes,” she breathed as her heart pounded in her chest.

That was all Bill needed to hear.

He bent down and picked her up with ease, his hands pushing the robe up her body as he kissed her neck and caressed her soft, freshly moisturised skin. Her robe started to come undone when she wrapped her legs around his waist, resisting the urge to grind her bare pussy against him as he carried her to the bed and gently placed her down on the white sheets.

Y/N watched him as he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his bare torso to her, and he gently pulled the tie of her robe open. She heard his breath catch in his throat as he saw her completely naked in front of him.

Bill had seen and touched Y/N’s body before, but seeing her this way was entirely different. Tenderly, he traced a finger from her jaw and down her body, studying her intensely as she shivered and squeezed her thighs together.

“Look at you,” he breathed and cradled her face in his palm as he leaned down to kiss her. “My beautiful girl.”

Her cunt clenched at that and her legs opened on their own, welcoming him into her embrace as his tongue slipped into her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and stroked his back as he pushed his hips into hers, letting her feel how hard he was under his clothes. Even without seeing, she could tell that he was bigger than she was used to. Her toys at home were usually on the smaller side, never any bigger than five inches, but she didn’t feel scared or intimidated at all.

“Tell me if you don’t like something, okay?” he mumbled against her mouth before trailing his kisses along her jaw and travelling down her body.

Y/N nodded and bit her lip, holding back a moan when she felt his large palms skim across her body, starting at her breasts before moving down her sides and sliding back up again. Her eyes fluttered closed when she felt his lips on her skin, trailing down her neck to her breasts and around her nipples before sinking lower and lower.

“I want to taste you,” he rasped as he spread her legs and kissed the insides of her thighs. “Can I?”

Y/N nodded frantically and licked her lips, almost begging him. “Please.”

His eyes darkened with desire as he stood up to kneel in front of the bed and gently pulled her to him. He gazed at her dripping pussy and ran the tips of his fingers through her folds, feeling how wet she already was for him. 

“I already knew you felt good, but you look just as good,” he purred as he placed her legs over his shoulders. “I bet you taste even better.”

Y/N couldn’t help the impatient whine that escaped her throat, and she placed her hand on the back of his head, guiding him to where she needed him the most. She felt his breath brush against her clit when he chuckled softly and kissed her clit, sending a spark throughout her body.

Finally, he dragged his tongue up her slit, painfully slow as if he was savouring every milimetre of her under his tongue. Her hips bucked into his face when he flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“Don’t do that,” he mumbled into her hot skin as he took his hand off her leg to pull her hand away from her face. “I want to hear you.”

He didn’t care that it was the middle of the night; he didn’t care that she was too shy to let her voice fully fly free. He needed to hear her sweet voice. He needed to hear her beg for him. He needed to hear her moan his name.

She took hold of his hand and held it close to her chest as she focused all of her attention on him, revelling in the feeling of his tongue on her wet pussy. Her breath came out in gasps and moans as she pulled his hair, making him moan into her clit, sending vibrations through her.

“Fuck, Bill,” she whined when he slipped his fingers inside her. “It feels so good.”

He hummed in agreement and wrapped his lips around her clit, sucking on it gently as his fingers stroked inside her. Her sweet spot was found with ease, and he curled his fingers into it, timing them with his mouth to slowly and steadily bring her to climax.

She whined and moaned as he continued to worship her, reluctantly letting go of his hand so he could gently press down above her pubic bone to push her sweet spot into his fingers more. She wanted the moment to last forever, but the knot in her stomach was about to stop and she couldn’t help how her cunt clenched around his fingers.

“Want me to make you cum?” he asked her, his lips brushing against her clit. Y/N nodded frantically and clenched her fingers in his hair. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on my tongue.”

He curled his fingers harder and sucked on her clit more harshly as she writhed on the bed above him, his name spilling from her lips as he wound her closer and closer to climax. Her whole body felt like it was on fire as he touched her, her stomach twisting itself into a knot as her pussy tightened around his talented fingers.

Y/N threw her head back against the mattress as she let out a loud cry, her clit twitching in his mouth and her pussy clenching around his fingers as he coaxed her orgasm out of her. He held her bucking hips down with his free hand as he helped her to ride out her high, her breath escaping her lungs in gasps and whines as he slowed down his movements.

Bill gave her clit one last kiss as he slid his soaked fingers out of her and climbed back up her body to kiss her, slipping his tongue into her mouth. She whined when she tasted herself on his tongue, the taste sweet and tart against his lips.

“I was right,” he said between kisses. “You do taste as good as you look.”

“That was amazing,” Y/N breathed as she tried to catch her breath, nuzzling against Bill as he caressed her face.

“You want to keep going?” She nodded. “Good, go lie down for me.”

Y/N reluctantly tore herself away from him and shuffled up the bed as she watched him push his sweatpants and underwear down to the floor, revealing his hard cock to her. She swallowed thickly in anticipation, her thighs trembling slightly at the thought of having him inside her.

“Oh, wait,” Y/N said once she’d taken her place against the pillows. “Did you bring a-”

She didn’t get to finish her question when she saw him pick his sweatpants off the floor and pull a wrapped condom out of his pocket. She briefly felt stupid for even thinking to ask, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Can I?” she asked when he climbed onto the bed.

“Do you know how?” he asked in return. 

She nodded and took it from him, tearing open the silver foil and pulling the thin rubber out. Gingerly, she took his hard cock in her hand, feeling how soft and warm the skin was as he twitched in her palm before carefully rolling the condom onto him. A fresh gush of arousal pooled at her entrance at being able to touch him, and she would have stroked him if he hadn’t gently pushed her shoulder to lie her down again.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” he said after gently kissing her forehead, “but tell me if it does. Try to relax.”

Y/N took a deep breath and willed her body to settle, her arms going slack as they circled his shoulders. Her breath hitched slightly when she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance and she let her breath out steadily when he slowly pushed inside, her pussy burning slightly as it stretched out to accommodate him.

She winced once he was settled inside her, her cunt clenching around him on its own.

“You okay?” he asked as he stroked her hips with his thumbs. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head. “It’s just… different.”

He was definitely bigger than what she was used to.

“It won’t feel like that forever,” he said as he softly rolled his hips against hers, his cock slowly sliding inside her. “You’re just so fucking tight.”

He kept a steady rhythm as he slowly fucked her, helping her get more and more used to the feeling of him inside her and stroking her clit so that he wasn’t the only one feeling something. Once she gasped softly and her back arched, he knew he’d found her sweet spot and pulled her legs to wrap around his waist.

The change in angle was delicious and Y/N couldn’t help but moan and roll her hips into his every time the tip of his cock brushed against that spot inside her. Her manicured nails raked down his back, no doubt making red marks on his pale skin.

“How’s that feel?” he purred in her ear as he sped up his thrusts slightly.

“So good,” she moaned and let her head fall back onto the pillow.

She kept her legs wrapped around his body as he took control of hers, driving her further and further towards her coming climax. Her body simmered like a pot of hot water, and she basked in how he steadily fucked her, his cock sliding in and out of her needy cunt as his thumb toyed with her hard clit.

She could hear how wet she was, her slick making it easier and easier for him to fuck her. Her eyes rolled back in her head as her cunt fluttered around him, her climax already starting to boil over. She wished she could have lasted longer for him, but it just felt too good.

“You gonna cum, baby?” she heard him ask through a choked groan.

She forced her eyes back open so she could look at him and saw how his face was flushed, his brow furrowed in pleasure, and his lips slightly parted. She opened her mouth to answer him, but could only moan instead.

“It’s okay,” he said softly and leaned down to kiss her lips. “You can cum for me, I’ve got you. I’m right behind you.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, her orgasm swept over her like a wave. She threw her head back onto the pillow as her back arched and her cunt clenched tightly around his cock, a series of whimpering moans escaping from her throat. She could feel him throb and pulse inside her as his hips stuttered against hers, and he moaned against her mouth before she felt him spill warm cum into the condom.

He stilled inside her, savouring her warmth before reluctantly pulling out and pulling the finished condom off of his cock.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he sighed as he tied the rubber in a knot and discarded it on the nightstand to throw away later. He lay down on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms. “You feel okay? Nothing hurts?”

Y/N smiled at him and shook her head before resting her cheek on his warm chest, basking in the afterglow. She could still feel the ghost of him inside her, her pussy was a little sore, but she truly didn’t mind. She took it as a reminder of him.

After a while, she lifted her head again to look at him. His face was still flushed, but this time was relaxed; his eyes were soft and adoring as he looked at her, a small smile on his lips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said, once she caught her breath.

“Like what?” he asked as he stroked her hair.

“Like you love me.”

He smiled softly and brushed a lock of her hair out of her face before stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers, trailing them down to her jaw. Their lips met again, she could still taste herself on his tongue when it brushed against hers.

“Maybe I do,” he whispered against her lips.

“Maybe?” 

He pulled away from her to look her in the eyes and gently stroked her face as he smiled softly.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Y/N’s breath hitched at hearing him say it, her heart blossoming as a smile of her own broke out on her face.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the low light. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

tags: @unlimitedlust @muchwita @malenoradgn @a-differentbrandof-beans @laniirackssss @voidofsunlight

[klysanderelias]

Yeah I feel like the great sin of this problem is that you're no longer playing the game, you're playing FOR x. I can't count how many times I've been in campaign and heard people saying some variation of 'but it'll be so COOL when we get to' or 'all of this will make sense when' and it isn't, and it doesn't. Like, sorry, I stopped having fun six months ago, and this has all been pulling teeth for me, and I no longer care about any of these characters or events.

ESPECIALLY for long campaigns, I'm far more likely to hate the feeling that I'm being led by the nose for some future payoff than I am to be excited when the payoff comes.

And especially when it comes to backstory, the idea of 'we'll get to it' is such a malicious one. I'm in two separate games that are in the year+ length territory with players who adamantly refuse to talk about or pursue any backstory stuff because they have a carefully plotted out idea of how it's supposed to go, and of course that hasn't come up in game yet. And of course, y'know, if that character dies all that planning and backstory dies with them, so they can't die, they're protected by plot armor.

I just hate playing in games with people who are so focused on some future perfect RolePlaying Moment tm that they're unable to play the game now. We have to hit this Super Cool Cinematic Moment for the Finale and that means that the next three months are just miserable painful railroading so that all the pieces line up, and the moment isn't even good. It's a cool idea, but it sucks to play, and I'm so uninvested in what's happening that it wouldn't be fun regardless.

Like, you watch people sit there and wait for story beats that haven't come and aren't going to because they're not even laying the groundwork for it, just expecting it to drop into their laps, and then they blame the GM!

(or alternately, the GM denies every idea you put forward and keeps saying 'you can't do that yet' or 'you can't go there yet' and then six months later he wonders why everyone sounds so uninterested when he says we're almost at the big moment)

While I rail against the idea of GM prep being like "preparing a nice story for your players that their characters can be slotted into and also as a GM it's your duty to integrate the characters' backstories into your prep or else you're a bad GM" because it often results in linear narratives with very little room for player agency but also it's an unhealthy dynamic to expect a GM to weave together a coherent narrative out of the ideas provided by multiple people who might have completely different ideas about what the game should even look like. But there's also more to the practical angle than "it's hard to prep:"

If a player whose character is deeply integrated into the narrative of the campaign suddenly needs to leave the campaign you've left yourself with a narrative void and unlike in Hollywood you can't just go recasting that shit. No one's gonna buy into this new Goblin Steve, his new player can't even do his voice properly.

By prepping games like this you're really setting your whole campaign up for failure in most cases. How about: the story isn't something the players write for homework before the campaign, right? The NPCs that matter are not authored connections your players gave you as assigned reading before the game even started. The story is whatever happens during sessions and the connections that matter are those that characters build during play.

There is of course some nuance to this but like: we see so much talk about GMs being expected to integrate player character backstories into their prep (and then their players not being engaged anyway because they felt the GM did it "wrong") and about how GMs are burning out and it's a thankless job and like. Could there perhaps be a solution?

[jelzorz]

210.

The thing about being king is that it's hard.

Ez doesn't know why this surprises him so much, but every day is something else. It's always some new treaty to negotiate, some new budget proposal to review, some lord causing trouble for the peasants working his land, and that doesn't even touch on any the Aaravos stuff. Now there's this.

There were six of them this morning. Six! Ez has been seventeen for all of two weeks and the letters are already coming in droves, each more insistent and presumptuous than the last.

"I don't know how you've been dealing with it," he whines to Aanya. He is in Duren today. If he's honest, he's in Duren every other day these days, and when he's not, she's in Katolis because, Duren-Katolis alliance aside, they're friends. Ez likes her company, not just because she's fun to be around, but also because she's the only other person who really gets it, y'know? The complexities of being a monarch. The weight of being a child.

"I've been burning them," says Aanya frankly. She is peeling an orange over her desk and the smell of citrus wafts pleasantly over Ez's nose. "I've been getting them for months and I gave up sending responses after the first couple of weeks. Every suitor bold enough to try is an automatic no from me."

Ez snorts a little at that. "No one's been on your case about it?"

She shrugs without looking up. "A couple of my advisors disapprove but what are they gonna do, really? Why? Is Opeli giving you grief about it?"

Ez barks out a laugh. "Yes... No. I don't know. She just keeps saying it's something I should consider, which feels kind of like a double standard because Callum and Rayla only got married when they were both twenty-one and Soren's almost thirty and I don't see her bothering him."

"Mm." Aanya clucks her tongue and dusts the peels into the bin under her desk. "To be fair, Callum and Rayla were basically betrothed by the time they were our age and I think we both know why Soren doesn't get any trouble from her." She snorts a little and proffers half the orange at him. "Just say no."

"What, you think I've been saying yes?"

Aanya laughs. "I'm just saying, you're the king. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"About getting married, I mean," she chuckles. "It's low priority and there's other stuff we have to deal with right now. Other problems on the horizon."

Ez grimaces, and she doesn't have to say it but he knows she's talking about Aaravos and his impending return. Their seven years of peace and prosperity are almost up. It makes Ez's stomach roil with dread.

"Do you think we've done enough?" he asks quietly after a moment.

"We've done what we can," says Aanya. "I don't know that anyone can promise more than that. Our alliance feels pretty secure and we've got all the Fire Rubies on standby, you've got the Nova Blade, Callum's been researching the whole time... We're as united a front as we can be. There's no point worrying more about it until it's a problem."

Ez lets out a sigh. "You're probably right," he mumbles. "The only way we could be more united is if you and I—"

He stops. He flushes. Aanya looks up and Ez finds himself infinitely grateful that the darkness of his skin doesn't let him visibly blush.

"Is if you and I...?"

Ez flushes more and looks away. "You can forget I said that."

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Your Majesty?"

"Stop, oh my gods."

"Are you adding yourself to my list suitors, Ezran?"

Ez tosses an orange segment at her, and Aanya laughs in an uncharacteristic display of her age. "What would be the point?" he says, his cheeks warm. "Any suitor bold enough to try is an automatic no, isn't it?"

"I mean." Aanya looks away this time, and Ez thinks he can almost see pink in her cheeks. "I'd think about it. If it was you."

A pause. A breath. Ez presses his lips together and wills his breathing and his heartbeat stay even. "You wouldn't burn my proposal if I sent it?"

"I wouldn't burn any letter from you, Ez."

"Oh."

The silence that settles over them borders on awkward, but Ez lets himself chuckle and reaches across the desk for her hand. "That's something worth considering, I guess," he says.

Aanya chuckles shyly and takes it. "Indeed."

[kyoshithewriter]

Bambi (part three)

warnings: morally… something. Smut (18+)

A/n: this is just a mess atp looool. I have one more part planned then that’s it. Enjoy?

“I’m starting to think you like it here, you know.”

Bridgette eyes her warily as she makes her way into the dressing room. The blonde tosses her bone straight hair over her left shoulder, hip cocking to one side. The cherry red set that adorns her body is a beautiful contrast with her pale skin decorated with dark ink.

Renée ignores the woman’s cerulean blue eyes that track her every move.

“I don’t. But I need to work.”

Renée says dismissively while she removes the flimsy outfit from her duffle bag.

“No, you don’t. You always complained to me about how much you hated it here and you wanted a way out. You’ve got one.”

Renée huffs as she strips bare in front of the woman. She has long passed the stage of being shy about her nakedness in the dressing room.

“It’s not exactly a way out now, is it?”

The loud hiss of a spray bottle travels through the room. Renée frowns at the overly sweet floral smell of cheap perfume that wafts through the space. The dancer, Tiffany, likes to bathe in the obnoxious scent and she is surprised that none of the patrons have told her how awful that stuff is.

“He got you in a luxury apartment in the nicest part of this shit hole city. He bought you an Audi and sends you thousands biweekly. How’s that not a way out?”

“He’s also married and I haven’t heard from in almost three weeks. That hardly screams dependable or secure.”

It’s been seven months since she agreed to the proposition he made in her bedroom. In that time, he has spoiled her rotten. So much so, that she started being scarce at the club. Renée had filled Bridgette in without revealing his identity to soothe her friend’s concerns. She has been loving it for the most part. Not only does she have more time and energy to focus on her studies, the sex is also nothing like she has ever experienced before. The man has ruined her for anyone else and she genuinely fears her sex life after him. After. Because she knows that no matter how blissful it is now, he’s taken. There’s no version of this that leads to them being endgame; it would mean him leaving his wife, breaking up his family. The drama, the scandals, it would all be too much. But she’s selfish, so she enjoys him now. While she still can.

“Wait, has he stopped sending you money?”

“No. But… who knows what comes next after ignoring me for so long? I understand he has… responsibilities and it was easy to forgive him after not hearing from him for two or three days. But weeks?” She chuckles bitterly as she applies shimmery oil on her skin.

“Ah… so that’s why you’ve been coming so often recently.” Bridgette has a sly smile on her face.

“What do you mean? I’m working.”

“That guy told you to quit. You haven’t completely but I notice you come more frequently whenever he pisses you off. Is this your little act of rebellion?

Renée pretends to be busy with the straps of her lacy, pink top.

“Mhmm. Whatever it is, keep doing it. You’re making Diego happy by pulling the big spenders. A happy Diego means more money for me.”

Renée playfully rolls her eyes while Bridgette dances in her personal space.

“Speaking of big spenders, it’s packed out there tonight.”

“It’s a Friday night; it’s always packed.”

Renée says, massaging primer into her skin.

“Obviously I meant more than usual. Some footballer’s birthday or some shit Diego said. So bring your A game because there’s money to be made tonight.”

Renée’s heartbeat momentarily spikes at the mention of footballer.

“I always bring my A game.” She throws a playful wink at Bridgette who laughs airily before strutting out of the room.

And Renée… Renée has a sinking feeling that tonight’s going to be a long night.

***********

The security guard by the front door of her new apartment complex eyes her wearily. Renée can’t even fault him; she didn’t bother to change out of the six inch strappy heels. She just pulled on her pair of sweatpants over her panties, her top covered by only her lacy bralette. There’s no questioning what she has been up to- and the people that live in this building are ‘decent.’But Renée doesn’t care, not when she has thousands of dollars coiled tightly together in her duffle bag. ‘Not when the man you’re slowly growing obsessed with hasn’t spoken to you in three weeks’ she rolls her eyes at her thoughts. Obsessed is a bit dramatic. She won’t deny she misses him though. Stepping into her apartment, Renée immediately reaches to flick the lights on. She reaches behind to lock her door absentmindedly, eyes glued to her phone as she shoots a quick message to Bridgette letting her know that she got home.

“You were at the club.”

The gruff voice forces a short, shrill scream from her throat. Clutching her chest, she looks up to find a very big and very angry Virgil seated on her couch. His expression is stormy: eyes glaring, brows furrowed and mouth slightly tilted downward.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Anger quickly replaces the initial shock. The man has a spare key to her place. Or technically his. He owns the building. She thought it was brazen to move her in but he explained that the security guards and few tenants are not surprised because he comes here often. He uses the apartment a floor above as an escape when he gets into with his wife and needs a place to cool off for the night. It makes a little thought prick at the back of her mind: ‘Is their marriage falling apart? And am I making it worse?’

She tries hard to not think too deeply about it for guilt to try creeping in.

“I thought we had an agreement. Imagine my surprise when I saw Elliot’s private story of you putting on a show on that fucking stage.” He says through gritted teeth.

“I told you I didn’t quit.” She says with a shrug.

“Yes. Then I fucked you until you cried and you swore up and down that you wouldn’t go back.”

Renée’s breath hitches subtly at the memory. It was after one of those periods of him disappearing for days. She had went to the club and posted videos in her close friends that she knows he watches keenly from his burner account. He had paid her special visit and brought a pair of handcuffs and a vibrator with him. Renée still dreams of that night. Of course she said everything he wanted to hear when he managed to pull five orgasms out of her.

“I changed my mind.” She feigns nonchalance with a shrug. He’s hot on her heels as she makes her way towards her bedroom. She completely ignores him and moves to unload her duffle. Renée pulls the thick wad of cash from her bag, eyeing it intently.

“That’s a lot of money… you did private dances, didn’t you?” His tone sounds accusatory.

She shrugs again; “Diego asked me to do a few. Club had a lot of big spenders tonight.”

“What the fuck, Renée?” He sounds as if the mere thought is agonizing. He paces a little.

“What is it? You need more money? I’ll double your allowance-”

She scoffs. “Go home, Virgil.”

Renée slams her bathroom door shut behind her. She takes her time in the shower, basking in the steaming water and also just to make him wait. She isn’t surprised when she finds him seated on her bed in only his boxers and socks. His hair is out of its usual man bun. That means he’s getting comfortable; he intends to spend the night. It makes her heart flutter. Seeing him like this, reminds her of all the times he’d cuddle her on the couch with a hot pack pressed against her lower belly while they watched some episodes of Kitchen Nightmares. It reminds her of the nights leading up to exams that he tried to help her study. It reminds her that she’s starting to like him more than she should and it’s scary. Renée clinches the towel tighter around her chest.

“Can we talk?”

She pretends not to hear him. Instead, she roots around in her drawers for underwear and pajamas.

“I’ve been away a while. I’m sorry. I took my… family back home for a bit then we went on vacation. We had a few weeks off so I had to spend time with them, I barely get to.”

Renée notices he always has a certain reluctance to talk about his family around her; like he’s afraid the reminder will shatter the little fairytale they’ve created in her apartment.

“Mhmmm. You were too busy to tell me that but somehow you still had the time to view every single thing I posted to make sure I wasn’t shaking ass for strangers while you were away, huh?”

He opens his mouth to respond but the shrill sound of her phone ringing interrupts him. Renée eyes it on the bed, just a few inches away from him laying face down. She moves but he’s quicker.

“Give me my phone!”

“Who is Stephen, Renée?”

Renée wants to scream. Not now, Stephen!

“None of your business! Hand over my phone, Virgil.” She tries snatching it out of his hand but he stands to his full height, reaching his arm high.

“It is my business if he’s calling you at 4 am.”

She giggles, eyeing him incredulously. “You’re very funny, I’ll give you that. Now hand it over.”

“Oh I’m funny? Watch me be hilarious.”

Is all the warning she gets before he accepts the call.

Renée watches, eyes wide with horror as he presses the speaker option.

“Don’t you dare.” She mouths at him.

“Hey Ren! You told me earlier that you were working late tonight so I wanted to make sure you’re home safe and what do you think about grabbing brunch tomorrow?” Stephen’s chipper voice is muffled, she's guessing by his pillow. Sweet Stephen who she met in psych class. He’s the textbook definition of a golden retriever boy; bright, honeyed brown hair, hazel eyes with thin framed glasses. He has been pursuing her for awhile and Renée agreed to a date after his fifth time asking two months ago. Renée had accidentally let it slip that she was exhausted from working at nights and had to lie to him. Stephen believes that she works night shifts as a customer service rep and being as sweet as he is, he waits up every night to make sure she’s home safe.

“Brunch huh?” Virgil’s voice brings a tense quiet throughout the room.

Renée glares at him with all the hatred she can muster.

“Ren?” Stephen’s timid voice calls out in soft confusion.

“Um, I’ll explain everything tomorrow, Stephen. I’m sorry.”

He allows her to grab the phone from his hand and she hastily ends the call.

“You had no right!”

“Are you fucking him, Renée?” He asks quietly. Calmly. Too calm.

“Seriously?”

“You promised me. You said there’d be nobody else-”

“Stop holding things I’ve said during sex against me! Of course I’m going to tell you everything you want to hear when…” Renée trails off, taking a deep breath to collect herself.

“You can’t be jealous, Virgil. You have no right to be.” She attempts to keep her voice level.

“Well I am. Answer my question, Renée. Are you fucking him?” His eyes look wild. Desperate. Hoping to hear the answer he needs to.

“How’s that fair? You can’t expect to be possessive of me when I have to be sharing you. You’re not my man, Virgil.” She hurries to round his frame and speed walks to the kitchen. She’s playing a dangerous game but she’s telling the truth and he knows it. Virgil finally emerges from her room when she’s pouring hot water into her mug with her spearmint tea bag. She doesn’t fight as he moves behind her and locks his arms around her waist. It’s late. She’s exhausted. She missed him.

“Why are you torturing me, Ren? Hm?”

Her towel falls loose, baring her top to the cool air. Her nipples immediately pebble. She sucks in a harsh breath as his hands gently cup her breasts. He begins to massage them slowly, lightly- just how she likes it. Thumbs flicking at her nipples softly, he asks again;

“Baby, please tell me you didn’t?”

Renée moans softly. “You’re doing it again.” She was hoping her voice would be stern but it’s all breathy.

“What?” He whispers the word against the shell of her ear before his tongue comes to flick at it.

“Trying to get words out of me when you have me in a vulnerable state. It’s not fair, Virgil.” She trembles in his arms, squeezing her thighs together.

“Because you’re going to yell at me otherwise and we’re going to fight and I don’t want to fight. I missed you.”

He tilts her head up, twisting her face in his direction.

“And that’s why you’ve been acting out too hm? You missed me.” Virgil’s heart stutters in his chest as those big eyes blink up at him. She gives a subtle nod.

“And you didn’t do it, right?” He questions softly.

Renée wanted to hold out on him- to make him think that she actually did it just to watch the thought torture him. But she’s weak; she’s weak and he brings out something so vulnerable in her so she gives a little shake of her head. No.

She swears the man huffs a relieved breath.

“I’m sorry, baby. I won’t leave you like that again.”

He leans down to capture her eager mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. The kind of kiss that makes her toes curl as his tongue licks into every crevice inside her warm mouth.

“You must be exhausted, hm? Let me put you to bed.”

Renée’s legs quiver in anticipation. Virgil’s version of putting her to bed means eating her out until her throat is raw from crying and screaming. He won’t allow her to lift a finger; he’ll just pull orgasm after orgasm from her body until she begs him to stop.

“Yes please.”

She knows that using sex like this is not healthy. Hell, nothing about what they have is healthy. But he makes her feel good. He makes her feel so so good and… soft and she likes him. A lot. So she isn’t surprised by how little she cares in the slightest.

********

The low hum of the vibrator seems almost deafening in the quiet of the morning. Renée isn’t sure what time it is, hell, at the moment she isn’t sure about anything. Her brain is a scattered mess. Virgil raises her leg higher and slides himself deeper inside her. This might be her favourite position; lying on her side like this allows her to feel every textured drag of his dick against her walls. It allows him to nudge that little bumpy, spongier area that makes her wheeze. It already feels so good, but he had to add the vibrator to the mix, pressing the little toy against her clit because he likes to show out. He fucks her every single time like he has a point to prove. She wants to yell at him that she gets it. She already knows that the chances of anyone else comparing are very slim.

“Feel how good you feel wrapped around me, Renée. How can you fault me for being possessive? Hm?” The words stutter from his mouth. She’s so warm he fears she might actually scorch him. She’s making a mess between them as she seems to grow wetter every fucking second. He doesn’t know how but the audible squelch every time he moves is driving him insane. He moans from the pit of his belly when he feels her clenching around him rhythmically. She’s close. He likes her like this; waking her up early in the morning, so soft, so pliable. Vulnerable. They barely got five hours of sleep, but he has been on edge since he ate her to her heart’s content a few hours ago.

“Virg- ‘m-”

Her words get caught in her throat; she reaches a delicate hand grip at the back of his neck.

“Not yet, baby.” He warns just to make her shake.

Renée’s tear filled eyes widen with panic. She blinks them up at him and she says it without using words. ‘Please.’

“Just a little longer.”

She moans wantonly, trying to ease herself away from the toy but she just ends pushing back against him so he slips deeper.

“Virgil! I ca- I can’t please.” She sobs, belly spasming as she trembles like a leaf.

“Yes you can, sweetheart. Just a little while longer.”

He pistons his hips a little faster, tongue teasing at the shell of her ear.

Renée clenches her teeth. She tries to hold the orgasm at bay, but it’s coming at her at full speed. The throbbing between her legs intensifies, every muscle in her body clenches, her toes curl tightly.

“Virgil!” Her scream is shrill as the built up pressure snaps. Renée shakes and cries as she comes.

“I’m sorry mhfh sorry.”

Virgil groans as she undulates wildly against him. He keeps her in place with the firm hand locked around her midsection. Her apologies are all jumbled into gibberish but it makes his skin tingle. He doesn’t let up, he keeps fucking her through it- toy still pressed against her. Truth is, he knew she wouldn’t be able to hold it in. He’s giving her a lot of stimulation and Renée has always been eager. He likes the effort she makes though and he knows how much it heightens her pleasure when she feels as if it’s out of her control.

“Virg, I’m so sorry.” She sobs with a little more clarity.

“It’s okay, baby. You tried your best, hm?”

“Uh-huh.” She hiccups as she twitches in his arms.

Virgil manages to pull another orgasm from her that has her crying and begging him for mercy before he comes inside her with an almost animalistic sound. He doesn’t know why but every time they fall in bed together is just as intense as the last. This is something that’s so new to him and he is convinced that Renée was sent to test him. If so, he has failed. Horribly. And would again if time could be reversed.

********

Renée sneaks out of the apartment while Virgil is still sprawled out on her bed. After the morning they had, they could only manage to change the sheets after a quick shower before falling asleep again. Or so Virgil thought as he cuddled her. She slipped out of bed as soon as he started snoring and got dressed to meet Stephen. She gets to their spot ten minutes later than their agreed time but Stephen sat patiently. Renée knew the best thing to do was to come clean, but she’s selfish. Stephen is sweet. While she very much enjoys what she has with Virgil, she knows that’s temporary. There’s no future for them. She wants children, not now obviously, and she’s careful with keeping up with her birth control, but eventually she does. She wants kids and a happy, healthy home. Renée knows better than to even imagine a future like that with a taken man. So she tells Stephen the man who answered last night was just an ex who refuses to accept their relationship is over. She lies about threatening to get the police involved so he’d leave her alone. Stephen was so understanding and demanded she call him if she needed help. She smiled sadly at him and switched the conversation to more mundane things. Virgil messages her on her way back with a slightly threatening tone.

[Virgil. 1:45 pm]: You better have not gone to see him, Renée.

But she isn’t worried. All she has to do is get on her knees, get him in her mouth and blink her eyes up at him and it'll be forgiven.

Renée breaks into a jog as the elevator doors slide closed.

“Wait.”

A palm reaches out to stop the doors and Renée steps in with a grateful smile.

“Thank you so mu-” the words are cut off as she chokes. She hurries to disguise it as a cough, patting at her chest. Her heartbeat is suddenly erratic in her chest.

“No problem.” The very familiar brunette tries to smile. The diamond ring on her finger catches her eyes. Again. It’s her. Renée remembers her well.

“What floor?” The woman asks.

“Erm, fourth.” She whispers meekly as she begins to physically shake.

“Ah, I’m going just above. My husband is here.”

Oh how well Renée knows.

She reaches to subtly unlock her phone and type out a message in all caps.

“He’s been… weird recently. It’s like he purposely picks fights just so he can get away. Or maybe I’m not doing enough as a wife…”

Renée wants to cry and throw up.

“Oh I’m sorry for dropping this on you. I just- I’m sorry it’s not your business.”

“No it’s um..” she clears her throat. “It’s okay.”

Renée’s eyes drop to her phone screen to see he just opened her message. Her heart jumps to her throat as the elevator continues its very slow ascent. She’s not sure if it’s the panic, but she’s suddenly aware of the smell of his very unique aftershave on her skin. Renée steps further away from the woman, sweat collecting at the back of her neck.

“You know, you seem a little familiar. Where have I seen you before?”

Renée’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach.

Fuck.

[samazing0831]

A Letter Never Sent - Dean Winchester x Reader

Dean finds a letter you never meant for him to read - not yet, maybe not ever. But once your secret is out, there's no putting it back. Years of longing, fear, and love unravel in the quiet of a motel room, where emotions boil over and the truth refuses to stay buried. You thought you'd protected yourself by staying silent. Dean thought he protected you by doing the same. Turns out, all you were doing was hurting each other.

Dean Winchester x Reader

1.2k words

The battered envelope sat in Dean’s calloused hands, edges worn from months of being shoved into a duffel bag, tucked away in a journal, and hidden under motel pillows. It had survived hunts, close calls, and long, sleepless nights. But it had never been read. Not until now.

Dean swallowed hard, his thumb tracing over your handwriting on the front. He found it by accident - your bag knocked over in the rush of packing, spilling out loose papers and shotgun shells. He hadn’t meant to snoop. But the way his name was scrawled across the front? He couldn’t ignore it.

He wasn’t even sure if you meant for him to find it.

With a deep breath, he unfolded the letter, his heart pounding as his eyes scanned the words.

Dean,

If you’re reading this, either I’ve left, or I’m dead. I’m sorry that this never got to you while I was still here, but I don’t think I could have stayed after giving this to you…

I’ve been in love with you for years, Dean. And I can’t tell you exactly when or how I knew, but it’s been this way for a long, long time. I can’t tell you how many times I watched you bring some girl back to your hotel room, wishing it was me. Or how many times I watched you flirt with some girl at the bars, wishing I got a taste of what you wanted to give them.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but you have to know that I was doing what I thought was best. You wouldn’t have felt the same way, and Sammy would have tried to get in the middle, and it would have been a trainwreck. So, I sat in silence, torturing myself for years, just wanting you to notice me.

Please, move on from me. Whether it’s my absence or my death, I don’t want you hung up on me, or how I felt…

I love you.

Dean’s breath hitched as he read the last line. His fingers clenched around the paper, knuckles going white as the words sank in.

You loved him.

For years.

And you never said a damn thing.

A broken laugh escaped him, bitter and hollow. Of course, you thought he wouldn’t feel the same. Of course, you convinced yourself that leaving was the best choice. Because that’s what hunters did, right? They pushed away the people who mattered most before they had the chance to get hurt.

But you didn’t get it. You were already everything to him. You had been for years.

“Dammit,” he whispered, his voice raw.

A noise in the doorway snapped him out of his thoughts.

You stood there, holding a greasy burger bag and a six-pack of beer. You froze mid-step when you saw the letter in his hand.

“How did you get that?” you asked, a hint of panic in your voice.

Dean’s head snapped up, eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite name - anger, maybe heartbreak, certainly confusion.

“You left it,” he said, his voice rough. He held up the letter between two fingers, the paper now crinkled with tension. “Tucked in your duffel, like you wanted me to find it, but not soon enough to stop you.”

Your stomach dropped as you froze in place.

“I -” You didn’t know what to say. Your chest tightened as you saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his grip on the paper tightened like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You were just gonna leave, huh?” he asked, his voice low but steady, though there was an edge to it. “Or worse - this was some kind of goodbye before I even knew I lost you?”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” you admitted, guilt flooding you. “I just… had a feeling that one of our next hunts was going to go bad. I needed to get it off my chest. But we don’t have to talk about it.”

Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Yeah, well, kinda too late for that now, don’t you think?”

He crossed his arms, clearly trying to hold it together, though the tension was palpable.

“You really thought I wouldn’t have noticed?” he asked. “That I wouldn’t have seen the way you looked at me? The way you pulled away every time I got too close? Hell, Sam probably knew before I did.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sammy knew?” you whispered.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “So what now? You tell me to forget it? Like this - like you - don’t mean a damn thing to me?”

Your throat went dry. “I get it, Dean,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it was better for the both of us.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening. “You really think you were protecting me by running away? By keeping me in the dark?”

“I thought I was protecting myself too,” you whispered. “I’m not the girl you deserve, Dean. I’m not the pretty one, the feminine one. You deserve someone better than me.”

Dean’s eyes flared with frustration, and he stood up from the chair. “You really think I give a damn about pretty?” he said, voice rough. “I’ve been through hell and back, and you’re the one person who’s been right by my side, through everything.”

He closed the distance between you two, his voice softening as he stood close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. “You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice cracked. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. But here you are, and you’re telling me it’s too late. You’re telling me you want to walk away.”

Your heart ached. “Dean, please don’t do this. I’m not enough for you.” Dean stepped in front of you, blocking your way. “No,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You’re not going anywhere, (Y/N). Not if I have anything to say about it.”

You stood there, torn. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but the fight had drained out of you. “I can’t do this,” you whispered, eyes brimming with tears.

Dean looked at you, his hands running through his hair in frustration. “You really think I’m pretending? After everything we’ve been through? You think I don’t want this, want you?”

His hands gripped your arms gently, but it was enough to make you stop.

“Don’t walk away from me, (Y/N),” he whispered. “Don’t make me lose you.”

You met his gaze, taking in the desperation in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let you walk away again. He wanted this - wanted you.

“Dean, I didn’t leave,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I just needed to get it out… but I didn’t want to lose you. Not like this.”

Dean sighed, relief washing over his face as he took a step toward you. He reached for your hand, pulling you close. “So what do we do now?”

You bit your lip, but the answer was clear.

You took his hand, trusting him completely. “Just us.”

Dean’s face softened as he held you close, his arms wrapping around you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there were no more walls between you.

No more regrets.

Just you and him.

And whatever came next.

[lvmimis]

cw: fluff but somewhat melancholy. happy birthday fic dedicated to my favorite pirate king!

The sun sets quite late on this particular crop of tiny islands, and the large, endless fields of sunflowers that comprise them have been a legend you’ve heard about for longer than you can remember. It amazes you that you’ve been able to actually find them, but today, you and Luffy have managed to set off together in search of them - with guidance of a small map provided by Nami - to spend the day together in leisure. The ornate - and previously overstuffed - picnic basket settled in front of you has been dozed over with not a crumb left courtesy of your favorite pirate, and now you glance over at him while sitting cross-legged in the grass, two easels propped up before you. 

One painting is covered in measured but uneasy brush strokes, the other with bold, broad splashes of color, abstract yet confident in its statement. The latter’s artist is only a few feet ahead of you, just before the high row of sunflowers, the varying heights an unnatural but aesthetic patchwork of yellow bloom. Where he stands, they are separated into a path, and as the wind blows, you wonder if they even seem to be turned towards him slightly, swaying to and fro from where he stands, their brown centers like watchful wide pupils, not unlike yours.

It’s an odd thing to imagine, you admit to yourself as you add another brush stroke to your canvas, but these flowers won’t be the first to bend naturally to his indomitable will.

The sun has not set yet, and the two of you are awash in the golden hour. Luffy starts to hum something under his breath as you continue to paint, his eyes in the direction of the sea. You can’t ask him to sit for too long, and when he needs you, you’ll be there right beside him.

More brush strokes, as you try to develop them into a form. Maybe if he stands there long enough, you can sketch out a vision of him among the flowers, and you start to move quicker, until -

Something has just occurred to you.

“Luffy!”

Luffy stops humming, turning his head in your direction.

Your stomach twists as you realize you might be the worst romantic partner on the planet.

“... when exactly is your birthday?”

Between your first meeting along with the crew over two and a half years ago, the one and a half years spent mostly apart in Amazon Lily territory and the six months together on Rusukaina Island, and the months thereafter with the crew, you realize you have never seen him blow the candles off a cake.

Admitting this is hard for you, but it’s even more odd when Luffy scrunches up his face for a moment, thinking.

“What day is today?” he asks.

“... May 5th,” you reply. 

Luffy tilts his head and taps his chin. “Oh. Today. Maybe.”

Your jaw drops.

“Today?????? Maybe???? Luffy, what the hell do you mean today-”

Your voice is cut short by his arms quickly shooting in your direction, giving you enough time to brace yourself, eyes closed, before they loop around and snatch you up like a lasso. Before you have time to scream, you’re already in his grip and he’s smiling brightly at you.

“Put me down,” you say, the way it comes out as a whisper, showing he did a particularly good job of circumventing a rant. He obliges, but lets an arm coil around your waist as you stand looking off at the sea.

“Yeah, I think I was born today,” he muses. He’s not looking at you now but he chuckles under his breath. You pout, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Luffy.”

The sun continues its slow descent, warmth on your faces, as you watch the horizon. He kisses the top of your head.

“Thanks.”

‘And I love you’ is not said by either of you, but it is implied and exchanged in the pregnant, heavy silence.

“Did you eat enough? Should we go get you a cake now? There has to be somewhere…” you start, filling it.

Luffy squeezes your hand, then brings it to his lips.

“Stop freaking out, it’s just a birthday,” he mutters against your hand. You can sense a quiet solemnity in him, one that reminds you that Luffy’s abnormal past often bubbles to the surface then dissipates, just below the surface until it fades with the breadth of his grin.

But you want him to tell you.

“Did… Dadan not know about it either?” The crew is a moot point… or maybe it’s not, considering the sheer amount of food Sanji packed for you two, but it’s unlike him to not include a cake or tell you if he had known in advance. “Sabo?” you ask tentatively.

You pause before asking the next one.

“... Ace?”

Luffy’s loose but affectionate grip on your hand doesn’t tense up but he’s made a bit quieter.

“Ace didn’t like his birthday when we were kids. When I asked him, he said it didn’t matter. I don’t think he’s wrong about that.”

His eyes tilt upwards to the sky.

“As long as you’re still alive, every day is special.” 

It’s a particularly Luffy answer, but there is a certain bite to it that makes your throat go slightly dry. You twist your mouth to the side, but don’t add anything. Luffy thinks back to the days Dadan would put extra helpings of food on their plates, and insist on Ace or him eating the first slice of a plain iced cake with no candles; then he remembers Makino arriving with heaps of fruit on a tart, “just as a treat” but on the same days every year.

He knew he was being treated nicely because it was his birthday, but because of Ace…

“Even so, would you let me celebrate it with you from now on?” you ask suddenly, pulling him out of his reverie. Luffy looks at you, and takes in the slight shine in your eyes. Dusk is approaching quickly, time running out in the day.

“Yeah. I’ll blow some candles if you want.”

His forehead presses against yours now as he grins from ear to ear.

“Gotta make me a meat cake, though. In addition to regular cake,” he insists, as he cups your face. You cover his hands with your smaller ones.

“Whatever you want for your birthday, Luffy. I promise,” you offer him sincerely.

The sunflowers, tall and short, are still your audience, gently swaying as you walk back to pick up your supplies. Your drawing is only partially done, but you are okay packing up your canvas.

You have to celebrate Luffy’s birthday, and the next hundred.

—

As you load your small boat, an offshoot of the Thousand Sunny, he peers over your shoulder as you glance at your map. You look at him, then press a kiss to his cheek before figuring out your next stop.

“Back to the Sunny to see Sanji for a cake, or should we just go and buy one even if it’ll probably be less good?”

He ponders for a moment.

“Let’s buy a cake so we can be together a little longer. Plus it’ll be faster.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Sanji will be so hurt but it’s our own secret, I guess.”

He grins and presses a kiss to your lips again. “It’s only a problem if you tell him.”

The ship sets off in the direction of a port city in the vicinity with a big shopping district and hopefully a bakery. As you sail, you watch Luffy again who is already dozing off his hand encircling yours, his straw hat covering his face.

“Hey, Luffy.”

Luffy doesn’t take off his hat but responds under, his voice muffled. “Yeah?”

You lean closer to where he is laid, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Do you want to celebrate with Ace too on his birthday?” you ask in a gentle voice. He takes off his hat for a moment and looks you in the eyes carefully, and the brown of his irises remind you again of sunflowers - adoration, loyalty, happiness, and longevity.

“Sure.”

The hat goes back atop his head, covering his sweet face, and you smile to yourself.

—

Henceforth, on May 5th every year, a feast that lasts an entire day on the Thousand Sunny.

And on January 1st in an unknown year in the future, a birthday cake with 20 candles is split into four pieces atop a well-loved grave.