#he. will. make. every. fucking. thing. worse.

[bbokicidal]

messy, messy boys. | [SKZ]

warning: 18+ (MDNI), nothing special I'm just feeling feral

messy!chan who can't stop fucking you because some primal urge in his chest tells him he has to keep going - even if he's sore and there's cum leaking out of your pussy every time his cock slips into you, he's bruising your thighs from how hard he's fucking into you and you -- well, you're dead silent save for your shaky breaths and occasional whimpers, brain mush in your head from how long he's been going at it.

messy!minho whose biggest desire is to make you squirt over and over and over for him because he thinks its so sexy - and it's even sexier when he's the one making you feel so good it just comes out without warning and practically bathes his lower half in your juices.

messy!changbin who loves fucking after he's come back from the gym. his favorite thing is when he's already sweaty and now you are too, bodies practically stuck together as you lay on top of him and he fucks up into you with ease, a death grip on your hips.

messy!hyunjin who legitimately comes at the sight of how wet you are for him. he did that to you, he's the reason your pussy is gushing slick and clenching around nothing, desperate for him. he hasn't even put his dick in you and yet he's coming all over your clit, pushing into your gummy walls all while he's still coming undone.

messy!jisung whose cock leaks like no other. he's always staining the inside of his pants or making a mess on your sheets, which leads to him always buying you new ones. he just can't stop rutting his hips down when you makeout - and when he does finally get inside you he's already come at least twice.

messy!felix who eats like no other, tongue lathing over your folds and dipping into your warmth until spit coats every inch of your lower region. he can't help it - he could eat you for hours, which he just might do if you don't stop him. (and he is absolutely going to spit on your clit.)

messy!seungmin who can't control his mouth - constantly drooling when you ride him or let him fuck up into you while he's on the bottom. it's even worse if you sit on his face; spit sliding down his cheeks because it just pools on his tongue and has no where to go.

messy!jeongin who feels the need to cover every inch of you when he has the opportunity, going at least four or five rounds so he can come on your stomach, your face, your tits, ass - and of course your pussy. it just sates the need in him to show that he owns you.

[conkreetmonkey]

I mean it wasn't really "in disgrace" he never apologized for anything lmao Anyone else remember his YouTuber-ass "hi guys, I screwed up" apology video from a few months(?) ago where he literally did the *walks into room, sits in chair in front of desk-mounted camera to try to appear candid* thing (during which he never actually apologized for anything and kept insisting he HAD avoided a recession and saved the economy, despite his failure to do that being what he was "apologizing" for)? And then he very transparently tried to buy our votes by announcing he was getting rid of sales tax out of nowhere, and then just... resigned anyway?? Has he ever had a plan??? Is he flying by the seat of his pants???? Fuck, the conservatives are gonna win, aren't they... all but like one party is conservative anyway, so it's all but guaranteed. How do we have so many parties and ALL of them suck, like come on is ANYBODY EVER going to address the housing crisis and admit the economy isn't "booming" and the job market isn't "soaring" and there is no "labor shortage" but actually a WAGE SHORTAGE and MONOPOLY PROBLEM, and that the current immigration system is extremely exploitative in that it relies on luring people in with false promises only to trap them in shitty abusive low-wage jobs in a country where a shoebox studio apartment with mold is optimistically $1,250 a month before utilities, and a basic fast food combo is $17.50 before tax??? Sorry to rant. Just... ugh. I really thought Singh would be alright, but apparently he joined up with Trudeau, so now like... at the polls his year, do I pick: 🍁the "everything will continue to slowly fall apart while we twiddle our thumbs and insist everything is fine" party 🍁 the "we will accelerate the rate at which everything falls apart lol fuck you I hate you" party 🍁 the "we're GREEN but not really, and also like we're actually the "make everything Christian" party but don't really say it out loud lol" party 🍁 the "please let Quebec be its own country please oh please oh please oh ple--" party (Americans, think Texas seperatists, but with a bilingual twist) 🍁 the "we're the people's party, we're for the people! Anyway so like first we need to bring back conversion therapy, completely disregard the environment, fuck immigrants, fuck trans people, also we need to restart the abortion debate guys--" party This country is fucking BONED. Like, we're not actively death rattling and hacking up chunky blood like America is, and I think we tend to rest on our laurels because we'll always look good in comparison to that, because... we're almost just as fucked. Just absolutely "maybe it can theoretically be salvaged, but at this point it'd take a miracle" tier, double-decker triple-bypass FUCKED. Every one of these parties will make things far worse if elected. There are no good options. It's going to be 4 years of decline no matter what, the only question being how far and fast we go down into the sewer. ...unrelated, but any Europeans looking to marry a stranger rn?

[azzibuckets]

sweet [part four]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count: 2.5k

masterlist

Azzi wakes up to a sweater being thrown on her face. It’s bright, sunlight streaming in through the window and bathing her room in a soft yellow. “Wake up.”

“Mhmmm.” Azzi tosses the sweater away, burrowing back into the warmth of her comforter. She’s halfway asleep again when the feeling of cold water dripping down her cheek sends her flying up. “What the fuck?”

Paige smirks, clearly fighting the urge not to laugh. She’s in her UConn puffer and sweats, her hair tied up in a messy bun and her eyes brighter than ever in the sunlight. “You gotta wake up for real.” She screws back the cap of her water bottle.

“What are you doing here?” Azzi fumbles around for her glasses, slipping them on as she takes in the sight of Paige in her room for the first time in weeks. She blinks rapidly, trying to get ahold of her bearings.

Paige stuffs her hands into the pockets of her puffer. “Your doctor called me. Said you missed your last rehab appointment?” She raises an eyebrow at this.

Azzi rolls over in bed, stuffing her face into a pillow. It’s too early to deal with this. All she wants to do is go back to sleep, her only escape from the nightmare that’s been her life recently. “What does that have to do with you?”

“Check the time.”

Glancing at her watch and seeing that it’s almost noon, she curses. She’d forgotten to set her alarm last night. Even if she left now, she’d still be hours late - her rehab center is all the way in New York.

“He asked me if I knew where you were, seeing as you haven’t been responding to most of his messages or calls lately.”

Choosing to ignore the question hiding in her words, Azzi searches frantically among her blankets for her phone. “Shit, I gotta call an Uber.” But Paige rests a hand on her wrist, the warmth of her touch burning through the long sleeve she’s wearing. Azzi’s pulse quickens.

“I’ll take you.”

“No, it’s really okay,” Azzi objects.

“Az. By the time the Uber comes you’re gonna be even more late. You won’t even make it by the time they close.” When Azzi still doesn’t look convinced, Paige adds, “I seriously have nothing else to do. Let me take you.”

Azzi hesitates before finally relenting with a nod. She’s already been on a thin ice with her doctors before missing her last appointment, and every minute she shows up late today is another minute under their scrutinizing gaze and interrogations.

Pulling on the sweater Paige had thrown at her, she rushes around the room, trying to collect her things and get dressed as fast as possible. Paige tosses her random items as she gets ready - socks, her shoes, her purse. The older girl seems to know what Azzi needs before she even says anything, and it makes her miss their dynamic even more - Paige always understood her so easily.

The look in Paige’s eyes hasn’t left Azzi’s mind since that night. She knows she should’ve said something, done anything to take that destroyed look off of her face. And she’d regretted the words as soon as they’d left her mouth, every step taken with Micaela and away from Paige feeling like another crack in the shattered glass of their friendship. But she hadn’t had the strength to turn around and apologize then, to face Paige when she could barely look in the mirror and face herself.

Afterwards, she’d expected the older girl to be frustrated, upset, angry at her. But in their clipped interactions during practices and team events, Paige never snapped or made snide comments. Instead, she almost seemed timid, wary and withdrawn, like she was just hurt, and somehow? Somehow that was even worse.

“Hey.” Paige glances over at her, surprise flickering across her face. They’d been sitting in silence for the past hour, aside from the occasional comment on the passing scenery. Paige had seemed lost in thought, her eyes darting around quickly like they usually do when she’s zoned out. But now she has Paige’s attention. This is her opportunity. Azzi shifts in her seat. “I just wanted to say I’m, uh, sorry about the other night.”

Paige’s face remains indifferent, indecipherable. Azzi searches for any sliver of emotion in her expression - the familiar furrow of her eyebrows when she’s upset, the crease at the corner of her mouth when she’s sad - anything. But Paige’s face is carefully controlled, as if she doesn’t trust Azzi with her emotions, and Azzi thinks this might hurt more than anything. “It’s all good. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Paige’s hands tighten ever so slightly on the steering wheel. “I’m glad Micaela looks out for you.”

They fall into silence again. Azzi isn’t used to this either - Paige being silent, not chatting her ear off. She’s treading in unfamiliar waters, and it almost feels like she’s drowning. “I put you as the emergency number.” Azzi finally says. “That’s why they called you.”

“Aw, I thought Janelle just missed my face,” Paige says, her lips tugging upwards, and Azzi sighs in relief. A joke. She can work with this.

“I can change it, if you want,” she offers.

Paige looks at her weirdly, as if Azzi had just proposed something preposterous. “Why the hell would you change it?”

“I mean, I don’t want them to keep bothering you about stuff. I can just change the contact to Micaela?”

“No, don’t change it,” Paige says a little bit too quickly. “I know more, um, basketball and treatment stuff. It’ll be easier if they just contact me.” Paige doesn’t say that she doesn’t trust anyone else to be Azzi’s emergency contact. That she needs to be the first to show up if Azzi ever needs anything, that no one can understand Azzi like she does.

“Okay,” Azzi agrees. She taps her fingertips on her knee. “I won’t change it.”

Paige finally looks at her, and Azzi swears she sees the familiar softening of her eyes. But she turns her gaze back on the road, and it’s gone. “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, Azzi’s stomach grumbles. “A little bit.”

Paige jabs her thumb towards the back seat. “I brought some snacks. Help yourself.”

Azzi reaches over, grabbing the bag and ruffling through it. Gummy worms, chocolate chip cookies, Quest protein bars - all her favorite snacks. And - a Tupperware of strawberries, and a mini jar of Nutella. “Did you pack this for me?”

Paige’s cheeks color. “No,” she says defensively. “I just happened to grab your favorites.”

“Aw, Paige,” Azzi coos, earning a roll of the eyes and a swat from Paige. She dodges her hand and laughs, and they almost feel normal again. But then Paige clears her throat, and says, “So what’s up with rehab? Why’d you miss your last appointment?” And Azzi knows that that momentary slice of normalcy could only last so long.

“Micaela was having a rough day. I wanted to stay home and make sure she was okay.”

Paige’s jaw tightens. “You know every appointment you miss is another day you can’t play?”

“I know that. I missed one appointment, it’s not the end of the world. She gave me some stuff to do at home and I followed all of her instructions,” Azzi defends.

“Bullshit.” Paige shakes her head in disbelief. “You know that your actions affect the entire team too? It’s another game we have to figure out a way to work without you.”

“God, Paige, you’re acting as if I completely fucked up my entire rehab,” Azzi laughs incredulously. “It was one day.”

“One day you chose to fool around with a girl rather than focus on basketball,” Paige says sharply.

“Oh, please,” Azzi scoffs. “Fool around with girls? Yeah, real fresh, Paige. Let’s talk about how many girls you hit up at the bar every fucking week.”

“You know I don’t do that shit anymore. I have a girlfriend,” Paige shoots back.

Azzi’s eyes burn, and she forces herself to look out the window again, to blink away the tears before they start to form. Yet another reminder of how she was never good enough for Paige - Paige could never take her eyes off other girls when they were friends with benefits, but with Ella, she didn’t even want to look at anyone else. “Good for you,” Azzi replies coldly. They sit in silence for the rest of the car ride.

••

Azzi doesn’t want to admit it, but rehab somehow becomes bearable again with the presence of her best friend, even if the tension between them is still suffocating. Paige, always attuned to Azzi’s feelings, seemed to have noticed the negative shift in Azzi’s mood as soon as she entered the facility. She’d started cracking jokes at everyone they talked to, and although she never even made eye contact with Azzi, the younger girl knew that her sudden playful behavior was for her.

Even now, as Janelle works her fingers around her scar tissue, Paige is sitting just inches from her, telling a long story about an encounter she’d had with some crazy fans. Azzi is mostly quiet, merely contributing a nod or a laugh every so often, but she nevertheless appreciates it, because even despite petty arguments, Paige has always made it a point to look out for her. Azzi thinks to herself that it couldn’t possibly be her fault that she’s always been so caught up with the older girl. Paige was too easy to fall in love with.

Janelle’s phone rings suddenly, and she excuses herself to take it. “Paige, can you take over for a sec? Massage the tissue around her scar, just like how we did it with you.”

Paige looks hesitantly at Janelle’s retreating figure before slipping into her chair, taking over her position. Her hands hover over Azzi’s knee, almost as if she’s afraid to hurt her by touching her. “Is this okay?” she asks softly. And Azzi wants to laugh, because if someone had told her a month ago that Paige would be asking for permission to touch her when she’d once had her hands constantly on her waist and back and butt, she would’ve thought they were insane.

And Azzi’s not even sure if she can handle Paige touching her, because her heart is already thumping from the mere proximity of her presence. But Paige is waiting with bated breath and hopeful eyes, so she nods. Paige presses her thumbs into the tissue around her knee, moving them in soft circles. Azzi’s numb where her scar is, so she can’t really feel Paige’s touch until she shifts slightly, and the blonde’s fingers graze the sensitive skin of her inner thigh for just a second, and she lets out a little sigh. Paige freezes for a second before continuing to work more firmly around her knee.

“Paige.”

Paige looks up at her, and all Azzi can focus on is how pink and kissable her lips look, and the pretty flutter of her long lashes. They lock eyes, neither of them saying anything, scared to start another argument that will blow a fuse between them. But then Paige slowly lowers her mouth to her knee, her gaze stubborn on Azzi’s. She presses a kiss to Azzi’s scar, lips lingering on her skin as her thumb continues to stroke circles into the side of her knee. Azzi brushes a strand of hair away from Paige’s eyes, gently tucking it behind her ear, her thumb caressing her cheek for a brief second before she drops her hand.

“I said to massage my patient, Bueckers, not feel her up in my office,” Janelle reprimands as she steps back into the room. Paige jumps away quickly, looking at anything but Azzi, tucking her hands behind her back like a little child whose just been caught stealing a cookie red handed. Azzi licks her lips, wishing that Janelle could’ve waited just two more seconds.

Her doctor looks between the two of them with a knowing smirk. “I got it from here,” she tells Paige. “Go make yourself useful and stop distracting her.”

“I’ll go, er, fill up the ice tub,” Paige stammers, scurrying off before Janelle can make another comment. She busies herself for the next hour or so, filling bags of ice for other patients, making sure Azzi’s water bottle is filled, everything and anything she can do to keep her mind off the sound of Azzi’s breathy moan and the way it had made her feel warm all over. She had a girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. A girlfriend that couldn’t make her feel half of what Azzi made her feel.

When she’s finally done, Azzi is waiting for her in the lobby. “You might have to drive back alone,” Azzi says. “They said I should come back tomorrow because I missed my last one. Think I might just book a hotel room and stay over.” Azzi’s about to fall asleep on her feet, and she doesn’t feel like waking up at 5 am tomorrow to repeat the long drive.

“You’re funny for expecting me to let you stay in a random city by yourself.” Paige grabs Azzi’s duffel and tosses it over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

••

Paige comes out of the bathroom in boxer shorts and a tank top. She wrings her hair with a towel, and Azzi’s eyes skim appreciatively over the muscle of her arms going taut.

“Wanna put a movie on before we sleep?”

Azzi nods, and Paige somehow manages to find a channel that’s playing Frozen. They sit on the bed at first, stiff. All the rooms with doubles were already booked, so they’d had to settle for the room with the biggest bed possible. But even as they sit on opposite sides of the king bed, the distance between them feels too small, too weak to stop the energy in the air between them.

And neither of them knows how it happens, but as the movie plays, they’re shifting closer and closer together until their arms are touching, their knees pressed against each other. Then Paige is moving Azzi onto her lap, and Azzi isn’t resisting, letting the blonde take control of her hips and place her in her lap.

They stare at each other for half a second, indecision running through their minds. Azzi knows that whatever happens next won’t fix whatever’s going on between them - the constant arguing, the back and forth, the exhaustion. It’ll only make it worse, complicate things until they’re tied into a messy tangle of knots. But Paige looks so soft in the dim light of the room, her hair loose and wavy and down and her eyes tired, and her skin still warm from the heat of her shower, that Azzi thinks that she just has to feel her, for just one second, and before she can stop herself she’s nuzzling her face into the crook of Paige’s neck. The older girl shudders at the feeling of Azzi’s lips grazing her pulse point, heat blossoming in her lower tummy. “We can’t do this,” Azzi whispers, even as she tucks her body in closer to Paige.

Paige’s hands wander down to Azzi’s ass, pressing their hips together. They both groan at the feeling. “Why the fuck not?”

“You have a girlfriend,” Azzi gasps as she rolls her hips, grinding against Paige’s lap. “And I have a girlfriend. This will fuck everything up.”

“Me and Ella are taking a break,” Paige moans, hips bucking up as she searches for more friction. Azzi whimpers, and it takes everything in Paige not to lose all control at how needy the younger girl sounds.

“How the fuck are you guys already on a break?” Azzi pants.

“Trust me, we are.” Paige suckles on Azzi’s neck beneath her ear, nibbling at the skin and tasting her sweat with a swipe of her tongue.

“This is so wrong,” Azzi whimpers, but she laces her hand through Paige’s hair and tugs her even closer. She can feel Paige smirk against her neck, her warm breath damp on her skin.

“Are you and Micaela exclusive yet?” Paige’s fingers creep closer to the waistband of Azzi’s shorts, itching to dip below.

“No,” Azzi moans. “Not yet.” She grinds against Paige again, getting lost in the slow, sensual rhythm of their bodies moving together in pure want.

“So what’s so wrong about this?” Paige rasps. “Because it feels so right.” She runs her hands up Azzi’s bare thighs, heart beating wildly at the sight of the prettiest girl on her lap, her abs flexing as she moves, eyes big and dark and blown out. Her thumb briefly pushes up her shorts, stroking her upper thigh, making the younger girl shudder. She kisses a line down Azzi’s clavicle, leaving a messy and heated trail of spit. “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Azzi groans, and she’s so close to giving in, so close to taking Paige’s hand and guiding it to where she needs it most, so close to letting Paige take all control and have her way with her, until Paige pants, “Come on baby. It’s just sex.”

It’s just sex.

Fuck you, Paige Bueckers.

[toovaeloe]

curse biologist!reader x assistant!gojo hc’s

content: gojo pining off his ass . little flirty lab partners . tw for sliiighhtest mention of an autopsy and related tools . warning for gojo poppin’ a stiff one in the lab cause he’s a freak like that (ur a freak like that), so mildly suggestive

mdni

curse biologist!reader— the higher ups want you dead and gone, that’s for sure. You, who has a cursed technique that turns cursed energy into something tangible. After applying your technique to a cursed spirit, it becomes visible to a naked human eye, and instead of disintegrating, leaves a corpse behind. You’re dangerous. Crazy. And well…too weird. But they just hate progress, don’t they?

Not Gojo. He really doesn’t think you’re doing any harm to be honest (and he’ll do just about anything if it creases another wrinkle into Gakuganji’s ugly mug)

I mean, who else has been able to make waves in the integration of curses into science like you have? You’ve uncovered an exponential amount about the inner workings of curses in a few years when the rest of Jujutsu society’s had centuries, only to scratch the surface. It’s really admirable how you deep dive into the nitty gritty, as he calls it.

assistant!gojo— who loves being your little go-getter. Your own personal cursed spirit Fetch-Fido— maybe if you squint hard enough you’ll be able to see floppy ears perked to attention in his snowy hair or an eager tail whipping up a hurricane behind him as he brings you back his latest catch: a detained grade 2 curse manifested by the fear of monsters under the bed. Yeah, he knew you’d like something like that.

assistant!gojo— loves witnessing the way your eyes light up and it’s as if he can see the cogs immediately gearing to life in your smart little brain. He’s saluting exaggeratedly with a puffed out chest when you give him the go ahead to kill the thing after you’ve had your hand at it. It’s all he can do not to ask for a pat on the head and praise of how well he did. Getting a “Good boy,” out of you is on his mental vision board.

assistant!gojo— sticks around for the autopsies. Likes watching you poke around inside the creatures and is waiting on your hand and foot through the entire process. Scalpel? Bone saw? Enterotomy scissors? The bread knife??? He’s even starting to become attuned to your whims, tool already in hand before you extend your palm.

If you murmured an awed, “look at thaaat,” he’s quick to huddle in close under the pretense of observing whatever oddity that’s intrigued you. Only to squish his cheek against yours with a feigned, “hmm…mhmm…” nodding stiltedly, and not so discreetly nuzzling his face closer to yours with an impish glint in those azure eyes as he casts a sidelong glance to your skeptical neutrality.

assistant!gojo— staring at you with the widest puppy dog eyes as you discard your gloves and begin sketching diagrams of the latest brain you’ve picked apart, comparing it to the contradicting one of another curse, and contrasting from the drastically different human model you have. He can listen to you babble for hours, if only absorbing every other word of your theories on why a curse’s blood runs violet or how you’re so excited to get these samples to the lab. He’ll still chip in with his own question or hypothesis from time to time, because he’s curious too, but more than that he loves the way you answer.

assistant!gojo— purposely uses candy and sweets as a metaphor whenever you plead with him to explain how he views the electromagnetic spectrum through those eyes of his, just because he thinks it’s funny how desperate you are to know. To this day you can’t decode however the fuck that analogy about laffy taffy and rock candy was supposed to relate to infrared waves.

assistant!gojo— Satoru can’t decide what’s worse; the fact that he can’t get you out of his head or the fact that you want inside of his head

This whole situation is basically him giving you googoo eyes and kissy faces as you scribble down something on your clipboard and try to stick him with a needle

assistant!gojo— who’s willing to be a bit of a lab rat for you. He’s all giggles as he prances up to your vertical operation table, huffing lightly when you strap him against the cool steel. “Don’t be shy now, y’could go tighter than that. You know I like it when you tie me up,,” he encourages oh so unhelpfully.

assistant!gojo— chiding you to be careful when you begin application of the biosensors across his chest, cause he’ll get “a little too excited.” You don’t pay mind to his little quip until you see his already irregularly R-R intervals spike impossibly short on the electrocardiogram readings. And then again as you finish hooking him up to the machine.

assistant!gojo— thinks you might be overthinking what environmental stimuli might have caused that anomaly, or maybe judging by that poorly veiled smile and half-hearted “My mistake,” you’ve purposefully placed that one sensor node a little too low on his pelvis this time. Now that he’s thinkin’ about— yeah—there definitely wasn’t any need for you crouch so low until your nose was practically level with the apex of his thigh. Or for you to look up at him in a way that had him failing to suppress a shiver and his breath hitching when you smoothly rubbed the padding of the damn thing into his hip with your thumb. Aaaand fuck, he’s bricked in the lab. (again.)

He’d kill to know what’s going on in your noggin. And frankly he’s dying to get the pants off his fave smartypants.

a/n: as soon as I got this idea i was like ooo biting my lip and bigbig smile,, onto something? am I onto something??? would anybody maybemaybe read a one shot with this concept 👀? okay I love you byyyee

[crimsonmochi]

Intimate ― S. Gojo

Synopsis. Part 2 to "Personal" | Pornstar!Satoru is used to fucking for money's sake. It's something he does often and something he does really fucking well. When he is requested to guest you, however, it shocks everyone to see an immediate energy shift.

Pairing. Satoru Gojo x fem!reader

Content. MDNI, fem! pornstar! reader, chubby! reader implied, gender neutral pronouns used for reader, but use of "girl" about twice, no use of "y/n", smut, p in v, fingering, creampie, sweet sex, some semblance of onlyfans, pussydrunk! gojo, gojo is left handed canon, still a little bit pathetic, still a little nasty, probable breaches of work boundaries, drinking mentioned, no beta

Word Count. 6.1k

Parts. one | two

A/N. thank you so much for the love on part 1! sorry for taking so long with this one, i was a bit busy for the holidays. part 3 and final part hopefully coming soon in a theater near u

Seventeen times. And a half.

Since the tape came out on his page, Satoru Gojo had jerked off to it seventeen times. He only counts the half because he technically had finished that one time, but it was too humiliatingly early to even fully count.

It worried him at first. Sure, he was aware of his high sex drive, but never had a single video—a single person—managed to have him this worked up. He even had it downloaded to his phone, and downloading porn had never been a thing Satoru envisioned himself doing, ever, even if it was his own.

Every now and then, his mind would go blank and remind him of how you looked, how you sounded, how you smelled and how you felt. He remembered how you looked at each other, the burns your eyes had permanently left on his soul. He remembered making out with you on the studio bed after you had sucked on his fingers, a primal urge to taste you consistently and refusing to stop even to breathe. And he remembered your smile against his lips and how embarrassingly giddy it had him feeling.

Satoru hadn't turned the cameras off right away. He stayed with you in bed, and you didn't seem to mind, chatting it up rather normally while he laid on top of your body, heavy as a rock and as your fingers brushed through his hair. He had never spent over a minute with his co-stars after filming before. You were different. And he liked that you were different.

What he did not like was what came with you being different, the unknown.

Satoru was used to one-night stands, situations, and things that could have become something more but ended after one conversation about what he did for a living. Connections ending abruptly, accounts unfollowed, numbers deleted. It never shook him emotionally; he would be at most bummed out for the afternoon because, damn, she was hot or fuck, I liked her voice. Never anything serious.

And sure, whatever he had with you might have started as pure sexual attraction, but you weren't just a pretty face and a hot body.

He had explained it to Suguru as having a box full of your favourite chocolates and one flavour never tasted before. He liked all the other chocolates because they were his favourites, but once he tasted the unknown flavour, the other ones started to be dull to the senses―to which Suguru responded by calling him an idiot, of course.

It hadn't helped that you two started calling shortly after the video went live, your sweet voice and soft waves of laughter making his situation exponentially worse. Satoru put a lot of effort into being as casual and kind as he could be, careful not to scare you off and desperate to keep you around if only just milliseconds longer.

To your surprise, Satoru turned out to be a great listener—a little too great, at times, when you wondered if he was still listening after long monologues. He was attentive, remembered details you wouldn't even expect your closest friends to remember, which made your lips curl and your heart feel a little warm.

You had confessed on a particularly inebriated that you only got into the industry to pay off your education and some of your parents' debt and that it was supposed to be temporary. You explained that you were actually qualified for very high-profile jobs, but since you now had a "questionable internet history" that employers kept bringing up at interviews, you had given up on that, which took some coming to terms with on your part. And Satoru listened to that story, heart clenching when you thanked him for the opportunity he gave you to make a little bit more money this month.

Weird how you conveniently found a deposit in your bank account the next morning. He swore up and down he did not know the first thing about it, but even if it had come from him, he would not want you to take it as a gift of pity but rather a late bonus for your hard work. But it definitely wasn't him, sweet thing.

The gifts didn't stop after the money incident. Now that Satoru understood you better and that small gestures were the way to go rather than an exceedingly ridiculous amount of money to gift someone, he went with that. He ordered flowers to your home with no cards, trinkets and stickers he found at those seemingly breaking down records shops Suguru would drag him into.

Satoru never left any indication that it was his doing, and you had never brought it up to him. But he knew that you knew, and that was all he needed.

All your assistant ever heard these days was "Satoru this" and "Satoru that." Your constant gushing had made it abundantly clear that your relationship was a little bit more than professional and even transcended that of a friendship.

"Seems like you've really... taken a liking to that guy," she once said in the passenger seat of your car.

"I'm telling you, Sammy, he's nothing like he seems in his content. You'd like him," you had responded, pausing to contemplate your next words. "Plus, we're just, like, friends..."

"Friends who want to fuck each other bad, from what I heard."

"But friends nonetheless."

Silence fell at a red light, the hum of the tires rolling against the pavement dissipating.

"Plus, I don't think he's... he wouldn't go for me, is all I'm gonna say," you mumbled, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

Sammy scoffed, a tiny smirk at the corner of her lips.

"Yeah right."

For the most part, you were happy to have Satoru around, and he was happy to stay. But the satisfaction devolved into wanting, neither of you being brave enough to make the first move. Although Satoru was fine with even just having you in the picture, he wished he could film with you again, see you again. Touch you again.

And even if you both didn't truly know what you were, what you wanted from each other, it was peaceful to have another's presence the way you and Satoru did.

That lasted until about a month later when a studio approached Satoru, intending to remake the magic of your and him's video, with big money involved.

"You see, your uhm... tape, so to speak, I'm sure you're aware of the numbers it did," blabbed some man in a blue stained shirt and a moustache that didn't exactly connect.

"'Course," mumbled Satoru, slumped on an office chair, his eyes fixated on that moustache that barely qualified as one.

"Well, it seems that our female demographic these days is into that sort of played-up intimacy, you know. We're placing our big bets on your ability to do that."

This guy—Itsuki, as Satoru recalled—was a director for this falling pornography production studio. He knew what he was talking about for the most part, yet was still hiding the fact that this was a last-stretch attempt at keeping the business alive. "Big bets" was an understatement; nobody offered the amount of money they did if they weren't desperate.

God, he really, really hated studios.

"Played up?" Satoru questioned, shaking his head. "That wasn't played up I just..."

"Listen kid, you're the industry big shot," Itsuki grumbled.

"I am?"

Satoru's numbers had been high, but he had never considered himself to be anything other than just another attractive guy who happened to be good at sex as well. Calling him a "big shot" only cringed him out.

"Oh yeah, trust me, you're talked about a lot. It's a good thing. Ya got the X factor. You're versatile, people love you," the man continued, turning in his chair like a tall child, "And we just, uh... need a bit of your talent right now."

Satoru sighed, contemplating his options. On the one side, it was something he hated; being directed and ordered around like a show dog really was not his style, and he'd rather chew on a dirty tire than deal with that energy for even just one day.

But on the other hand, this would allow him to do something for you. Something he had been thinking about doing for a little while.

He really, really, really hated studios.

"Alright. I'll do it. Let me call my girl—" mumbled Satoru, reaching for his phone.

Itsuki raised his hand dismissively, earning a puzzled look from Satoru.

"Oh, sorry, you've misunderstood. We're gonna bring in one of our own actors for this job. Your girl, they're not exactly what we're, uh, looking for, if ya know what I mean," Itsuki chuckled, raising his pen to his lips, an amused look on his face.

"I don't know what you mean."

Satoru's tone had turned icy, blue eyes piercing through Itsuki's soul with disgust. Satoru had a pretty good idea of what he was arguing. His body tensed at the prospect.

"They're not exactly the, uh... body type we're lookin' for, y'know?"

"Yeah, no thanks, deal's off," Satoru groaned, rolling his eyes as he got up, already halfway across the room before Itsuki reserved the audacity to keep speaking.

"We'll throw in an extra few thousand."

Satoru found himself in a break room, reading the dumbest script of his whole career, with a girl with a stupid stage name and Itsuki. Any attempts made to change something in the script were quickly shut down by 'Honey Suckle,' the tall blonde clinging to his arm like he was her life force. He barely even glanced at her when she spoke; he didn't need to. Her voice was irritating enough.

He could not get his brain to shut off for even two seconds, thoughts racing. He kept forgetting the script, rolling his eyes at the dumb dialogue, and most importantly, for the first time in his entire life, he couldn't get it up for what seemed like an hour.

Until that is, he thought about you. The soft sound of your laughter, your eyes on him, your pussy sweet and tight around him, shit, that did the trick.

Honey didn't make the task an easy one. Satoru was lucky to be blessed with an adequate set of acting skills and a talent for pleasing women, this time for the sake of finishing this ordeal early and getting out of there with the money he was promised.

Just when he thought he was free, walking back to his makeshift dressing room—which had peeling paint that crumbled and left a white dust on his clothing and a cracked ceiling, adding to the desolate atmosphere of this sorry establishment—to get ready to leave, Honey ambushed him, demanding his number with an attitude that lacked class and bridged into spoiled brat territory.

Satoru was not surprised to learn that she was the one who orchestrated everything from the script to the over-the-top romantic set in the first place.

Reaching his front door after that day felt like reaching the gates of heaven. Satoru wasted no time hopping in the shower until his anxiety melted away and until he felt safe from the claws of that Honey girl, nearly scorching hot water cascading down from his head to his feet. A thick fog of condensation stuck to the glass and the mirror, shielding him from the emptiness of the room, perhaps.

With his leaned against the cold tiles, his hand reached out to grasp the soap bottle, and finally, a moment to himself, Satoru could not stop the reoccurring daydreams of you in this very place. Your thighs around his waist, your digits in his locks. Your bodies warm to the touch, skin sliding against skin. He could picture his hands on your chest, using the excuse of washing your body to touch, to feel. Taking you against the wall, the glass, leaving handprints that would linger for a few hours later.

And then, maybe, switch from the shower to the bathtub. Your body leaning on his chest, his lips against the nape of your neck, just gently holding you close. His fingers would prune up, and his head would rest on your shoulder, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. Maybe you would tell him it was dangerous to sleep in water, and he'd mumble something about not even being tired.

Despite the thought putting his mind at ease, he recognized the distant fear of vulnerability within himself. But it was dimming with every time he spoke to you; he was changing and seemingly adapting to the way you made him feel.

Satoru called you that same night, a little bit later than usual, unsure if you would even pick up when he glanced over at the clock on the wall, ticking amongst the silence. You answered, your usual quiet "hey" emerging from his phone's speaker, but it was... off to Satoru.

You sounded tired, distant even. He asked, pressed to understand if something was wrong, yet all he received in exchange were non-reassuring two-word sentences and mumbles of affirmations.

He didn't feel good about hanging up that night.

And he felt worse when he didn't hear from you in the next few days.

Satoru simply could not take the silence. It physically pained him to no end, like a sickness bubbling at the pit of his stomach. He was afraid that if he let it bubble enough, it would reach his throat to choke him out and make him perish.

When he wanted to treat you as a retired distraction, a mere phase of his life, the emotions came back to haunt him tenfold, the whiplash causing his usually already short temper to be microscopic.

He stalked your page almost every night, once finding a new upload of you taking it from the back, some random guy he had never heard of clumsily thrusting at an uneven pace. Satoru was almost certain you didn't even finish. Actually pathetic.

Before he knew it, Satoru was typing in the comment section, writing something along the lines of "He didn't even make you cum lol, you look bored as fuck, he's such a loser," before giving up on pressing the post button when he realized how unhinged he would come across.

Things were almost back to the way they were before he met you. And he absolutely hated it.

Satoru nearly punched Suguru when he had the gall to invite him to a wedding―a distant relative of the Geto family that Suguru insisted he had to attend the wedding of―because he thought it would be "good for him" and would "help him figure out what he wants."

Suguru may have had to drag Satoru to the event, but he did attend and stayed until after the ceremony, only for the drinks. And he drank, not until he was drunk, but enough to keep his emotions at bay for a little while.

Satoru walked outside the venue to get some air while Suguru talked to his second cousin. Standing in front of the busy street, Satoru took a deep breath and admired the lights of the cars passing by, street lights, windows and traffic signs, all coming together forming a multicoloured mosaic. The cool air hit his face and made him shiver, turning his head slightly to the left.

The street he was on happened to be the street you lived on. Satoru blinked once, twice; maybe he was imagining things. He knew your address by heart from ordering so much shit to your place, and he knew he wasn't blind either.

Sooner than he could even rationalize it, his feet were taking him down the street, looking closely at the numbers. He roughly estimated being about two blocks away from your apartment complex.

His mind started working overtime, giving him reasons to turn back, like, what if you had company over? What if there was another man there, in your bed, right now―and if anything, it only encouraged his body to move forward.

Satoru crossed the street, looking at the number at least six times before entering the entryway call box, his fingers hovering on the keypad, wondering if he should ring you or just a random person. A stranger would be 50/50 at this hour, but he was almost assured that if he picked you, his chances were near zero, given how you had ignored his calls in the past week.

He went with the stranger, dialling some random four digits and crossing his fingers. Hopefully, they wouldn't answer and ask questions―

"Hello? Is this Domino's?" a male voice, probably late 20's, answered after a few rings.

"Uhm... yeah?" Satoru squeaked. Whatever happens next will be the pizza delivery guy's problem.

The guy buzzed Satoru in without another question, leaving Satoru concerned about security in the establishment if it was this easy for him to get in.

6th floor, 683.

The anxiety started to set in only in the elevator on the way up. He hadn't planned this; in fact, he hadn't planned anything. He didn't even know what to say. He didn't even know why he was doing this. Why you, of all people. Why you, of all people, reserved the ability to reduce him to this, naked and vulnerable for you.

Or why he hoped, deep in his gut, that he could do the same to you.

Satoru almost wished that the walk from the elevator to your apartment was longer as he stood there. He nearly moved to look through the peephole, but nah, that'd be creepy.

He listened in instead from where he was standing, discerning from the silence that there was no one with you.

And so, he raised his fist.

And knocked.

You froze in your living room, whirling your head towards the doorway, cautious not to make a noise. You hadn't ordered anything, and a girl living by herself was probably better off not answering the door from an unknown visitor at 10 in the evening.

Satoru shut his eyes, cringing at himself in a moment of realization, though he did not leave. He leaned his forehead against your door, his palm over the frame above his head.

"You there?" he asked.

You knew that voice.

You moved quietly to stand in the doorway, careful to land your feet softly on the floor.

Satoru reopened his eyes and glanced down, seeing that the light was peeking through the bottom of the door and that a shadow was moving through.

"I know you're here, sweet thing," Satoru said, firm yet soft. "You can―" he sighed, "You can tell me to go away, and I will, but I just... I don't know what I'm here for, actually. Jus' wanna see you, is all."

His voice sounded like a whine, picking away at your resolve. He waited there for a minute in silence, giving you time to make your choice.

But he was silently begging you to choose him.

Satoru should have felt relieved when he heard your door lock and saw the handle turn, though it instead stuck his breath in his lungs.

It hadn't helped that he saw you standing in a pretty pastel nightgown, with a face devoid of makeup and mismatched socks. Such a beautiful, natural state that made his heart stop and his dick twitch with interest. He was trying not to let his eyes linger on your chest, your thighs, your everything that wasn't your face for too long.

What a sight for sore eyes.

That isn't to say Satoru was not a pretty view himself, his tie halfway undone around his neck, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to right above his elbows, hair messy, eyes tired, and cheeks rosy―partly from the alcohol, partly from the cold, and partly because he felt like he had just been struck by a deity in the sky just looking at you―all while leaning on your doorframe and staring like he had been starved of something while away from you. Which he had, in his perspective.

"Y'don't answer your phone anymore, sweetheart?" asked Satoru rhetorically, words dripping in sarcasm.

"You show up to people's apartments uninvited now?" you retorted, employing the same tone.

"Would you cut the bullshit for a second? I'm being serious."

"Didn't sound like it."

Satoru was surprised to find you had bite, talking back to him with a little sass. He liked it. And maybe he'll fuck the attitude straight out of you later.

"That little radio silence thing you're on? Can't stand it," he went on, keeping the soft edge to his tone.

"I've been busy, you shrugged.

"Not too busy to get your back blown out by a guy who couldn't last two minutes."

"What, are you jealous?"

"Of what? His performance? Amongst the worst I've seen."

"That he got to blow my back out."

"Not jealous. Just pissed."

"Mh."

Satoru took a step closer, hand leaving the door frame to land on the wall above you as you crossed your arms, staring at the man towering over you with the same intensity he had in his blue eyes.

"Why are you ignoring me, love?" Satoru mumbled, letting insecurity and vulnerability peer through his voice.

"Because I don't know what you want. And I don't want to end up being just... another girl, y'know?" you admitted, dropping your gaze to his crinkled and half-open shirt.

Satoru's eyes softened, stepping too close to close the door behind him. You caught the scent of his cologne before he stepped back once more, and fuck, you needed him.

"There was this... other woman who posted on social media about how she was your girlfriend and all that," you went on, playing with your fingers as a distraction. "And then when I checked her out there was a video of you two in this whole like, romantic setting thing so... and like, I totally get it, I'm―I just didn't know what to do. Or what to think."

Oh, hell no.

"She's not my girlfriend," Satoru nearly interrupted. "I can swear that on my life, we just filmed together. I don't know why she's posting that, but I can promise you that I barely even tolerated her. She's not the one I want."

That authoritative voice nearly made you forget the conversation you both were having.

"Matter of fact, I'm a bit offended that you would think that we had any chemistry whatsoever; I had to work my ass off to even make it look remotely believable," he scoffed, a grin returning to his lips.

Satoru was desperate to see that smile on your face again.

"Well, I didn't know what to think, I mean, she seemed like she could be your type," you replied sheepishly.

"If you think that's my type, sweetheart, I've still got lots to teach you," he purred, voice low.

Satoru reached his palm to your face, feeling the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingertips. He snaked his hold to the nape of your neck, pulling you forward towards him, his neck craned to meet your figure with his. His nose and lips brushed against yours teasingly, putting on a show.

"Come on, tell me to leave. Tell me I can't be yours."

Toying with a strand of your hair and looking through his long white lashes, he was unwilling to make the first move. Or rather, Satoru wanted you to tame the uncertainty bellowing from the pit of his stomach. Fearing rejection was unfamiliar to his heart, but knowing it to be a testament to your importance mellowed the burn.

"Tell me that I can't have you."

Satoru was only merely surprised by your arms wrapping around his neck to bring his lips to yours, adapting quick and shutting his eyelids, languid movements of your tongue against his, sobering him up completely to get him drunk on a different type of substance.

His hand left the wall to come softly grip your thigh, moving to its underside to encourage you to jump.

"But what if I'm―" your voice came out breathless.

"Don't offend me right now, sweet thing."

You jumped, trusting him to catch you―and he did, without so much as a grunt, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, supporting you with his forearms under your thighs.

"See? No need to doubt me," Satoru mumbled against your lips.

The kiss was slow yet messy, sloppily reverberating passion and a twinge of desperation. Within a break for oxygen―which he could have gone without if up to him―Satoru asked for the directions to your bedroom, kicking his shoes off somewhere between the entryway and the hallway.

Satoru was thrilled to see the room he had seen on Facetime with you a few times; it was perfectly tailored and personal to you. It was one thing to see, but it was another to be in your space with you.

He set you down on your bed carefully, keeping your legs to the sides of his waist as he crawled above you.

"You're just too good, y'know that? Fuck, you made it so hard to focus," said Satoru, admiring the sight before him.

"I wasn't even there."

"You were everywhere. Couldn't... couldn't think straight... couldn't stop..."

His voice trailed off as his eyes dropped lower to your hips, your thighs. Satoru traced an imaginary line on the inner side of them, agonizingly slow, your nightgown pooling and lifting at his wrist. He ran his finger on a small patch of your underwear where your arousal had soaked through the fabric, a stupid smirk on his face.

"Can I keep these after?"

He chuckled softly when you rolled your eyes and turned your head to the side, flustered. How cute.

Satoru began to take your panties off, shifting on top of you to make the task possible, bunching up the fabric in his hands and shoving them in his pocket with a wink.

He dipped two of his fingers between your slit, avoiding your clit on purpose, smiling down at you when you frowned at him.

"What? Tell me what you want. Big girl words, come on."

No script, no pre-determined routes, just genuineness.

"Just touch me, Satoru..." you mumbled, unsure.

"Where?"

Oh my god, this asshole.

You gasped as his fingers ghosted over your clit, begging him to touch there.

"Right here?" Satoru questioned, fake innocence etched onto his face as he stroked the sensitive nub slowly.

"Mhm," you sighed out.

The pace he had set was too slow, but he was aware of that. He did not want to make you cum, at least not right then, he simply wanted to drive you insane, give you a taste of your own medicine―so to speak.

Satoru replaced his fingers with his thumb, digits reaching over to your entrance, circling the opening.

"You have no fucking clue, do you? How mad you can turn a man. How long I would wait, what I would give up just to be yours. You don't even realize―"

He pushed his fingers in with one deep thrust, letting you whine and mewl at him before resuming his sentence, moving his index and middle in and out of you.

"You don't even realize how unhinged you make me―fuck, look at that, already soaking my hand, shiiit, and you're so tight..."

Satoru's eyelids were half closed, focused on the soft squelches of your pussy and the sight of it, ignoring his erection begging to be released from those tight black pants.

"And then you go out and fuck some guy who can't even make you cum? Who doesn't even take his fucking time to learn your body to fucking treat you like the deity you are. Now that's bullshit, and you know it, sweetheart. I know you're smart."

He sped up the pace, hitting your spot with deliberate and merciless movements, high on your moans and the way your back arched for him, mind stuck on his objective.

"Should've called me, I would've eaten that pussy for hours, would've done it for free. For less than free. Fuck, would've paid you for it."

Satoru's incessant speaking drove you up the wall, your fingers tightly gripping the sheets, his motions precisely designed to satisfy you but never quite send you over the edge.

"Satoru," you panted, sweat beading on your body.

"Yes?"

"Want more... please..."

"Anything you want, pretty."

He timed the thrusts of his fingers with the circling of your clit, increasing the pace while keeping a delicacy to his endeavours, capturing your lips in a small, shallow kiss before leaning his forehead on yours.

Right when Satoru felt your thighs start to tense at his sides, your breath quicken on his face, your walls fluttering, and the urgency in your voice, he...

Stopped.

Pulled his fingers out and licked them right in front of you, making sure your eyes were on him.

"I was so close―this is the second time you've done this," you whined, eyes closing as you felt the pure need coursing through your veins like a spreading disease.

"First time doesn't count; it was on camera," Satoru shrugged. "Come on, don't make that face. Besides, I'm punishing myself too. Watching you cum is the hottest thing ever."

With a groan, you pushed Satoru to his back and lifted yourself onto him in one move.

Satoru didn't know if he was in love before, but this certainly did it.

"My, my, woman. Didn't know you had that in you."

Even under you, the man had to stay smug, an arrogant smile on display just for you. You pouted and started undoing the buttons of his shirt without a word, which he did not move to fight, simply observing your meticulous work with his forearms under his head.

"Just like that, use me, sweetheart; you deserve it."

You couldn't ignore how Satoru's voice made your core drip, the stain of slick you had inadvertently left on the lower part of his dress shirt, or the comment he made about never washing that shirt again.

"You're nasty."

"You love it."

When you reached his pants, having shimmied further to gain access to it, you hesitated.

"Don't tell me you're shy now," Satoru taunted.

"You can't―you can't blame me. I haven't had sex for real in a while," you retorted, a small smile forming on your lips, catching his gaze.

"It felt pretty real last time."

There was a certain sincerity in his voice, contrastingly different from just a moment ago, vulnerable. You could see it in his eyes, the way in which they conveyed everything he had ever felt, giving and sharing strands of thought and emotion.

"That was different," you mused, moving to take his pants off.

Satoru lifted his hips to help you, silent as for your words. He did not want to push and ruin this by digging, searching to understand every inch of your soul, of your experience with him. Although it was tempting.

He moved to sit up against your headboard, biceps flexing. He took his boxers off, cock standing tall and proud, achingly hard. Satoru took your forearm in his hand to pull you closer until you were straddling him, his length slipping between your slit.

"Use me," repeated Satoru, murmuring. "I'm all yours. Take what you want."

He moved his hand to your face, thumb sliding over your cheekbone. Satoru gazed up at you with a glint of devotion in those deep blue eyes, devoid of any uncertainty or hesitation, pretty white brows furrowed lightly with gut-wrenching warmth. Fondness was too shallow of a word to describe it. A little pathetic was surface level.

A second hand left your forearm to rest on your hip, imprinted nicely on your flesh. Satoru helped you lift yourself to sit back down on his cock, drinking your little mewls and gasps, groaning when he was fully seethed in your tight heat, as if it were his home.

"Mph, fuck, the wait was so worth it," he exhaled, both of his palms migrating to your waist. "Want some help, beautiful?"

You nodded yes, busy with the feeling of the wind being knocked out of your lungs. Satoru smiled and helped you lift yourself, length dragging out of your sopping cunt, to help you back down. He moaned shakily as you set a slower pace than what he was used to, losing himself in the feeling of your cunt around him.

"Y'know I... I watched our v-video so many fucking times. Started to―fuck, so fucking tight around me..."

"Started t-to what?" you whimpered, letting your head drop to his shoulder, panting quietly against his skin.

"Started to feel guilty f-for doing it, fuckin' jerking off to you... after you'd just told me some fuckin' innocent shit about your day or something... Oh my god... missed this, s'much."

Satoru moved one of his hands to lift your head off his shoulder, holding your face to force eye contact. His lips were parted, shameless with the endless grunts and groans of satisfaction your body forced out of him. He just about lost it when he felt your pretty hands on his chest, desperate for something to touch, to grab.

"Angle your hips that way, sweetheart," Satoru murmured, hand at your side moving you.

His thick tip hit your spot with a particularly harsh bounce, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. Your thighs twitched around him, and your eyes rolled back as he whined at the lewd sounds of your skin slapping against his, the wet noise of his cock dripping and enveloping with your essence.

"I think I'm gonna cum," you breathed out.

"I know, I know pretty... I can tell by the way you squeeze around me, shitttt..."

Satoru felt like the world around him was spinning, listening to your voice, your pretty face, your body. The way your hands tightened around his pec inadvertently, the subtle sheen of sweat on your skin, your concentrated expression, so fucking adorable.

He pulled you in to connect your lips, trapping you in a searing, sincere kiss, swallowing your breaths, taking from your air. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight but not enough to hurt. His nose brushed against yours as he turned his head for better access, pressing his face against yours as if he were scared you would evaporate beneath his fingers.

Satoru bit your lower lip and lightly dragged it away with his front teeth when he felt he was finally satisfied, although he had to force every muscle in his body to just let you breathe.

"'M gonna take care of ya... gonna fuckin'―fuck―gonna give you everything, promise... I swear, e-everyday I'll prove I'm good e-enough for you, every fuckin' day 'til I die, holy fuck."

Until my body gives out to the stars.

Your thighs started to give out, the strain making your movements less fluid and more scattered. Satoru started to meet you halfway with a thrust of his hips, sliding a hand down to toy with your clit, just like he'd seen you do before.

"Satoru," you breathed, tone wanton and desperate.

"Fuck, d-don't say my name l-like that unless you wanna make me―"

Satoru's ears started to ring, and his vision went blurry as he spilled himself deep inside your willing cunt, little whimpers contrasting the deep groans from earlier. His head fell back on your headboard, Adam's apple bobbing while his eyes got teary.

"S-So good, so pretty f'me, fuck..." Satoru squeaked out.

He continued his finger's assault on your cunt, flicking and rubbing at a faster pace. He just needed to see you cum. Needed to see you cream on his cock, just like you deserved.

Satoru looked at you as if you had hung the stars in the sky, watching you convulse, pant, do anything to brace yourself with this impending orgasm, finally sending over the edge with a sharp pinch of your clit.

And he didn't just stop at that; when he had regained his ability to speak, he offered to clean you up, take you to the bathroom, run you a bath, dumb shit that he thought you'd appreciate that he wanted to do for you. Didn't even recognize himself anymore.

You accepted the first two offers but not the last, seeing as it was late and you were tired, not only from the day but riding his dick, losing yourself in his arms.

Satoru found a cloth in your bathroom and warmed it up with tap water. He made sure it wasn't too hot to the touch before he climbed back in bed, gently cleaning your thighs, your mound, anywhere he thought leaving dirty would be uncomfortable.

Although seeing your hole nicely filled with his seed almost made him ask for a second round.

"I do care about you. Wanna do right by you, if you're okay with that," Satoru murmured.

"I'll keep you around," you responded.

Parts. one | two

[terrestrialnoob]

Damian glared at the clone as Father and Drake attempted to turn whatever they had in the cave into a machine that could analyze the clone’s DNA before it disintegrated.

“Sorry I’m late.” Nightwing said as he walked towards where Damian stood watching at a distance from the Bat-Parking Garage. “What’s the situation, Robin?”

“Did you not read the brief Father sent out?”

“I did, I just want your opinion – and to know what they’re doing right now?”

“I believe they are attempting to create a machine that will cycle the clone’s blood as it analyses. The clone seems to be marginally competent at engineering and is assisting.”

“You know his name is Danny, right?”

“I doubt it.” Damian huffed as his stare got more intense.

“You doubt his name?” Nightwing asked. “Why?”

“You don’t find it suspicious?” Damian turned so his face was more towards Dick but the clone was still within his vision. “He did everything we asked, and answered every invasive question, without hesitation.”

“He's dying, of course he's telling us everything.”

“Would you? Would any of us?”

Dick turned and stared at him.

“He’s not a civilian.” Damian continued. “He said the people who made him wanted to make a better Batman. Would Batman ever be this forthcoming?”

“He’s nothing like B, though, outside of appearance?”

“We don’t know that.” Damian managed to keep his voice down despite wanting to shout it from the rooftops. “We don’t know who he is or if he’s telling the truth. We should have brought him to an external lab. We should have been more cautious -but…” Damian forcefully motioned towards where the trio were working on their analysis machine.

Dick sighed, but his frown turned into a soft smile for just a moment before he looked serious again. “I get it.”

Damian doubted that, and his doubt was proven true when Dick continued. “It’s scary when B just decides to bring in another kid. It changes all the dynamics and we each get less attention and… Danny is also technically B’s blood son, he was literally made from B’s blood. And he looks like he’s what? A year older than you? This is big for you-”

“Stop.” Damian rubbed his face then grabbed Dick’s arm.

“Listen to me.” Damian pulled Dick down a little so their eyes were a little more even. “When the clone’s blood broke down it looked like Lazarus Water. It was – I can feel it’s the same even if it evaporated before the analyzer could identify it. And this is exactly the type of thing Grandfather would do! How could a pair of random scientists get enough of Batman’s genetic material to make a clone? The list of who wants to make a “better batman” is a short one, and my maternal family is on that list. Presenting Father with a dying clone child that has to be taken to the cave, that just so happens to have been abandoned by his parents, that went straight to Jim Gordon, is exactly something Grandfather would pull to get us to lower our guards and… try to kill us or something.”

“And you think we don’t know that?” Dick asked with worry on his face. “You think Tim, who fuck’s with Ra’s in his spare time, wouldn’t think of that?”

“Then why did-”

“Because he is dying, right?”

Damian sucked in his breath. From what he’d seen… yes, the clone was dying. They watched his blood turn green and evaporate in less than a minute. When Damian looked over the clone even physically looked worse than when Damian first saw him on the roof of the GCPD.

“Dami, we’re just trying to help him not die. We will worry about all that other stuff later. And we're going to make sure no one gets hurt.”

Damian let Dick go and turned back to the clone. They’d finished setting up their strange machine and the clone’s blood was feeding into it. Hopefully, they’ll finally figure out what’s causing the destabilization and save the clone from dissolving into Lazarus Water. Then Damian can finally figure out what it wants, who sent it, and how to get rid of it. Or, maybe they fail and the problem solves itself.

Damian looked at his father’s face and hoped that wasn’t how this ended.

Gut Feeling

DPXDC

Commissioner Jim Gordon meets an odd kid in the precinct.

--

“Come on, you really don’t have a way to directly contact Batman?”

Jim smiled. Kids came to the station and asked that all the time. Usually, it was just curiosity and showing them the signal was enough to get them to sign up for the Junior Police program. This one looked a little older than most, teenagers were often “too old” to believe in Batman, but again, give them a little faith now and they’ll never loose it.

“Lookin’ for the Bat, kid?” Jim asked, knowing he was about to make this kid’s –

Jim froze. The kid turned to face him and it was Bruce Wayne. Not playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne, but freshly a teenager Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne who Jim had checked in on time and again from age eight until he ran off on a globetrotting trip to find himself. The little Bruce Wayne with too pale skin and dark bags under his eyes, and not enough love to make up for all the grief weighing him down. And he didn’t look like Damian either, where Bruce was obviously his father but there were distinct traits from his mother. This was a carbon copy of a boy Jim remembered vividly.

“I am.” He even sounded like teenage Bruce. All business, like he was on a mission.

“I might be able to help you, but it’ll take a while.” Jim said and the officer the kid had been talking too gave him an odd look. He waved her off and told the kid to follow him to the commissioner’s office. Normally, he’d be more dramatic, put on more of a show for the kid, but his gut told him this was different, this was important. He offered the kid a styrofoam cup of water then closed the door behind him. “So, what do you need to talk to Batman for?”

“It’s personal. I need to talk to him in person.”

Jim took a sip of coffee from his cup. “He doesn’t appreciate me calling for no reason in the middle of the day.”

“So you do have a direct line?” The kid nearly jumped out of his seat. “If he’s upset, it’ll be my fault, just call him, please.”

“Who should I say wants to talk to him?”

The kid hesitated. “He doesn’t know me, but I have to talk to him.”

Jim frowned. “What’s your name, kid?”

He swallowed and looked like he wasn’t going to answer for a moment. “Danny.”

“Danny…?” Jim wanted a last name but Danny kept quiet. Jim sighed, “He’s likely not going to show up until sundown.”

“I can wait, as long as you guarantee he’ll show.”

“And you’re not going to tell me why you need Batman?” Jim just got a glare in response. “What about one of the other heroes?”

“Only Batman, no one else can help.”

“You sure about that? Not even Superman?”

“Not unless Superman can get me in the same room as Batman.”

“Why’s it so important that you meet him in person?”

“It’s personal.”

Jim liked this less and less by the minute. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

Danny looked away but right when it looked like he wouldn’t say anything he mumbled. “They wouldn’t care anyway.”

After another moment to give the kid time to reconsider, Jim pulled out the Bat-phone. It was a normal Wayne-Tech cell phone, but Jim had been given very specific instructions on how and when to use it. The phone listed all the Gotham Vigilantes without visible numbers so they couldn’t be copied and handed out. He pressed the one for Batman.

“Stand outside, would you?” The kid gave him a look, but followed the request. Jim could see his shadow in the door’s window, not so subtle eavesdropping.

It rang a few times, and Jim sat there awkwardly with a teenager listening to his every move. Finally, a familiar voice picked up the other end of the line. “Commissioner Gordon.”

“Sorry to call you out of the blue Batman, but I’ve got a kid here who needs your help.”

“Who?”

“Says his name is Danny, that you’ve never met him but you’re the only one who can help him.”

“Why?”

“Refuses to tell me.”

“What’s your best guess, Commissioner?”

Jim looked at Danny’s shadow, it looked like he was straining his ears to try and hear what he was saying. Danny had given him almost nothing to work with. Just his name, that he’s never met Batman but needs to talk with him in person. But Jim was here because he listened to his gut. A feeling like when you see a random rock on your neighbor’s doorstep but you’d never go in without an invitation. A feeling like you know what’s in the present and are preparing your surprised face. A feeling like when you cheated on your wife and you know she knows.

“He looks like Bruce Wayne.”

A beat of silence. “What?”

“Danny looks exactly like Bruce when he was a teenager. Exactly the same.” Jim hoped Batman would get it, feel in his gut what Jim felt.

“And he wont say why he’s there?”

“No, and he demands to see you in person.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“10-4.” The line cut off before Jim had finished saying it. He called Danny in again. “He’s on his way.”

Danny glared at him. “If he’s not, if you called some social worker or something, you’ll regret it.”

“I’m sure.” Jim sighed and downed the rest of his now cold coffee.

The sun hadn’t set, but only just barely. Jim ended up taking Danny up to the roof in the end after all, if only to save his window from being broken into. The kid had a red hoodie on, but he was still shivering in the autumn chill and it was just going to get colder by the minute as the sun made its way behind the horizon.

Jim checked his watch and, at exactly an hour from when he called, he acted surprised when Batman and Robin appeared out of nowhere. “Bats.”

“Commissioner.” Batman greeted but his eyes went straight for Danny. “Danny, I assume.”

“Yeah, I…” Danny hesitated, looking at Jim and Robin.

All it took was four words from Batman. “What do you need?”

The kid held out his hand with a flash drive in it. “I’m your clone. My par- The people who made me wanted to make a stronger version of you, but they got ahead of themselves. My DNA is degrading and I’ll die if I don’t get your DNA to stabilize me.”

Holy cow.

“You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?” Robin sneered at him.

“The flash drive has all the info on it. All the data about the cloning process and the, uh, relevant experiments after that.” Batman gave the kid a look. “I didn’t want to waste time on unnecessary data.”

“If what you’re saying is true, why are you here, alone? Are they working on a different solution?”

Danny’s shoulders hiked up. “I’ve been a failure for a while now, I’m not worth the resources and they’d learn more from an autopsy.”

Oof, kid. Jim looked at Batman who seemed to feel the same… if Jim was reading him right.

“So, you wont object to a DNA test?” Robin asked with a cocky head tilt, at least he was relatively easy to read.

“You can try.” Danny said, and then realized what that sounded like. “I mean I wont stop you, but my DNA degrades faster outside my body. You’ll have to take me to whatever lab you plan on using.”

“Then we will.” Batman said and jerked his head towards where they’d probably parked that ridiculous car of his. But then he looked at Jim with a nod. “Commissioner.”

“Batman.” Jim returned the nod. “You’ll tell me how things turn out, yeah?”

“I’ll give you a report.” Batman joked – Jim could tell, it was gut feeling.

[trippinsorrows]

wicked games + one

authors note: here we go again. i have no excuse atp. none whatsoever. this is more a prologue than anything, because the following parts will show just we ended up here...

words: 4k

**gif belongs to @dejameflorecer

warnings: angst

Her laughter haunts him.

Once an anodyne for any and all of his bad days, now the source of his bad days.

That same laughter echoes through the hotel room, radiates from the phone in his hand as he watches one of the many videos she took.

“I want to remember these moments,” she once told him as explanation for why she seemingly couldn’t go one date or outing without snapping a photo or recording a video of them together.

The video in question that serves as his punishment is one she took when they were at his place. One of the times where he didn’t take her somewhere special or have elaborate plans. He just wanted to be around her and vice versa.

Roman sees himself sitting back on the sofa, remote in hand, probably trying to decide between the options of movies she gave him.

She then shifts the focus back onto her, and he’s immediately moved by how she’s wearing only one of his shirts, signifying she’d spent the night.

Roman’s chest tightens.

He hasn't had a good night’s rest in months, the absence of her, in all the ways, chasing and overwhelming his every waking moment.

“Ro!” She giggles, moving around again, now on her knees on the sofa as she holds onto him from the side. “Can you at least smile for me? You look like I’m torturing you.”

Present Roman watches past Roman cast an irritated glance to the camera followed by a significantly relaxed one to her. “You know I’m not a camera person like that, Sol.”

She rolls her eyes. So big and pretty. Innocent. “Whatever.” Her dismissal is followed by her kissing his cheek and smiling wryly. “I know how to get your attention.”

A misunderstanding on her part, because she always had his attention. 

Still does.

More movement followed by music playing in the background. 

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

G-A-N-G baby, let me B-A-N-G, baby

Let me fuck some'

He’d heard the song before, played at the gym and club a couple of times, but the song is not the focus. She is. Always. He watches her her climb onto his lap, that sneaky look on her face replaced with a new angle.

The angle of her holding the phone so it’s focused on her ass as she twerks on top of him, cheeks and hips moving perfectly in sync to the beat of the song. 

If that ass fat, better shake that shit (Baow, baow)

Put a hand up if you take dick (Tryna fuck some')

Keep shit P, I'll never be a trick

But the way she fuck, make me spend that shit (Let me fuck some')

A viewing at a different time would probably evoke a different, more physical, carnal reaction from him, but present Roman is too focused on the sound of her laughter when past Roman slaps her ass and tugs her against him.

She bites on her bottom lip, focusing the video back on them as he whispers something in her ear that makes her eyes go wide.

She gasps, smiling and blushing as she turns to him, “Roman!”

The video stops, and the emptiness returns. 

Roman locks his phone, gripping it. His eyes shut, the memories crashing into him like waves of suffocation and devastation. 

He’s not sure why he continues to do this to himself. To torture himself with constant reminders of what will always be his biggest regret in this life. 

The same reason he’s unsure why he’s even doing this.

He needs to leave her alone. He promised he would leave her alone.

But, that was before. 

Before he was informed. Before it was told to him. Not a sure thing. Just a rumor. But a rumor, nonetheless, that resulted in him hopping on the jet and flying to Mexico. A rumor he needs to know is either just that—a rumor—or a secret that’s bound to change everything.

For better or worse remains to be seen. 

It takes another ten minutes for him to exit the vehicle, ten minutes of going back and forth if he should just get back in his car and drive straight to the airport. It’s tempting, but not enough.

He needs to know.

And that’s what he keeps reminding himself of as he makes his way through the mall strip, partially confused due to the fact that it’s all in Spanish. He keeps in mind, however, the name of the shop and the pictures she showed him. Pictures that included promises of him to come see it in person, for her to give him a personal tour of all of her home, one day.

Promises and dreams that lie in the wastelands of what could but will never be.

Bypassing a couple, the woman wearing a bright green bikini top and shorts brings him back to a memory.

She runs over to him, giggling, holding onto her chest, the thin straps of her lime green bikini top failing to properly secure those beautiful breast of hers.

Sitting and straddling his lap, she takes the phone from him. "Let me see."

He watches her eyes survey the photos he snapped, his hand moving to her hips, holding her. "They alright?"

Her eyes flicker up to him. She nods with a small smile, kissing his cheek. "They're perfect."

Roman says nothing but thinks the same.

She is perfect.

Placing the phone down on the towel that he sits on, she moves her arms around his neck. "Guess what I've been thinking about?"

He makes a sound, hands massaging the meat of her hips. "No idea. Tell me."

She bites on her bottom lip, answering in a giddy tone. "Us."

Funny. He thinks the of the same thing. More often than not.

Roman lifts his hand to her chin, gaze softening. "What about us?"

Her eyes alight with elation. "When we're married and have a house full of kids running around."

Her answer surprises him. To some extent. Not entirely. She's brought up marriage before. Voiced her desire for them to one day be wed, but it's always marred by the dark secrets he continues to sit on.

Continues to withhold from her.

Solana nods, moving her hands up and down his broad shoulders. "I want to get married back home in Mexico, but I want us to live here in the states." She explains, sighing in awe. "I want us to have a house in the country though."

He chuckles quietly. "The country, huh?"

Her smile is warm and loving as she leans forward, holding him, burying herself against his safety. "I want to be away from everyone. Just you. Me. Our kids." Solana sighs as he moves his hands up her back and kisses the top of her head. "Us.....that's all we need."

Detaching from distant times, Roman does his best to push away those uncomfortable feelings and heartbreaking memories to stay focused on the task at hand, his dedication eventually bringing him to his destination.

Dulce's.

He stands outside the building, recognizing the outside, the beautiful flower arrangements that line the window. It's all so her.

And for a second, he considers turning around once more. Fears this place of purity and sanctuary will be polluted by him, polluted by the stench of betrayal that follows him wherever he goes.

But, the desire, the almost need to have his question answered is overpowering. Is enough to take him to that next stop.

And Roman walks into the store.

“Buenos días!”

Months.

It’s been months since he’s heard her voice in real time, having to make do with archival footage. But hearing it now, after so long, the happiness in it, it’s….difficult, to say the least. Roman swallows, studying the back of her head as she stands behind the counter, clearly working on a bouquet, the seconds stretching to minutes in terms of how long it takes her to turn around. But, when she does, he’s wishing she didn’t “Cómo puedo ayudarle—”

Solana is silent the minute her eyes land on him, the terror and shock in her pretty brown hues filling him with all the shame. 

She’s far from pleased at the sight of him.

Her mouth parts slightly, and he swears he can see her chest gradually moving up and down, indication of panic. “Roman?” It’s been months since he’s heard his name on her mouth in real time, and it nearly kills him how horrified she sounds saying it. “Wh—what—how—”

Roman didn’t think of what exactly he was going to say when he was standing in front of her, didn’t think he needed to. Now, he realizes that wasn’t the smartest decision. Her very strong reaction to seeing him shouldn't surprise him, shouldn’t bother him. After all, what he did to her…the way he hurt her….he’s surprised the door isn’t slammed in his face.

“I—” Struggling with verbalization has never been a thing for him until this moment. “I needed to see you. We—we need to talk.”

For better or worse, his words seem to trigger her out of her state of shock. Her brows furrow slightly, her hands tightly gripping the counter. “How did you find me?” 

“Solana—”

“How—” Her voice is harder, a new emotion rising: anger. “did you find me?”

He straightens, jaw fixed. “I’ve always known where you were.”

And, it shouldn't come as a surprise. It only made sense after everything he did to her, the pain he caused her, that she would return to her safe space. Be around her family.

That she would go home.

Her expression seems to indicate she recognizes this as well. Recognizes that it was maybe unwise to think Roman, of all people, would not know where she disappeared to. “Well, you’ve wasted your time, because I have nothing to say to you.” 

It’s then that she tries to turn away from him, but he takes a step closer, hating how she leans back against the counter. It’s almost physically painful to see and feel her disgust towards him. “You don’t want to talk to me, I get that.”

Solana’s eyes widen, her voice harsh and unforgiving. “I don’t even want to see you, let alone speak to you.” She shakes her head, reaching and pointing to the door behind him. “Now, I won’t tell you again, get out.”

Roman does his best to shove away the emotions that only seem to come up when he’s with and around her. “Solana, please just—”

“Don’t you get it!” She snaps, gesturing again to the door. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Roman! I don’t want to think about you, I don’t want to remember you.” Emotion imbues her voice and face. “I’d give anything to be able to wipe you and the past year from my memory.”

A slap. Verbal. Painful.

He straightens, reminding himself of his objective. Reminding himself that everything she’s throwing at him is deserved, no matter how much it kills him to know just how she feels about him.

About them. 

“I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need—”

“You don’t get to need anything from me!”

Another fair statement. Understandable. But, it doesn’t negate the fact that he needs to talk to her about this. He needs to know. 

And, it’s only then that Roman allows himself to take her in. Her face and breast both look fuller, a certain glow to her she’s always had but seems….brighter. He’s also just now noticing the way she keeps adjusting her dress. 

Specifically around the stomach area.

He….he doesn’t know what or if anything to make of that. 

Solana, however, seems to notice his gaze that’s focused on her stomach area and clears her throat, moving past the counter to walk away. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to please lea—”

Roman knows being forceful isn’t the best move in this situation. However, he’s not even sure if there is a right thing to do, but what he does, whether right or wrong, manages to answer his question in the most unexpected way. 

His arm reaching across, serving as a barrier that prevents her from walking away. An effective barrier, but also a source of reveal. Because when Solana jumps back slightly, that movement causes the material of her dress to flatten against her stomach, revealing an unmistakable swell. 

A bump.

A baby bump.

There was already a million and one things going through his mind from the moment Jimmy mentioned to him that he overheard Bayley tell Naomi that Solana was pregnant. And normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it. Would try to come to peace with the fact that not only had Solana truly moved on, but she was starting a family with someone else. A quick turnaround time, but not anything he could judge. Not fairly, anyway.

But, this nagging, insistent voice in the back of the head wouldn’t leave him. Wouldn’t trickle away. Because he knows Solana.

Knows how major her letting him take her virginity was for her. Sacred. Special. 

He couldn’t envision a world where she could just fall in bed with someone else so soon and end up pregnant, at that. And, it’s all of that that led him to his suspicion that if Solana was in fact pregnant, it wasn’t by another man.

It was by him. 

An almost inconceivable thing he sat on for almost a week before feeling an almost requirement to fly down to Mexico and see for himself.

And seeing, he certainly is. 

“It’s true.” His voice is barely above a whisper, shock and a million other emotions swirling around his entire being. He doesn’t even really register the way her face turns red, undecipherable emotions coming over her. “You’re pregnant….”

Somehow, they both seem to snap back to a more logical state, Solana covering her body. “That’s none of your business.”

His eyes snap to hers, and for the first time since stepping foot into her shop, he’s hit with something else other than an insurmountable amount of regret.

He’s hit with anger.

“None of my business?” His voice is leveled and even. “You’re carrying my child, Solana. How the hell is that none of my business?”

“No, it’s my child,” she counters, voice just as firm as his as she reiterates, “my baby, who I will raise by myself. You don’t get to be in their life.”

Just like that, anger morphs into burning rage at her words. It’s one thing to keep him completely in the dark about the existence of his own child but to still think that she can keep him in the dark once the light is on is beyond him.

Roman knows he hurt her. Did her wrong. Broke her heart, and he’ll always live with the regret of that. But, their unborn child has nothing to do with what transpired between them, and it’s unfair to try to keep him away. 

And he responds as such, from that place of hurt.  “The hell I don’t. You’re crazy as hell if you think I’m gon’ let you keep me out of my child’s life.”

A poor choice of words, the wrong thing to say, clearly. 

“Roman….” Her name leaving his mouth is a thing of disbelief, like she’s incapable of comprehending just what she’s hearing. “In what world do you think you have any right to be involved in my child’s life?”

It’s the singular possessive word of ‘my’ that continues to grate his already paltry nerves. “Our child!”

“No!” She yells, jumping an octave and a level of vulnerability. “I won’t let you be in their life, Roman! I don’t care if I have to—if I have to move to do it. I’ll—I’ll go into hiding.”

Roman can’t deny the fear that creeps into him at her threat. Solana leaving and going home to Mexico is one thing, nothing really, because he knew where she was. But Solana disappearing and going off the radar, with their child, is something entirely different.

He won’t have that.

He can’t have that.

“I’ll find you,” a quiet, truthful vow. A promise. “I’ll always find you.”

She lifts her chin, reiterating, “then I’ll keep moving, keep running for as long as I have to to keep this baby away from you.” Her voice breaks, her jaw trembling, as she admits in a quiet voice, “I won’t let her hurt her the way you hurt me.”

His shoulder drop, anger melting away, incapable of remaining in the face of such hurt.

“Solana….”

He tries to step toward her only for her to jerk back, arms almost protectively wrapped around her stomach.

“Do you have any idea how empty I’ve felt?” A rhetorical question, he’s sure, but one that cuts him. Cuts him deep. “How I—how I cry myself to sleep most nights. How stupid I feel at believing you ever cared about me, ever loved me. How–how I try to not think about how this baby got here, the lies she was created from?"

“Solana, my love for you has never and will never be a lie.” And that has and will always be the God’s honest truth. “Baby, I love you.”

“Fuck you, Roman!” She yells, tears leaking down her face. “You don’t do what you did to me to people you claim to love! You don’t even know what love is! You’re not capable of it!”

He swallows. “Solana—”

“You are a heartless monster. You feel nothing for people. You use them for what you need, and then you throw them to the wayside like they’re trash. You broke me!” She looks away, covering her mouth to conceal the sob she’s doing her best to hold in. “You—you don’t deserve to be a father.”

Roman refuses to show her deep her words hit him, the pain she clearly still feels from how they ended, from what he did. He knows he deserves it, that he broke her heart, that he fucked with her head. But still, he never thought she’d be the type to hold their issues with each other against him when it came to a child.

Their child.

He swallows, doing his best to not allow the verbal daggers to consume him, because although deserved, it’s still a devastating, excruciatingly painful experience. One he wasn’t fully prepared for. 

Roman looks down, taking a breath, wanting, needing to be careful with what he says next. “Solana, I—”

“Hermana?”

A new voice introduced into the conversation. Male. Unfamiliar. Unwanted.

A scowl appears on Roman’s face as trepidation overtakes Solana.

“Wes….”

Roman’s scowl falters ever so slightly. Wes…..

He’s heard that name before. 

It takes a second or two for it to hit him. Wesley.

Solana’s brother.

Fuck.

She angles her body more toward him. “Wh—what are you—”

“Roman Reigns?” He’s clearly not listening to her, his suspecting, almost challenging gaze focused on Roman. “What the hell?”

Solana shakes her head, nervously twiddling with the material of her dress. “Wes, plea—”

“What the hell do you want with my sister?” Wesley’s angry question is directed toward an irritated Roman. He doesn’t have time for this shit. Wes takes a step closer. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

“Wesley, please,” Solana implores, her eyes pleading. “It’s not—”

“How do you even know her?” The questions are fair and ongoing but simultaneously increasing Roman’s irritation and Solana’s apprehension. “Why are you even here?”

“This doesn’t fucking concern you,” Roman snaps. To his credit, if it was anyone else, he’d have them unconscious. Or dead. But, this is Solana’s sibling, so he’s doing his best to remain calm. As calm as Roman Reigns is capable of being. 

“Anything concerning my little sister concerns me, motherfucker.” Roman has to smile, has to look away, jaw clenched and flexing. This son of a bitch truly doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with.

Solana must detect as such, pleading with her brother once again, “Wesley, please, just—just give us a minute.”

Roman returns his gaze to the two of them, watching as Wes temporarily redirects his focus from the Head of the Table to the woman standing between them. 

“Solana, what’s going on?” A calmer delivery combined with a suspicious gaze. “How do you know him?”

Roman couldn’t give two shits about Solana’s brother right about now. Doesn’t care that even while carrying his child, she’s still keeping the truth about them, about their prior relationship, a secret. It was always something she preferred.

“I just want to enjoy us. Without all the opinions.”

A shared sentiment during nicer, happier, simpler times.

“I—” She’s clearly at a loss of words, unsure of how to handle said situation. “I—” But, a cardinal, betraying mistake is made the minute she, most likely unintentionally, tightens her grip around her belly. A protective, telling thing, because Roman is also very much aware of the second recognition dawns.

“No…..” Wes eyes widen from the disbelief that accompanies said recognition. “He’s the father, isn’t he?”

Solana sniffles, voice quiet, “I can explain, Wes—”

However, Wesley's attention is completely on the object of all his anger and rage.

Roman

“You son of a bitch!”

A verbal lashing accompanied by Wes charging for Roman who easily moves out the way. An active effort considering his first instinct is to lay this bastard out, because in what universe does he think he stands a chance one on one with Roman Reigns?

“Wesley, no!” Solana’s attempts to settle her brother are all in vain as he once again tries to swing at the Tribal Chief. “Stop!”

“She’s 24, you sick fuck!” And it’s up until this point Roman was doing a well enough job controlling himself, maintaining his composure, all things considered. But, it’s Wesley’s next accusation that all but snaps his self-control. “You fucking predator! You raped her!”

In that very moment, whatever hold Roman had on his temper is nonexistent. He’s blinded and consumed by anger, by rage, because Roman is a lot of things. But that has and never will be one of them.

Both hands formed into fists, Roman doesn’t try to dodge or even avoid Wesley as the shorter man once again attempts to come at him. He’s ready this time.

But so is Solana.

“No!” And just like that, she puts herself in between them, a hand on his chest and her brother’s. She says something in Spanish, rushed, pressured, aimed toward Wesley. And then she’s looking at Roman, eyes begging, switching back to English, “please leave.”

For a second, Roman considers it. Doesn’t want to cause her anymore stress—or pain—than he already has. But that fucking brother of hers twist the knife even more.

“You should be in jail, you rapist!”

“Stop calling him that, Wes!” Solana snaps, urgency and anger filling her voice. “He didn’t rape me! It was consensual!”

“You’re fucking 24, Solana! He’s almost 40! Nothing is consensual about that!” It’s not even the words and accusations as much as the fact that Wes is practically screaming at her that has Roman’s rage growing.

“Watch how you fucking speak to her,” Roman growls, mindful of Solana’s hand still on his chest. 

“Fuck you!” Wesley spats, hate in his eyes. “I should kill you for what you’ve done to her!"

“Wesley, please!”

“Shut up, Solana!” He screams, the volume and force of which make her jump, her eyes filled with shock. “Are you too stupid to even see—”

“What the fuck did you just call her?”

“I swear to God, if you say one more fucking thing to me—”

“What the fuck you gon’ do, huh?” Roman snaps, completely unhinged, seeing and feeling nothing but red. “You ain’t gon’ do shit!”

It all happens fast, so fast, too fast. Because one minute Solana is doing her best to separate two men she loves in two very different ways, and the next, an unconscious, unintentional act occurs. Unfocused, distracted gaze on the other person followed by a set of arms that push and shove her away. 

Solana’s balance is lost from the force of the push, her body stumbling backwards, a set of eyes—horrified, shocked, repentant—filled with abject horror and her name being called with matching said emotion, the last thing she sees before a brief, intense, painful thud against her head against the corner of the counter and the consumption of the dark abyss.

[opossumanon]

Ngl I think a lot of the people who hate the concept of transandrophobia (As in they think it's not real and trans men/mascs are just making shit up) are also ablest against autistics specifically. They probably don't realize it but they are.

I'm gonna list off some things I've experienced.

I've been assumed to be a dumb teenage boy online by someone who twisted around the meaning of my post and wouldn't listen when I tried to elaborate

I've had people scoff when I try to talk about my experiences and insist that it's not a big deal, or I'm just looking too much into it/I'm misunderstanding things

I've had people regard me like I'm adorable, a child, the smol uwu bean who's confused and needs protecting from things he doesn't fully understand

People have interrupted me while I'm talking about something bad that happened to insist that a specific other group has had it worse than me and that I need to stfu

I have been bullied for years now

Now guess: Did these things happen to me because I'm a trans man, or because I'm autistic?

I'm serious I want you to actually sit and think for a second here.

Done?

If you came to the conclusion that it's because of both, you're correct!

Every scenario I listed has happened to me in the context of me being autistic and in the context of me being a trans man. Bigotry against both of these groups is indistinguishable at times.

I also want you to recall the book "Irreversible Damage: The Transgender Craze Seducing Our Daughters". Y'know, the book that says that a lot of trans men are just autistic little girls who have been groomed or were just really fucking stupid and decided to change our gender identities on a whim?

Both transandrophobia and ableism against autistics relies on the bigot believing the following:

The individual is dumb or childish

The individual doesn't understand their problems (or lack of problems) and needs someone to explain it to them, if they're even capable of understanding the dumbed-down explanation

The individual expressing concern about their alleged difficulties is just trying to take attention and resources away from a group that's more oppressed/higher needs

The individual is small and pathetic, until they get angry, when they get angry they are now a chaotic threat that is capable of physically harming people and they must be dealt with immediately because they are unable to see reason

The individual has everything handed to them, so they shouldn't be complaining in the first place

The individual has inherently bad qualities, but they also have a responsibility to "make up" for these bad qualities by being the most submissive person on the planet, failing to "make up" for their bad qualities means that the individual is choosing to hate others and is an entitled asshole

So if you're an autistic person who disagrees with transandrophobia, I'm asking you to stop and reflect and ask yourself if you've been putting down trans men and/or mascs the same way that other people have put you down for being autistic.

If you're not autistic, just fucking do better.

[grimaldiapologist]

#(other thought: do you think Cara really realized whats happening?) via @sherryholmes

Lads, we're about to find out what the text post limit for Tumblr is, because this is the longest post I've ever made here. Unfortunately it's also a post I've been procrastinating on for days, and turns out, for a good reason. Every part of this was awful. Trigger warning for literally everything but mostly for child abuse and exploration of chronic trauma.

In regards to Caracalla's mental state in this scene and forwards, there's at least three different perspectives that come into play at once, and of the main two (trauma/dissociation and the complications from his syphilis) neither is inherently more important than the next. Both of his issues affect each other as well as the way he perceives his reality, and to get to how much he's really keeping up with things at the end here evidently required half a day's worth of analysis into the whole of the timeline for this scene, but also Caracalla's past from - and I wish I was kidding - birth onwards. But to start someplace that makes sense, we'll go back just a bit from this scene: specifically, to the night before any of this takes place.

While it's obvious that Caracalla's mental state is taking a turn for the worse throughout the film, it's after the discovery of Acacius's plot that he starts looking really rough. The same can be said for Geta, who, dealing with his own issues in the aftermath, has rather suddenly stopped being a singular, solid, reliable foundation for Caracalla to ground upon. In general, Geta's attention (trust, affection) has been steadily turning for Macrinus, who is offering him everything that Caracalla can't: guidance, someone to lean on, a sort of a fatherly affection that he's been missing his whole life.

In the aftermath of Acacius's execution, each of the twins is looking for something from the other that isn't available: Caracalla for Geta's usual ability to reason them out of any trouble and come up with solutions for their safety, Geta for Caracalla to show one inkling of responsibility to help him or at the very least stop attacking him when he already knows he fucked up and it scares him, and with some of Macrinus's gentle guidance, their stressed-out bickering turns to... a very modest, but still significant, physical assault when Geta - aiming to silence Dondus with a splash of water - spills it over his brother instead. As I wrote earlier, this breaks things between them. And this right here is significantly destabilising for Caracalla in specific.

As others have already pointed out, Caracalla's reaction to his brother's outburst (it was you, Geta, not him) is primarily dissociative. He freezes first: the freeze reaction is part of the fight/flight/freeze/fawn quad of primitive reactions to a perceived threat, where when faced with danger to one's immediate physical safety, a person "freezes" in place to minimise the attention they draw to themselves. This reaction is most commonly portrayed and observed in animals, as in people, depictions tend to focus on fight/flight the most. "Deer in the headlights" is a typical metaphor used to refer to a freeze state: that shocked stillness in a person who doesn't know what to do. But a freeze response doesn't inherently express fear: it can be very quiet, and very empty.

The freeze response is inherently a dissociative state. Because the mind perceives the situation inescapable, the person becomes still and silent in the hopes of becoming invisible. On the surface this doesn't make sense in a survival state, because doing this in a situation where you're very much not going to blend into your environment will likely only expose you to more harm than in any way protect you from it - but to understand it, it's important to note that this is the primary response to immediate physical danger found in children.

In comparison to an adult, who has other means of defending themselves, a child will in most cases be incapable of direct self-defense (fight) and they will be too slow to escape danger (flight), so their best bet is to stay very still and hope somebody else intervenes (freeze). A child who is not saved but is then attacked may enter a further dissociative state, where, if they cannot save their physical self, then they can at least save their mental self - they will lock up, and "go somewhere else" in their heads. This is relevant for context, for understanding what the hell this boy is thinking in general, but for now,

what Caracalla does in this situation is just to the left of that. He leaves the room at Macrinus's suggestion, who's read his state quite accurately: he suggests, in a very paternal way, that maybe Caracalla should take Dondus and go look after him someplace else. Go calm each other down. Re-establish safety. This would be great advice coming from literally anybody but Macrinus, because the appropriate response to a freeze/dissociative state is grounding, but, alas, it is Macrinus who says that.

Macrinus, who instead of being a nice person and telling Geta next to do the same and then go fix what he broke, uses this opportunity to go fan the flames. I hate this man, have I mentioned this anywhere before? I hate him so much for what he does to these two.

(I'm keeping myself grounded by looking for illustrations here, and I need you all to know that my screenshot folders have over 4 000 pictures in them. 98% of these pictures are just of Geta and Caracalla with some left Marcus Acacius on the side for spice. I'm normal. Anyway,)

Upon leaving the room, Macrinus easily locates Caracalla again: in a logical continuum in terms of tracking his mental state, he's found here hiding under a table. In essence, after a brief burst of the flight response, he's just moved elsewhere to freeze again.

At this point, and every single point from this moment forwards at the very least, Caracalla's clearly exhibiting another trauma response: regression. While not exclusive to trauma per se, regression involves a person's mental state returning to an approximation of a younger state, a state where that person has previously experienced a similar lack of control in their circumstances, but where they may also have experienced safety and care from their caretakers.

Going by what script!Geta says to him not too long after this scene, it seems reasonable to assume that what Caracalla is doing here is what he's done before to escape his father's explosive rages and violence:

He's... a very small guy. He's likely been a very small child, too. He says to Macrinus that Geta has always had it out for him - even in the womb, Geta tried to cut/grip his umbilicus so that he couldn't breathe, presumably to be the only surviving twin. Now, there's a lot that Caracalla's saying in this scene that needs to be taken with a grain of salt, but he's almost certainly relating here a "memory" that he has about what someone else has told him, or what he's otherwise heard. He probably did have a difficult birth, he probably did experience asphyxiation, and this may have been Geta's "fault" somehow - twin births are significantly more dangerous than solo births. We won't know what exactly happened, but umbilical cords and babies throughout history have not mixed well; hell, I was born significantly after the year 180 AD surrounded by much better medical care, and still the most likely singular cause for my learning disability is that I thought hanging myself by that thing in the womb was a great concept.

Asphyxiation injury in babies can cause poor growth, along with - as indicated above - lifelong disability and difficulty with development that results from brain damage, and I think this seemingly throwaway line is here specifically to tell us why Caracalla is so small and sickly, why he is so vulnerable, and, to a degree, also why Geta is so protective of him. He's never thrived, he's always been smaller and weaker, and

their father hated that. Their father, in general, seems to have despised his sons, but by Geta's description, he went for Caracalla first. Geta got in the way, took the beatings, protected his weaker brother from the violence. The only thing a small child in that situation can do is hide, and Caracalla here, under the table, is doing that again. He remembers that danger, and he remembers that hiding under the table meant a semblance of security and shelter against the danger. He remembers that, when he was hiding, there was someone there to protect him.

There was an excellent post on this by someone in the tags that I will link here pronto if anybody can find it for me, where the poster theorises that Geta's outburst, which is so reminiscent of their father's, has essentially put Caracalla in a PTSD flashback. With the regression, this seems more than plausible: he seems to have recognised his father in his brother's actions just as much as Geta himself must have recognised them, and they are both, in this moment, dealing with what that means - or not dealing, because they're both hiding, one in a curtain and the other under a table. It's interesting to me that this mixing of their past, their father's violence, never leaves Caracalla's mind after this time. He feels haunted by the man and his own actions to some degree in his mind become determined by his father's will, his father's hatred of his brother, which he's had to witness so many times in his childhood.

Now, diverting for a second from the trauma reactions and returning to Caracalla's stories to Macrinus, we can also see the effects of his neurosyphilis here. Which is a condition that's been fun to research because any information on it now is so clouded by mandatory patient direction telling me to go to the doctor and take antibiotics, which, honey, I'm sure Caracalla would have loved to do that, sincerely, but it wasn't an option, so what we get is this:

When Caracalla tells Macrinus about his memories from the womb, Macrinus asks him, "you remember that, do you?" and Caracalla says to him, "certainly; one cannot forget."

This confirms to Macrinus as much as the audience that Caracalla's experiencing delusional thinking, and, being the utter turdbag that he is, Macrinus knows exactly the kind of an opportunity this gives him. When a person is experiencing delusions, it's recommended to neither a) play into them nor b) try to directly contest them, as both ways of confrontation tend to root the delusion deeper into a person's thinking. Macrinus takes route a) like that diverting car meme, and starts telling Caracalla more absolute nonsense that he thinks will hit up nicely with whatever he's already experiencing, and based on all of this evidence, with how he's playing Geta like a father and treating Caracalla like a mother, he knows where his vulnerabilities are. He knows how to turn him against Geta - or at least he thinks that he does, because it doesn't quite work, not all of the way, anyway. But he gives it a good old fucking attempt and I despise him for that. Alas,

now we get to the ugly climax of his manipulation of these two traumatised young men whose lives, safety and futures are breaking down all around them, and who both desperately needed guidance and reassurance from someone who cared about them. He's told Caracalla that Geta intends to betray him, so go ahead and do what you must - you've always wanted to be something on your own, but he's always stood in the way, and by the way, he hates you, too. He says that he loves you, but he doesn't, he lies. You know what to do.

Fortunately however Geta knows his brother, and unlike Macrinus would like Caracalla to think, Geta does love him. No matter how annoying he is, no matter how much he gets in the way, no matter how difficult it is to be an emperor and a carer to a sick brother - Geta loves him. And that's enough, though, before we get to that point,

... mandatory reminder that Caracalla really gets off on blood? Like really gets off on it? This is also another excellent example of his regressed state: he cuts Geta, and this excites him. So much. He's probably never felt this powerful in his life: he did that. He did that. After basking in that feeling for a moment, still smiling like a little gremlin, Caracalla goes for Geta wholesale. He seems to be treating this is as some kind of a game, shifting between two states, one of whom is deeply hurt and driven by Macrinus's lies, and the other is just... being a boy, playwrestling with his brother because for the first time ever, he feels like he's got a winning edge.

In terms of Geta's ongoing Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day however, having his hand slashed gods know how deep shows us that something like this doesn't even make him flinch. After receiving the injury he just stands there, looking at his hand, looking at Caracalla, showing the exact degree of the beatings he's been taking his whole life. This, too, is dissociative, and stems from their childhood dynamics: Caracalla knows how to hide both in his head and as a first response to overwhelming danger, and Geta knows how to block out his emotions as well as physical pain, even significant, major pain, like a deep gash in his hand. He ignores the whole thing, the injury and his own personal hurt and fear, like these factors don't exist, because he has to protect Caracalla first.

Nothing Geta does in this scene is for himself. He's afraid, yes, but he's afraid for Caracalla more. And if that doesn't break your heart then I don't know. Good for you. I can't watch this scene again. And he literally dies holding Caracalla's face with his injured hand, looking him in the eye, because he loves him, and that's it for Geta.

In this godforsaken fucking piece of cinematic history, when Macrinus takes Caracalla's hand and butchers Geta with it, Caracalla is - understandably and visibly enough - back to freeze/dissociation again.

And I think some of that might be Geta's doing, in a sense: in order to break Caracalla out of their shared PTSD flashback which he started, unintentionally, by momentarily being the worst of himself to the one person who relied on him the most, Geta's now recounted the exact abuse, the exact circumstances, of Caracalla's memories back to him. He's done this to fix the narrative: I protected you. I love you. Our father hurt us. Doing so, he's put the pieces back together for Caracalla: Geta is not their father, Geta's his brother, and he protects him and loves him. He has always protected him.

So, now that Caracalla can recognise Geta for who and what he is: who takes his hand, then, and directs the blade? Is it not Macrinus, the man who has in all senses become a father to them? Does Caracalla's father then not hold his hand to punish Geta for getting in the way, again, like he always does?

The question was, do you think Cara really realized whats happening?

And after this essay of utter pain and suffering, I hate to say it, but yes, he does absolutely realise what's happening, but he is just as incapable of incorporating any of this into his reality, into any reasonable narrative that isn't controlled by the ghosts of his past. For Geta's death specifically, though, yes. He does realise it. Very much. He looks Geta directly in the eye while he dies, and every bit of his expression screams "I'm losing you and there's nothing I can do to stop it from happening."

His body might be in a freeze state again - limp, controlled first by Geta himself, then taken over by Macrinus - but he sees what's happening. He knows what's happening. The way he goes from this:

to this:

tells you that he knows. He knows.

And to wrap this horrific fucking thing up all nice and good before I print it out just to chuck it in a fire, I'm including the bit of the scene at the Senate that evidently we didn't need to see in the film:

This is Caracalla, trying desperately to make sense of his reality, the things that were done with his body against his will, his unspeakable and indescribable loss, and the lies that Macrinus has told him all over it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a nice day in some other place where none of this happened and Macrinus never existed at all. As a fellow survivor of childhood abuse at the hands of a parent, fuck you, Macrinus. Fuck you for what you did to them. You're the single worst kind of a person on earth and if you were real I would eat your entrails for lunch.

This has been a post, good timezone.

[callsignbaphomet]

This is a pretty charged question but I thought I'd use it to talk about some shit related to this subject.

Short answer is cautious and suspicious of them.

Long answer is Ashestone PD is on a very, very short leash and Oracle is holding on to said leash. Before Oracle touched down in Ashestone and made it the homebase for the 00 branch back in 1993 Ashestone was an entirely different place than it currently is. Mayor at the time was heavily corrupt and the local PD was pretty bad. Real bad. Among other things.

So as soon as Oracle touched down they got to work on cleaning up the town. Mayor suddenly died of a heart attack, in his place an agent was placed as mayor. The chief of police along with the entire PD had been taken into the wooded areas. Chief of police was executed right then and there and replaced with an agent (temporarily). Those with outstanding complaints against them and a long list of disturbing behavior were taken to "The Farm". The rest of the "good" ones were threatened into doing their job correctly.

((The Farms are underground facilities full of people in suspended animation. Some are used to harvest blood, some are used to harvest organs, bone marrow and other things, some are kept there until the next full moon to be unleashed in a secure area for werewolves and vampires to hunt down and consume. The people kept there are corrupt officials, corrupt police and every other piece of shit you can think of.))

Any death at the hands of an Ashestone cop is investigated thoroughly by Oracle itself and if it's been determined that there was no need for excessive force the cop(s) in question end up in the dreaded farm. It took a while but Oracle cleaned up the town, started incorporating non-Oracle personnel that was not corrupt and wanted to make life better for Ashestone and invested in the town.

By 1997 Ashestone was a sleepy little paradise with the lowest rate of unemployment, an almost nonexisting crime rate, highest rate in high school attendance and graduation, and the most resourceful town towards its own people in the entire East coast. A PD full of people who actually wanna make a difference and actually protect their people (even if THEY'RE under constant threat and vigilance) and most importantly a PD that hasn't had any incidents involving murdered civilians since 1994.

So to answer the question if it Ashestone police he will be cautious and suspicious but he'll be relaxed 'cause let's be honest here they fear him and the others because they know who he is and what he's capable of.

And Oracle can get away with this. Let's be super honest here. Would you believe anyone that told you your town was taken over by a secret organization run by werewolves, vampires and all sorts of weird shit? That the cops were under constant threat to behave or else these people would make sure you never see the light of day again, take you out back and execute you or worse? Come on now.

Outside of Ashestone he's gonna be extremely suspicious and cautious.

Loke and Angelus are always careful (internally hostile) towards them ESPECIALLY when Jelani, Trevor, Ginger, Jasmine, AJ, Latoya, Leah--basically any BIPOC people are around. Both will tend to create a barrier between them making sure to keep them safe. Those two don't fuck around when it comes to that.

How would your OC react to being approached by police? 

[parfaitblogs]

hard times ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid doesn’t follow through one time, and you really hate that he has a psychology degree.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: daddy issues. shoutout to the girls with inconsistent fathers this ones for you. established relationship. readers mentioned wearing makeup, a dress and heels. rational bf!spencer reid fuck i would hate a profiler bf. word count: 1.8k a/n: not a trauma dump fic not a vent fic do not read into this fic at all don't even start to speculate on my life and where these emotions came from they're all fake made up not real make pretend. no photos no aesthetics just me, a tumblr account, and a dream for this baddie.

In all your months of dating Spencer Reid, he had never forgotten anything. Not a date, not a work event. Or, at least, he's never forgotten to call. Even when you had been so busy one week you could barely spare him more than a ten minute phone call a day, he remembered what was going on in your life enough to be there for you. 

A false blanket of security draped over your relationship, is what it is now. 

A blanket he seemingly had no trouble ripping off you a random Friday evening, throwing it in a fire and watching it — and your trust in him — burn into dust. 

Perhaps a tad dramatic for what was happening, but you were always one for theatrics when it came to your emotions. Usually, he welcomed it. He was (abashedly) similar, after all.

Not that he was even here to welcome it. 

You'd looked pretty. You'd felt pretty. Past tense, for your shoes were strewn somewhere across the floor after throwing them in frustration, and your makeup was ruined after unwelcome tears had streamed down your face an hour ago. You had been ready for a dinner date you and Spencer had scheduled in only three days ago — penciled in, for you never knew what his work schedule was going to end up being.

You're not sure how long you sat in that one spot on the couch, mind going through every single possible scenario that could've happened between the text he sent you that morning saying he was excited to go out tonight, and the lack of his appearance this evening. 

The logical conclusion is that he got too busy, and he forgot. But Spencer Reid's whole thing is that he doesn't forget. Oftentimes he considers it a curse. You never really agreed with him. Until now, it seemed. 

The less than logical, emotionally driven conclusion, is that he actively chose to stay at work to avoid coming home because he didn't want to see you. Or he didn't actually want to go to dinner, and he didn't know how to tell you. Or his team offered to go out and he'd rather hang out with them instead of you. 

Really, the reasons are endless, and any rational conclusion was lost on you. Mind swallowing you whole as you continued to stare off into space, visibly shaking and head beginning to pound from the crying.

A glance at the clock told you it was near midnight by the time you heard the door handle rattle and twist open, tired, puffy eyes blinking to adjust to the light filtering in from the apartment hallway. 

"Hey. Why're you out here? It's late. I thought you'd already be in bed," Spencer rambles absentmindedly, voice so disconnected from you it only made the ache in your chest worse. As he flicks the light on and assesses the state of the apartment, he asks, "What're your shoes doing on the floor?"

You blink a few times. Was he pretending to be dumb on purpose? 

You stand on cramped legs, stretching them for the first time since you'd sat unknowingly on the couch nearly six hours ago, dress bunching around your waist. You didn't bother to fix it. 

Like a switch, he clicks, his bag sliding off his shoulder and falling to the floor with a thud, realisation settling into his features. 

"Our date. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, angel."

"Yeah. I'm sure," you croak, voice hoarse as you pick up your shoes pathetically in front of him, the heels clacking together as you walk towards your bedroom door. 

He calls your name, and after you make no effort to return to him, you hear his feet against the wooden flooring, carrying himself to you.

You're in the ensuite, beginning to take makeup off you probably should've removed four hours ago. It was stupid hope you held on to, anyways. 

"You're upset. I know. It was awful of me to forget our date," he stands in the doorway, staring at you through the mirror. Even indirectly, you can't make eye contact with him. 

"You forgot," you repeat back to him, almost dumbfounded. "You forgot?"

"Forgot isn't... the best word," his fingers dig into his eyes for a split second, and you watch him think. "I got caught up at work. We had a case, then we didn't have a case, then we did, so we started looking into it, and time just... escaped. From all of us."

"Time just escaped."

Your parroting wasn't doing much to further the conversation, and you watch as Spencer averts his gaze to the floor to take a deep breath, before his eyes land back on you again.

"It isn't the best reason, I know. But it's the truth," he says. 

"Uh-huh," you mumble, discarding your cotton pads stained with your makeup into the trash. 

"Can you stop being evasive?" he catches your wrist before you can return to the sink. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" you ask, almost earnestly. "It's okay that you forgot, Spencer. I won't take it personally at all, and things between us are just dandy!"

"I want to know what you're actually feeling," he replies, voice flat with his irritation, before he forces himself to soften it. "I can't reassure you if all I know is that you're angry."

"Hurt. Forgotten. Disregarded. Disliked. Irritated we're doing this in our fucking bathroom."

At that, he leads you into the bedroom, turning the ensuite light off. "Forgotten and disregarded are synonyms, so I'm assuming that's what you feel the most."

"You're the psyche expert," you mumble, bitterly.

"I'm not trying to be your psyche expert," he quips, and your heart sinks. "Why're you feeling forgotten?"

You stare at him, dumbfounded, for a beat. "Because my boyfriend quite literally forgot about me?"

"I didn't forget about you—"

"—No, you're right. You just forgot about the date that you literally fucking texted me about this morning!" you snap, voice rising in a way that makes you cringe. Yet, you can't stop it. "You! Spencer Reid! Forgot!"

"Don't yell at me, please," he takes a step towards you; you take a step back. 

"Why did you forget? Did you choose to? Are you pretending that you forgot about it all to save your ass?"

"No," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't. I told you what happened. You're choosing not to believe me."

"How am I meant to believe that? It's a shit excuse—"

"—It's the truth—"

"—God, you can lie, Spencer! Men lie!" 

He goes silent, as do you. You become trapped in an uncomfortably intense staring contest with him, as you watch his brain slowly tick over and decipher what you were saying, and come up with a response. Yours, however, splits open with your own self hatred. Disdain for what you had just said to him.

"Okay," he exhales, very slowly. "I'm going to tell you what I think, and you can tell me how right I am."

"You're going to profile me?"

He pauses. "I'm sure it'll come off that way. I'm not trying to," when you don't protest again, he continues. "I think you're less upset about the fact that I didn't come home for a date, and more about the fact that I didn't message you about it. I've not shown up for dates before. I've always contacted you prior to let you know. And I've promised I would always contact you if something came up that interfered with our plans. Ultimately, I said I would do something, and I didn't follow through. That is on me, and I'm sorry. What isn't on me, is how you're reacting. Which is childish, honey. You're acting like a petulant child, and I don't mean that as an insult, because I'm almost certain I know why."

Your silence is his cue to continue, but he pauses to collect his thoughts. Your lower lip is beginning to wobble, and he feels awful.

"You know how our childhoods affect us," he says, and the second what he's about to say to you clicks in your brain, your teeth clamp over your lip, and your eyes drop to the ground. "Reactions from parents to things we do, things others do, things they do, all builds up in our subconscious. Having a parent who didn't show up for you time and time again, built up in your subconscious. So yes, you're reacting to me not following through with something childishly. I will not take that back. But that reaction is not your fault. It's in response to a trigger, and the person in control of that emotional response is not adult you. It's the little girl who got let down by her father. I won't ever hold that against you."

Your sniffle breaks the deafening silence that follows his tangent. You allow him to envelop you into a hug, at which you break down into a fit of sobs akin to the ones from earlier. 

"I hate you," you stutter out in between sobs, voice muffled by his chest. 

"You can't say that while hugging me," he counters. It was true, as your hands had wrapped around his waist just seconds ago.

"I hate you," you repeat, punctuating your words with a poke to his back. 

"I love you," he replies, instead. His fingers thread through your hair as he cradles your head with his other hand. "I'm sorry I didn't contact you about being busy."

You swallow the lodged sob in your throat with a hiccup. "I'm sorry I acted like a petulant child. And I'm sorry that my dad sucks."

"I'm sorry your dad sucks too," you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Have you eaten?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, and he pulls back, hands slipping down to your cheeks, catching the tears. 

"Do you want to eat?"

"The restaurant we were going to is closed," you mumble.

"Maybe. But the Thai place isn't."

"I'm pretty sure it is," you counter, and his eyebrows furrow. "It's past midnight now."

His face falls, he waits a beat, before his hand drops to your own, and he's tugging you towards the door of the bedroom. "Okay. Fine. Well, the Spencer Reid Kitchen is never closed."

"I asked for pasta last night and you said the kitchen was closed."

"You asked at three in the morning," he deadpans, as you make yourself comfortable on one of the stools. 

"The Spencer Reid Kitchen is never closed," you mock his voice from earlier.

"The Spencer Reid Kitchen rules are made by Spencer Reid."

"The rules should be lenient of Spencer Reid's girlfriend."

"Do you want pasta or not?"

"Yes," you quickly say with a firm nod. "Sorry."

He spends the first hour of that Saturday making you pasta; and making up the missed date.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

I ran here after your response to that musical!reader headcanon and the mention of Jekyll and Hyde has me SWOONING.

I saw a local production where the woman playing Lucy went out into the audience during "Bring On The Men" and flirted with people, she even sat down on her friend's lap!

What if musical!reader did that to Viktor 🤭

OH MY G O D THATS SO COOL???

Viktor would DIE. Like actually just pass way. Stop breathing and ascend to the next plane of existence. Glorious Evolution TM.

Viktor is usually very appreciative of music. It's similar to mathematics, in many ways, equations of numbers and notes put together for a new and unique sounding result. He does enjoy theater as well from time to time: it requires a lot of practice, experience, trial and error... by that logic, musical theater should be an art form just as objectively interesting in his eyes.

If what you're doing on stage right now is musical theater, though, he's having a VERY hard time staying objective about it.

It's nothing short of dirty. From the corset that hugs your waist and reveals way too much of your generous chest, to the way you're spreading your legs invitingly for the entire audience to see, everything about you screams sex. He's absolutely transfixed, incapable of looking away from the way your hands touch your own body to the beat of the invisible orchestra.

He's only pulled away from the moment when some students a few seats away start loudly whistling and whooping for your attention, like this is a strip club and not a college play.

THAT'S when he starts to get mad.

He's suddenly very aware of the fact that there's about a hundred other people in the room, students and faculty members, watching the same performance he is. How many of them will imagine you in their bed tonight? How many of them are imagining you in their lap right now?

The smile on your lips speak louder than a thousand words: you're enjoying this, the thrill of the stage, the eyes undressing you while you sing your pretty little song about getting fucked by nameless strangers. Even worse, he's certain you're taking pleasure in knowing he's got front row seats for it, that you've effectively got him powerless and chained down while you're giving a show he should be the only one witnessing.

You've flipped over your roles as student and teacher, and now, he's the one who has to sit silently and drink every word from your lips. It's devilishly clever.

He would be genuinely impressed if he wasn't burying his nails into his cane with one hand and trying to cover the tent in his dress pants with the other.

The projector suddenly moves; it follows you as you're going down the few stairs from the stage to the floor, heels sharp against the concrete floor.

So lets bring on the men

And let the fun begin

Your eyes finally meet his. They're filled with bright sparkles from the stage lights, teasing and provoking. Tauntingly asking if he's ready for what's next, when you both know he doesn't have a say in the matter. The show must go on.

'Ah, shit' is the only thing that comes across his mind before you sit on his lap, the spotlight blinding him.

A little touch of sin

Why wait another minute?

Your movements are calculated and precise, applying just enough pressure on his clothed cock for you to feel how hard he is, without granting him any relief. The audience cheers; he thinks he's having an aneurism.

You bat your mascara heavy eyelashes at him, abandoning the play for a triumphant instant. 'See?' he can almost hear you say. 'I knew I'd get your attention eventually. What's your next move, professor?'

Oh, he is going to make you regret this.

[its-your-mind]

Something something timkon and hair and how lex lichrally programmed Kon to shave his head before he went all luthor and was forced to attack his team, his best friends, his family. and then how most of the hair on the back of Tim’s head got burned off when he got blowed up (thx Steph) and he had to cut or shave the rest of it off so it could grow back semi-evenly. and how kon was a #rebel esp compared to all-American Boy Scout Superman; Kon’s rockin around with the side cut and the leather jacket and the buckles and the spikes or the (ill-advised and made me sad) black t-shirt and jeans but even the “I am a totally normal bro” getup made him distinct and different from Kal and that is really important to Kon because he wants to be his own person, not a Superman-stand-in. and THEN fucking LEX made it so Kon would look more like Lex! his other DNA donor!!! And Tim!! He kept his hair short — just long enough to spike it up as Robin — until both of his parents were gone. which suggests to me that he kinda always wanted it long (hello Tim Drake, #1 Dick Grayson stan) but that just wasn’t an option allowed to him (not uncommon for parents who care Very Much about Appearances — my own parents were the same about my brothers’ hair growing up, not least because the private all-boys school they went to dictated that their hair couldn’t be long enough to touch the collar of their shirt (with exceptions for [insert kinda racist and vaguely xenophobic language here] hair styles). As soon as he turned 18 my baby brother got a rocker-style mane. But I digress. Anyway). Then, post-tragedy, Tim’s hair got long enough to flip down over his forehead and stream behind him when he swung through the city (perhaps one of his ways of clinging to control and his sense of self in the whole awful situation). But then… Tim got fucking exploded, betrayed by his ex-girlfriend who had only just returned after letting him grieve her death for a year, and now she’s following Tim’s dead father mentor’s instructions to challenge him or whatever the fuck bullshit Batman told her, (a young girl whose own father was an asshole criminal, who so desperately wanted Bruce to be proud of her) and now Tim has to cut his hair all the way down to the scalp again and listen. I’m sorry dc tim looks fucking amazing in adventure comics and I’m in love with how he is arted but hair cannot and does not grow back that quick!! Mf had to wait!! I bet it grew in fucking patchy!! I bet kon’s did too!! (prolly not as bad as Tim’s cuz Tim’s got scar tissue and shit.)

but I just think tim and kon deserve a chance to sit down and just commiserate with each other about growing their hair back out (growing back out a sidecut is a BITCH I speak from experience) and Tim’s prolly having to trim his own hair super often to keep it nice-ish while it comes back in, and Kon’s curls are just a fucking MESS until they grow out enough to like. Curl. (Again, speaking from experience) And they’re just shooting the shit (“well MINE was worse bc I looked like fucking LEX. LUTHOR.” / “well you didn’t have to wait to figure out which parts of your scalp we actually gonna bother growing hair again”) until it gets quiet for a minute. And then one of them asks if the hair also reminds the other one of The Shitty Thing That Happened. And then they fucking talk about it. About how they can’t look in the mirror without having a flashback of pain or rage. How it makes them feel like they don’t even get to control their own bodies, their own appearances, and how much that fucking sucks. How they go to run their hand through their hair and there’s just. Not enough of it to do that. How Kon is terrified that somehow looking like Lex means Lex will use him to hurt the people he loves again. How every time Tim sees another Bat or Bird looking at the back of his head, all he can think about is how they might be planning to lure him into another Bat-mandated trap test. How both Tim and Kon kinda really miss the feeling of people playing with their hair. How they miss playing with each others’ hair.

And maybe then one of them extends an offer and the other does the same and they agree to do each others’ hair. Maybe it’ll help paint a new layer over those awful memories.

So Kon finds Tim once a week (he’s never in the same place, he’s rarely even in the same country) and he trims the hair until it looks even, gives Tim the #sitch on how much hair is growing back in. After the second or third week he realizes that Tim’s not keeping up with his burn-care routine, so he starts bringing burn and scar cream with him too. Then he remembers Tim’s lack of a hair care routine and starts trying out different products on Tim’s hair to see what works best. Tim doesn’t say anything, but he thinks all of this feels even better than when Kon and Cassie used to twist little braids into his hair.

Kon insists that Tim doesn’t have to help until his hair’s grown out more, (that he doesn’t want Tim nearby and distracted while Kon still looks like Lex) but Tim outright refuses to let Kon push him away and he will NOT be outdone in the caretaking game. He waits until Kon’s busy fighting some giant alien robot in metropolis and sneaks in to the Kents’ house to scope out what products Kon uses. When he leaves the bathroom, Ma Kent is there, eyebrow raised. She tells him he “could have just knocked on the front door, sweetheart, we know how’ta keep secrets in this house. Now, let’s get some food in you before Conner comes home. You’re all skin and bones, hun.” So Tim goes downstairs and takes some mini meat pies for the road, and then researches the products Kon uses, what they do, what the ingredients do, if there are other (more expensive) options that people have sworn up and down are better. He amasses a collection, and the next time Kon shows up with clippers and healing creams and a new shampoo to try, Tim’s already got ten different products lined up on the sink — everything from shampoos and conditioners to serums and masks. Kon asks if these are things Tim wants Kon to use in Tim’s hair. Tim tells him that no, all of these are for Tim to try on Kon. Kon almost cries. (He does cry, he just doesn’t let the tears fall until Tim isn’t looking.) (Tim notices anyway ofc.) And Tim’s made a spreadsheet to track the effectiveness of different products, different ingredients, different combinations, so he tells Kon to start coming every 2-3 days instead, so he can establish results using a realistic timeframe. Sometimes, if Tim’s gonna be in one place for a few days, Kon just crashes with him. (Neither of them say it, but they both fucking CRAVE the old Core Four cuddle piles.) Eventually, when Kon’s hair is long enough that he’s ready to switch back to his side-cut again, Tim surprises him by not only shaving the hair down, but shaving a few racing stripes (“they’re flight patterns!” / “rob, I dunno what to tell you. everyone’s gonna think they’re racing stripes. doesn’t mean they aren’t dope as fuck, though.”) into Kon’s hair. Every time Kon’s hair grows out enough, Tim shaves it back and stencils in a new design. Kon starts making requests (“gimme the Super ‘S’!” / “It’s the House of El crest, Kon. You know that. Also, you have a secret identity to maintain.” / “C’mon, I’ll just say I’m a fan!” / “With the same El family crest shaved onto your scalp as Superboy?” / “No one’s noticed the identical head decor yet!”) but it’s the day Kon asks (with the same confident and mischievous tone as always) for Tim to shave in the Red Robin crest that something in Tim’s chest, something formless and warm that he hadn’t really paid attention to before, seers a burning path through his heart, takes root, and solidifies.

“Kon. I love you.”

Kon’s distracted, rifling through their hair-care bags for Tim’s razors. “Love you too, Robbie. Duh. That’s why I’m askin’ you to shave your cre–”

“No,” Tim shakes his head, mildly frustrated with himself for the lack of clarity. “I’m in love with you. I think I have been for a while.”

Kon is seated in the chair they’d pulled into the bathroom from the hotel room’s desk, so he has to look up to meet Tim’s eyes. The hand digging beneath sample bottles of leave-in conditioner freezes, still wrist-deep in hair products. Kon’s expression looks to Tim like one of his video games’ character builders froze between the settings for ‘bright smile’ and ‘shock and awe.’

So Tim just looks down at him. Waits. If this was anyone else, Tim would probably be losing his mind right now, but… it’s Kon. Tim’s safe. Kon would never do anything to hurt him.

Kon unfreezes, blinks a few times. “Could you–” he coughs. “Could you say that again? I think my brain maybe like, malfunctioned for a second.”

Tim takes a step closer, reaches out one hand to cup Kon’s cheek, scratches his fingertips through the stubble on the side of Kon’s head. “I’m in love with you, Conner Kent.”

Tears fill Kon’s eyes, and he blinks them away. “That’s– that’s what I thought you said.” His hand (the one not trapped beneath a sea of shampoos, some detached and unhelpful part of Tim’s mind remarks) comes up to gently rest on Tim’s hip. “Robbie, Tim, I– of course I’m in love with you. You– you’re– you’re amazing, you know that? You’re so kind and strong and you’re a genius and you’re a gift to everyone around you; I dunno how everyone else doesn’t see you like I do.”

Tim can’t help but reach out his other hand to wrap around the back of Kon’s head, to feel where the curls carve a path down through the shorter hair and come to a sharp point.

“I mean, damn Wonder Boy,” Kon tries to muster up his Superboy smirk, but the look in his eyes is full of too much genuine affection for him to pull it off. “I think I’ve been in love with you since Kauai, since you grabbed me outta free-fall and swung me to safety. You caught me. No one’d ever done that before. And then you just… kept doing it. You’re still saving me, still taking care of me.”

Kon reaches his other hand (no eruption of hairspray, thank you TTK, that same unhelpful part of Tim’s mind comments. Read the room! the rest of Tim yells at it.) around the back of Tim’s neck, avoiding the tender and scarred areas with practiced ease, and pulls Tim down until their foreheads touch.

“I love you, Wonder. I love you, Robbie.” Kon tilts his head up, waits until their eyes meet. He’s got the biggest smile on his face that Tim’s ever seen.

Tim smiles back, and Kon’s eyes soften. “I love you, Tim.”

Tim leans down and uses his hands on either side of Kon’s head to guide Kon’s lips up to his own.

This is what I want to remember, Tim thinks as he feels Kon’s fingers gliding softly against the sensitive skin of his burn, feels Kon’s TTK covering and protecting the parts still too tender to touch. Tim runs his own fingertips back and forth over the stubble on the sides of Kon’s head, before pushing them up until they’re tangled in Kon’s curls.

I don’t want to care anymore whether or not the people around me look at the back of my head and see weakness or failure. They don’t get to decide whether this mark on my body matters or what it means. I do. And I decide that these scars are important because they brought me here, to this moment. They brought me to Kon.

Kon tilts his head down to break the kiss. He stands up, and before Tim gets a chance to move away and give him space, Kon wraps his arms and TTK around him. He plants a kiss in Tim’s hair. “Damn, Wonder Boy. Having to grow all my hair back almost feels worth it if it got me here.”

Tim smiles and wraps his arms around Kon’s waist, nestles into Kon’s chest. “You know what, Clone Boy? I was just thinking the same thing.”

[shyamanuensis]

Boyfriend Benefits - Ominis Gaunt

Here's Ominis' play out of events following this little scenario. Sebastian's coming soon xo - MDNI + 3000ish words of slow burn smut.

There was a clear level of blatant animosity suffocating the air of your dorm as you sat sheepishly with your ankles crossed at your vanity; shoulders slumped. The mirrors reflection in front of you only managing to  cast an ounce of the uncomfortable tension you felt etching like needles across your sweat-dampened skin as Ominis paced the room in silence. He’d been doing so for quite some time now. Minutes, hours, who knew - but you were able to do little more than watch agonizingly as it seemed his internal thoughts argued with themselves. The way his boots hit the floor with each step, the way his fists clenched with every attempt at reasoning - you knew this was your fault. Or well… not only your fault. Sebastian was the one to blame for bringing your behind-closed-door secret to light after he let out the worlds worst compliment to Ominis after one too many whiskey shots behind the quidditch pitch earlier this evening.

“Your girlfriend tastes fucking delicious Ominis…”

The six words had consumed you since you were dragged away from your friends and tossed into the now awkward familiarity of the room where all that had happened just a few nights before. You hadn’t even had time yet to change the bed sheets. Eyes flickering to anything and everything in the room, your gaze ran across a photograph strip of Ominis and yourself taken on the first date you’d had together in Hogsmeade well over a year ago now; happy, in love, loyal.

“How could you?” It was the first thing he’d said all night since the quidditch pitch.

His tone was lower than usual as Ominis addressed you. Solemn. Dry. There was absolutely no feeling, no emotion, no melancholy. You shifted in your seat in an attempt to get comfortable if possible but it was no use; any move you made stung with self-regarded selfishness.

“Ominis… I…”, you had little more to defend yourself with than half-attempted apologies you’d already cycled through a half dozen times tonight already; in an attempt to fill the void and silence you’d been sitting through.

“And with Sebastian of all blood people.”

“It was a mistake. Honestly. It - it was a one-time thing.”

Oh no it wasn’t. That was a total fucking lie. Sallow and you had been getting up close and personal behind Ominis’ back for months now. Not that you’d admit it. You’d rather be flogged, tortured, forced to swear black and blue before you let that secret slip. A clandestine covert you’d take to the grave.

“Let… let me make it up to you Omi”, you tried to reason as he clearly wasn’t having any of your apologies. “ …I’ll, I’ll let you punish me. As you see fit.”

“Punish you?”

Ominis’ voice echoed throughout the dorm; a harsh, humourless laugh spilling from the back of his throat as the words escaped from his lips.

“You think you deserve a punishment? To be punished? Oh no sweetheart…”, he shook his head, fist tightening around his wand as he dropped it slightly, no longer aiding his mindless wandering; a wave of bitter conflict and disappointment washing over him instantaneously. “You deserve so much worse than that. You deserve to be cast out. You deserve to be shunned by everyone you know and everyone you love. You deserve to be left with nothing but the bitter taste of betrayal and the knowledge that you threw away the one good thing you had in your life.”

It was clear Ominis was angry, hurt — and something else. Each drawn-out breath he now took proved that he was wrestling with a conflict of emotions that ate him up from the inside. But there was something else; something lingering across his expression, across his skin, across his eyes which Ominis forced himself not to acknowledge.

“However”, his voice softened only slightly back to his usual tone as he approached you, “You want me to punish you… chastise you… seek payback for what you’ve done…”

Ominis reached out towards you with his free hand; soft fingers brushing against your dampened hair and tear-stained cheek as he pursed his lips; fighting himself on whether the path to retribution he was about to take was worth his time, his hassle, his energy.

“Fine. Consider this punishment your last and final warning. I’ll make you remember why you belong to me. I’ll remind you why you’ll never be able to betray me again.”

Fingers knotting into your hair roughly; Ominis yanked you up from where you were seated and forced you to stumble across the carpeted floor; onto the bed.

“Strip”, he scoffed, “Now.” The command in his voice was dangerously low. “I want to see every inch of that body which dared to be touched by another. Slattern tramp. I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Robes, vest, tie, shirt, skirt - each item stripped and tossed to the floor as instructed without a question. Ominis listened intently to each garment fall and pool at your feet; counting them one by one as he crossed off the list in his head.

“I said strip. Strip.”

Your breath caught to knot in the back of your throat as you reached around the unclasp and step out of the lace undergarments you’d worn and were hoping to show off rather than despoil to the floor. Hearing the last two garments hit the floor; Ominis took a tight grip on your wrist and forced you down; back now against the bed.

“And maybe dear… just maybe… if you please me well enough, I’ll consider giving you a second chance you clearly don’t deserve. Don’t expect it to be easy though. I’m going to make you work for every scrap of forgiveness.”

Leaning down over you; his breath hovered hot against the sensitive skin of your ear. “Now be a good little harlot and do exactly as I say before I lose what little patience I still have left for you.”

Pushing onto the bed to kneel between your legs, you felt his fingers dance along the sweat-slicken skin of your thighs as his thumb found its way to your clit; pushing roughly against it. He scoffed at the barely there whimper you eluded, the minor shift of your hips that rocked beneath him. He drank in the feel; the heat radiating off your skin.

“Good girl…”, he murmured into your ear with an approving rumble. “I bet you look like a proper little slut laying there. Beneath me. My pretty little plaything.”

My - ugh; you had for a moment forgotten how possessive he could be.

“You thought you could forget that, couldn’t you? Thought you could get away with letting another boy touch you, taste you, without consequence?” As Ominis’ voice roughened so did his thumb at your clit. “You thought wrong my dear - oh so very fucking wrong.”

Lifting himself up to take both your wrists and pin them above your head, Ominis let the tip of his wand dig into the hollow of your throat and drag with a hot sting down the valley of your breasts.

“Keep your hands above your head”, he ordered, sitting up to shuffle back down the bed. “Don’t you dare move them or touch yourself without my permission.  This is about punishing you; not pleasuring you. Understood?”

Your semi-restrained form he ran his hands along, to paint the perfect image in his head of what he was dealing with tonight was absolutely perfect, even if he couldn’t see it. His wand snapping with a flick between your knees, you grit your teeth at the stinging infliction and mewl out a culpable groan.

“Spread your legs. Now.” The command was simple. “Show me everything. Give me access to those pretty pink folds that dared to be touched by Sebastian.”

You did as you were told. Knees falling; thighs opening; slit already wet. The mention of that name - ugh that name you just wanted to delete from your minds browser history. Feeling Ominis’ lips at your knees, you let your head fall back; each kiss tantalizing in this game of punishment and pleasure you were now definitely sure you wanted to be playing.

“You’re going to pay for your betrayal dear. You’re going to pay for hours, days, weeks, months years. Going to pay in ways that you can’t even begin to fathom or imagine; but first — first I’m going to remind you of exactly who you belong to and I’m going to make sure you never forget it again.”

Twirling his wand around with a schooled flick of his wrists; Ominis held the blade and brushed the hardwood aspen handle lightly over your folds. His fingers followed suit, feeling just how wet you already where as he pressed a kiss soft to your clit.

“Tsk, tsk. Look at how wet you are. Insatiable little harlot. Always hungry for more it seems; always craving something to fill that empty little void inside you.” Pressing the wands handle harder against your slick heat; the woods cool, stark contrast was teasingly delectable against your scorching heat. “I bet you forgot about that though… didn’t you? This is mine; all mine. To pleasure, to please, to control.”

Whirling his wand around; it was a short, sharp, slap of the tip against your clit that caused you to grip at the headboard; the handle finding its way swiftly to your entrance. Each word Ominis spoke was punctuated with a sharp thrust of his wand. You couldn’t hold back. Biting your lip only did so much to suppress the moans that choked in your throat and knotted off the tip of your tongue.

“Tell me dear; did Sebastian make you feel this good? Did his touch set your body on fire the way mine does? Always has?” He shifted the wand handle inside you to cradle up against that sensitive spot he knew would have you seeing stars. “Or am I still the only one to - let’s not say, satisfy you; but give you what you need?”

Ominis could feel your body clench and quiver around the wand as he thrust the handle in at an excruciating rate. He made note of the way the hitch of your breath changed, the way you gasped and moaned, rollong your eyes with each touch, back arching off the bed; chest rising and falling just the way he had intended. You stayed silent though - knowing the question was a trap. Knowing that it was something Ominis was hoping you’d just walk straight into. Chuckling against your skin; he kissed at your hip and let a cruel, wicked smile tug at the corners of his lips.

“He doesn’t - does he?”

You murmured a soft no in response not being able to keep the answer to yourself.

“Doesn’t what my love? Make you feel good? Fill you? Fuck you? Give you the attention like the desperate little slut you are.” Each word brought on a rougher thrust of the wand, it smacking against your swollen core. He could feel beneath him your lower body trembling; hear your hands grip at the headboard so lightly he was sure your knuckles were turning white. Ominis could hear the desperate, needy sounds falling from your lips and each clung to him; to the promise of pleasure, pain, and retribution.

“Remember this… remember the feeling of my wand inside you; claiming you, punishing you, pleasing you. Remember the way it makes your body sing. The way I play your body like the instrument that it is. You belong to me - you’re mine; now and forever. No matter what you do, who you do, how far you run, where you slink off to between the shadows… you’ll always belong to me.”

Gripping at your hip, Ominis pulled you down onto the wand, impaling you as he forced you to ride the wood with savage intensity as his mouth found your sensitive bundle of nerves and murmured against it.

“This is the start of your punishment - your penance.” He nipped at your skin; feeling your back arch off the bed again in a perfect curve of pleasure and ecstasy.

“Now scream for me. Scream my name. Let the whole fucking castle know who’s causing you to feel this way. Who you belong to. Let them know you’re mine and mine alone.”

The sweet sound of his name coursing through the dungeons was like the first songbirds cry to a new spring. He could feel the way your body tensed; hear the desperation as you repeated his name like a broken record again and again and again. Panting and gasping. The way your body clenched around his wand as if trying to pull it in deeper, needier; hold it inside of you with greed.

“P-pl-please Omi..”

“Please?”, he hocked with a cruel laugh as his lips continued to assault your clit. “Please what? Please stop? Please give you more?” He kept up the pace of his wands thrusts driving it deeper, harder, and faster into your dripping heat.

“You want to come, don’t you dear?”, he growled the question between your folds and brushed his tongue against your already occupied entrance. “You want to beg for it? Bed for me to let you find your release?”

Although he could feel his own desires climbing; Ominis remained stoic to how you were making him feel; your hips rocking in agony chasing a pleasure you knew he wasn’t going to so easily give up and in.

“Go on then; but this is all you get. The wand and nothing else. Come for me; like the helpless little slut that you are. Come on my wand; show me that you remember who you belong to.”

Ominis could feel your body starting to convulse beneath him; your walls grip at his wand like a vice as your high approached. The exiguity echoing from your voice against every wall in the room, testament to the desire and need you craved reward for. Hot breath against your slit, your hips bucked up towards Ominis - wanting to be teased, wanting to be fucked, wanting to be released.

“That’s it…”, he growled, “Come for me.”

A final brutal thrust of his wand pressed in as deep as the handle could go ground against your sensitive spots and walls forcing you to see stars as your hot, dripping arousal coated Ominis’ fingertips. For a moment; he was torn between that dark satisfaction of finally pushing you over the edge and giving into his own desires in the most primal way possible. He knew you wanted him, needed him, Merlin – help him; just as much as he needed you. Catching your breath, you closed your eyes and felt Ominis remove his wand from between your folds, the parting feeling causing you to whimper at the lost friction you so desperately needed.

With a guttural groan; Ominis lifted himself off the bed just enough to fight with his belt and trousers; revealing his aching cock which throbbed with a mind of its own as it strained towards your heat.

“Fuckk..”

As the head of his cock nudged your slick entrance; Ominis positioning himself between your thighs you begged for the chance to touch him.

“Permission to move my hands…”

“Granted love.”

They fell from the bedhead to grip at his hips; grasping through the thick trouser fabric.

“Please Omi�� please, please, please, please, please.”

Ominis rocked his hips lightly forward; head of his cock catching on your entrance with a tease. A torment. Pushing you to the brink of madness. You tried to rock yourself onto him; feel him, need him; but Ominis didn’t give in. Through his shirt you could see his heart pounding. The short and sharp gasps he made, making it obvious that he wanted this as much as you needed it.

“I… I…”

Enough with the begging. Ominis reached up to wrap a hand around your throat as he sunk himself in with a groan so deep it caused the dorm room to vibrate.

“You don’t get to come until I say you can.”

He snarled as his hips started to move slowly but no less demanding than what you expected.

“You don’t get to find your pleasure until I’ve had my way with you. Used you for my own fucking satisfaction.”

Hearing you whimper and plead; feeling your body wither and tremble; this only fuelled Ominis furhter. His desire, need to dominate, to control, to reclaim what was his ignited.

“You’re mine. Mine to punish. Mine to pleasure. Mine to do with what I please and right now…”, Ominis ground his hips against yours, cock buried as deep as it could go, “…I please myself.”

As Ominis began to move again, his thrusts were slow; deep, deliberate. Each one planned and executed to stroke the desire you needed fulfilled. To keep you teetering on the knifes edge of release but not allowing you to fall over it.

“You’re going to take it all my little fucking whore; take every inch, every drop, every thrust and fucking thank me for it, because this…”, he explained with a particularly hard thrust which pushed you to the edge - length pulsating, “is what you were fucking made for.”

Hands sliding up Ominis’ chest to his shoulders, you gripped like it was a lifeline you couldn’t make it without and stumbled over your own confession.

“Y-you… you feel different… different to Sebastian.”

For a split second; Ominis felt his heart be pierced through the haze of lust and desire which clouded him. He was struck by a pang of jealousy; a searing rage at the thought of his best friend touching his girl. Sebastian’s hands against your skin. His tongue relishing the sweetness of your tight cunt. Ominis wanted to rage, to scream, to destroy everything that dared come between him and what was his, but he pushed that thought to the side as he felt your walls grip at his cock like a velvet vice. The way you engulfed him; consumed him, dragged him deeper and deeper in.

“Different?”, he groaned into your ear; his voice laced with both disgust and distaste.”Of course I’m different, you little witch. Sebastian’s just a pale imitation of what someone like I can do for you. A watered-down version of what you’re used to.”

You opened your eyes to look up at him; drinking in the words he said like a sinner being told their death sentence.

“I’m not some timid little boy pretending - I’m a Gaunt. I was born to dominate, to conquer, to take what I want and make it mine”, his thrusts became more erratic, “and what I want is to ruin you for anyone else.”

Ominis could feel his release approaching; the heat and pressure building up where he knew you wanted it most but he held back, determined to make you come first. To feel your pleasure before he found his own.

“So go on my little slut”, he coaxed; a hand dropping down to play your clit like a fiddle and throw you over the edge. “Take it. Take every fucking inch and remember that you belong to me.”

As you screamed his name and stopped thinking; body taking over, your cries of pleasure anguished and echoing off the dungeon walls, Ominis slammed his hips forward; driving his cock deep inside forcing you to feel the first spurts of his release, painting you inside out with greed. Collapsing on top of your sweat-slicken body; Ominis felt the last of a shockwave of pleasure tense through his body, a dark ecstasy that utterly consumed him. Heart still pounding; he could feel your breath, the way your body trembled, your ragged moans as you hesitatently came down from a high of your own.

“Mine…”, he whispered against your lips; catching them with his own for a deep, long awaited kiss, “…and don’t you fucking forget it.”

[nemesyaaa]

i'm unwell. screaming, crying, throwing up at the moment because of the chapter. especially when i'm reading this with cigarettes After sex on the head. your writings leave me with no words, this is so fucking gorgeous, a tragic wonderful love the story with the fluff and the pain. the relationship between them is so beautiful, rafe's feeling are so strong. enamored with the story because helloo ??? i keep saying it everytime but i'm so in love with the moodboard. the fucking last line being the title. oh you did not, i'm broken 😵‍💫‼️

“everything means absolutely nothing if i don’t have you by my side.” you swore you could’ve died right there. — I'VE GOT STANDARDS. AND FUCKING GREAT STANDARDS. 😙

everything that you two have been through— all the tears, all the scrutiny and pain, trials and tribulations, all the laughs, the sweet moments, the whispering of words in the dark, all of it was meant to lead up to this very moment. — « when you know, you know. » i'm gonna kms and you better cherish my grave. 🥹🥹🥹

“marry me,” he repeated, “you fulfilled wedding vows since the very beginning. ‘for better, for worse.’ you and me made decisions, we let go of things despite how painful it was, we did it for each other,” rafe swallowed thickly. ‘for richer, for poorer.’ you never cared about how much money i had, you welcomed me into your camper and we made the best of it,” he rose his eyebrows suggestively, making a giggle fall from your lips at the memories of you two getting tangled in your bed. — i'm losing m'y mind and i will never find it back....at this point...✨✨✨

“you didn’t give up on me when you had every reason to. ‘in sickness and in health.’ you stuck by me when i was at the height of my addiction, and i could never thank you enough for never losing faith in me. i yelled at you, i talked to you harshly— fuck, i hate myself for that. i was in the worst shape i had ever been in, and you still looked at me as if i hung the stars up for you. you loved me at my worst, and brought me back up to be my best.” — I kinda fell apart. i'm sick to my stomach in the most lovely way possible

rafe laid you down and worshipped your body as if it was your first time together all over’s again. not a single inch of your body went untouched, the man above you whispering praises again your skin. you two laughed, cried, kissed, and hugged all while he rocked inside of you, his fingers intertwined with yours as he continuously placed kisses to your knuckles. he was gentle, yet so precise with his movements, you were easily gasping his name in no time. never looking away from each other once, you held eye contact while he spilled into you, his lips molding to yours as if they were made just for you. — ma'am, you gotta be kidding me ??? drop everything in your life, start a writing career.

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW | FIVE

a pogue!sweetheart!reader series by rafesangelita ©

SUMMARY: finding you when he thought all hope was lost, rafe decides that this is the last time you two will ever be separated.. til’ death do you part.

WARNINGS: lots of emotions lol, crying, angst, description of unprotected sex, fluff

LINKS: series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

“how did you find me?” you’re pulling rafe inside by his shirt, his hands finding your hips as he stared at you incredulously. he couldn’t believe you were in front of him. he didn’t answer, instead he took your face in his hands, tears brimming his eyes as he rested his forehead on yours. “please never do that again.” you felt your heart break when his voice came out shaky, your own tears already rolling down your cheeks. “i’m so sorry—” rafe shut the door, clicking the lock shut before sitting you down on the motel bed.

“i got your note,” rafe made sure to keep your hand in his as he spoke, “i know that you left because you felt like you were doing the right thing.” he laughed bitterly, flashbacks of the look on his dad’s face when he saw that you didn’t take the money ran through his mind. “but i need you to know something else..” your heart was beating out of your chest, a million words sitting on the tip of your tongue. there was so many things you wanted to say, but you didn’t know where to start.

“doing the ‘right thing’ would never result in us being away from each other. you sacrificed everything and left behind everything you’ve ever known for me, so i made my own sacrifices too.” just as you were going to question what he meant, he held up his hand, the gold ring that he once wore with the utmost pride was now gone. your eyes widened, your lips parting as you shook your head. “oh, rafe..” inspecting his fingers, you couldn’t help but run your digits over his palm, “what did you do? what did i do?”

regret pooled in your stomach. the one thing you didn’t want to happen, happened. “hey, look at me— you didn’t do a damn thing, alright? my dad didn’t take anything from me, i left it. the same way you walked away from everything, so did i.” your head shot up at his words. “you left it? the business, your family ring, everything?” rafe watched as the corner of your eyes became wet with tears, your chin wobbling slightly. “y/n,” he stroked the side of your face, “everything means absolutely nothing if i don’t have you by my side.” you swore you could’ve died right there.

rafe embraced you as you let out a sob, your hands clinging onto him as if he’d disappear from your grasp. “i’m so sorry i left!” you cried out into his chest, “i’ll never leave you again, i swear it!” your arms moved to wrap around his neck, your heart finally feeling full again. rafe shushed you, rubbing your back soothingly as you two cried in each other’s embrace. rafe knew it was now or never. everything that you two have been through— all the tears, all the scrutiny and pain, trials and tribulations, all the laughs, the sweet moments, the whispering of words in the dark, all of it was meant to lead up to this very moment.

rafe pulled away, taking both of your hands in his as he moved down to the floor— on one knee. sniffling, you watched with a confused gaze as rafe reached into his pocket. “i bought this ring the morning i first left your camper,” your eyes widened as he pulled out a small box, “you left one of your rings on the bathroom sink and i took it with me to get an accurate size on this one,” he laughed, “i thought i was crazy when i was there buying it from the jeweler, but it all makes sense now.” a small gasp left your lips when he opened the box, revealing a dainty diamond ring. “rafe..” your voice was barely above a whisper.

“marry me.”

his words cut through the air, your breath catching in your throat. “what?” a hint of a smile played on your lips as his eyes got lost in your own. “marry me,” he repeated, “you fulfilled wedding vows since the very beginning. ‘for better, for worse.’ you and me made decisions, we let go of things despite how painful it was, we did it for each other,” rafe swallowed thickly. ‘for richer, for poorer.’ you never cared about how much money i had, you welcomed me into your camper and we made the best of it,” he rose his eyebrows suggestively, making a giggle fall from your lips at the memories of you two getting tangled in your bed.

tightening your grip on his hand, your smile faded when he broke down, his shoulders shaking slightly as his head hung in complete surrender. “you didn’t give up on me when you had every reason to. ‘in sickness and in health.’ you stuck by me when i was at the height of my addiction, and i could never thank you enough for never losing faith in me. i yelled at you, i talked to you harshly— fuck, i hate myself for that. i was in the worst shape i had ever been in, and you still looked at me as if i hung the stars up for you. you loved me at my worst, and brought me back up to be my best.” now you were crying too, small hiccups emitting from your throat.

“y/n, will you please do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?” rafe glanced up at you, the expression on your face unreadable. “of course i will.” that was all rafe needed before he slid the beautiful ring on your finger, both of you pulling each other into a searing kiss. with his lips still connected to yours, rafe took a seat on the bed, pulling you on top of his lap effortlessly. you two stayed like this until the tears on your cheeks dried, both of you growing needy for something more than just rushed kisses and lingering touches.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered against his lips, “i never want to be away from you ever again.” rafe’s eyes were now clouded with something else other than tears— lust. “stop saying sorry. nothing else matters right now.” rafe’s fingers slipped underneath your top, your eyes fluttering shut as he licked a stripe up the column of your throat. groaning at the taste of your skin, you gasped when he cupped you through the lacey material of your bra. being apart from one another was one thing, but not being able to hold, love, or touch each other was completely different.

“i’ve been staying at your camper for this past week, you wanna know why?” you moaned softly as he took your top off, humming a small ‘why?’ before you tugged at his shirt. “because it smells like you. the sheets, your pillows, everything, it all smelled like you and i needed to feel you close somehow.” you pulled away at the revelation, your hands coming up to cup cheeks. “please let me make it up to you..” your voice was so sweet, but the indication of your words was even sweeter. “oh, you will.” rafe nodded to himself, his hand coming up to unclasp your bra.

rafe laid you down and worshipped your body as if it was your first time together all over’s again. not a single inch of your body went untouched, the man above you whispering praises again your skin. you two laughed, cried, kissed, and hugged all while he rocked inside of you, his fingers intertwined with yours as he continuously placed kisses to your knuckles. he was gentle, yet so precise with his movements, you were easily gasping his name in no time. never looking away from each other once, you held eye contact while he spilled into you, his lips molding to yours as if they were made just for you.

“i love you.” you smiled softly as his breath fanned against your cheek. pulling him flush against your chest, you wrapped your legs around his waist in order to keep him between your thighs. “i love you, too.” rafe rested his forehead in the curve of your neck, his large palms rubbing soft circles into your skin. you two stayed like this until he pecked the corner of your lips, rolling to your side before taking you in his arms. with your back to him, both of you admired your ring as if you couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “rafe?” you whispered, a smile gracing your lips when he hummed.

“i can’t believe it..” rafe trailed kisses along the back of your shoulder, his hand holding up your own. “i can,” he started, “i knew this day was going to come, i just wish i did it sooner.” you turned around in his embrace, running your index finger along his jaw. “you never answered my question earlier.” rafe’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “what? how i found you?” nodding, you let your eyes trail over his features as he explained himself. “well i searched the whole island, and when people told me they hadn’t see you anywhere i figured that meant you left it altogether.”

your eyes widened at his words. “you looked for me all this time?” you already felt bad for leaving in the first place, but now you felt even worse. “of course i did. i went to the icecream parlor and asked around for you there, and then i went to the country club, but everyone just kept saying the same thing.” you closed your eyes, a defeated sigh falling from your lips. “i looked up the closest motel and this place showed up, so now i’m here.” rafe was unbelievable. “i need to get you a wedding band!” you gasped, the realization dawning on you once you stroked his empty fingers.

“i already got one. it’s at the camper.” you stared at him blankly. “rafe cameron.” he smiled when you said his full name, finding amusement in the way your voice sounded serious all of a sudden. “i mean it when i say i thought everything through already,” he kissed you, “i never really understood what people said, but now i get it.” smiling against his lips, you looked up at him through your lashes. “what do you mean? what did they say?” rafe cradled your head, those blue eyes of his dripping pure adoration for you as he spoke.

“when you know, you know.”

taglist: @percysley @oceandriveab @lacydollette @weirdowithnobeardo @mattyskies @cnnamongrl @b3bybunny @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @lovinqbella @jeonmochi99-blog @corpsebridenightamare @whorelaud @mymvlody @idontknowwhyimhere33 @ursovaine @maybankslover @ilovefiction4lmen @rafesfavouritegirl @katekells @winnie1emon @sexysadie23 @hewwokitti @avvwritesstufff @purplerose291 @avengersgirllorianna @rafegf-real @impossibleturkeydiplomatghost @dearestjune @finnickodairslut @starkeysprincess @stoned-writer @just-here-for-ff @snowtargaryen @sarahsangelicdoll @imjustagirl713 @hypnotizedstarkey

[stars4noah]

HALLEY'S COMET- three.

{WARNINGS}: swearing, drinking, allusions to depression, reader and noah making up yayyyy 🥳🥳

w.c- 2,898

a.n- if you guys couldn't tell by now, this story has kinda turned from being inspired by only halley's comet to being inspired by the entire album! go listen to happier than ever by billie eilish. the album. not the song.

enjoy! <3

{TAGLIST}: @lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @chey-h @rumoured-whispers @oobleoob

if you would like to be added to the taglist, please comment!

i haven't slept since sunday. midnight for me is three a.m. for you.

three more weeks passed since everything happened. the next day, noah tried to come back. i told him to stay away. forever. i promised him that i would be just fine without him, that i didn't need him to prove to me that he was something he didn't want to be. because i was so convinced he didn't want to be better. he just wanted his photographer back.

i started working at a local coffee shop, the spark in my eyes that was once consistent now gone. i didn't have that kind voice that everyone grew to love. i didn't put any effort into my appearance. i just threw my hair into a ponytail and moved on.

a lot of the time, i was glad i lived alone. i could fall back into old habits without being scolded. like drinking, for example. it was the only way i knew how to handle my feelings. which wasn't working very well.

but you're all it takes for me to break a promise.

i knew the next time i saw his face i would break. i would run back. i would stay. spending years with somebody who you're secretly in love with will do that to a person. so i made it my goal to purposefully ignore him.

every time i would go home, i would scroll mindlessly on my phone. i found out that noah canceled the rest of the tour. mental health reasons, or whatever. i rolled my eyes, turning off my phone and cracking open yet another bottle of liquor, feeling the familiar burn go down my throat that i've grown accustomed to. i walked around my apartment mindlessly, humming some unfamiliar tune to myself.

these past few weeks, music has been my number one savior. aside from alcohol.

NOAH'S POV.

these weeks without her proved to be difficult. having fallen into a depression after alyssa and i broke up, [y/n] leaving only made it worse. i sat in my room, staring at the door. sometimes i would pray that she would walk through. surprise me and say it was all just a cruel prank.

countless bottles of hennessy sat in front of my bed. that was all i had been doing. drinking and working out and writing to ease away the pain.

"but nevertheless, i'm fucking depressed. i hide it with sex, and drink till it's fatal." i murmured to myself, taking another sip from the bottle before letting it clatter to the ground, snatching my pen and paper from my desk.

when i went through things like this, i always liked to write down my thoughts. some of those thoughts ended up in songs. and since we were in the middle of writing a new album, this was perfect.

there was a knock at the door and i grumbled a greeting, my eyes never leaving the paper. a couple seconds later, jolly walked in.

"christ, man, you look like hell."

i hummed, continuing to write as he sat in front of me.

"look, i know you're struggling. because of-"

i knew exactly who he was talking about. i didn't want to hear her name. she hurt me enough. "don't say her name."

jolly sighed. "because of her. but dude, we're worried. you know none of it was your fault, right? she was stupid to do that to you."

i scoffed. "she said it herself, jolly. 'he's richer, hotter, and bigger'" i scowled, repeating her words that she had said to me that night. some part of me regretted walking out of that door. i loved her. for years. and i had grown used to loving her. she was all that i had. she was what made me what i am. she was right, really. i would be nothing without her.

"you're doing it again." he said. at this point, i had stopped writing, staring off into space. "doing what?"

"that thing you do when you get all into your head. blaming yourself for everything. how many times do i have to tell you it's not your fault for you to get it in your head, man?" he said, sternly but gently.

i rolled my eyes. "you're wrong."

"how?"

"because i loved her, jolly. i fucking loved her, and i screwed it all up because i can never do anything right. i'll never be good enough. for myself, or anybody."

i buried my face in my hands, sobs racking my body once more. i never liked to be this vulnerable with anybody, even my closest friends. but honestly? i didn't give a fuck anymore. let them see.

"i know man. i know." he said, rubbing his hand over my back in an attempt to sooth me.

it pained jolly to see me like this. i knew that. but it was better to tell people of my thoughts than to keep it bottled up inside, right?

READERS POV.

i was making that damn song all the way till the early morning. i didn't even realize how late it had gotten until i woke up to my alarm. i had fallen asleep at my desk, my computer still running and everything. i didn't have work today, so that left me plenty of time to do whatever the hell i wanted.

months passed. months without seeing or talking to him. i would occasionally text the others, but i wouldn't dare send him a single text. i caught up a bit with folio and jolly, telling them about my ongoing journey with music. i still pursued photography as a side hustle, but my main focus was getting this song perfect.

it was almost done. almost ready to be released. maybe as an album? no, i can't get too carried away. music isn't for me. but as i listened to the song and made sure everything was right, my feelings began to change.

"i don't want it, and i don't want to want you. but in my dreams, i seem to be more honest. and i must admit, you've been in quite a few."

it wasn't a lie. he had began to show up more often in my dreams. not as nightmares, but as something that we could've been.

"Halley's Comet comes around more than i do. but you're all it takes for me to break a promise. silly me to fall in love with you."

that promise. that stupid promise.

"[y/n], please. let me explain-"

"no, noah! i don't care about your shitty explanations and your shitty behavior and your stupid face! i promise, i'll be just fine without you. leave me alone!"

"i haven't slept since sunday. mdnight for me is 3:00 a.m. for you. but my sleepless nights are better with you than nights could ever be alone, ooh-ooh-ooh. i was good at feeling nothing, now i'm hopeless. what a drag to love you like i do, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh."

it wasn't entirely a lie. when i imagined him in the bed next to me, it felt like i could sleep better. when i pretended everything was okay, everything felt lighter. the weight on my shoulders seemed to momentarily disappear, only to crash back down when i realized it was all just a fantasy.

"ooh-ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh. i've been loved before, but right now in this moment i feel more and more like i was made for you. for you. i'm sitting in my brother's room. haven't slept in a week or two, or two. i think i might have fallen in love. what am i to do?"

as the song ended, i found myself picking up my phone, going to his contact. i laughed softly to myself as i saw the contact. it was still the same. when everything was nice. when i wasn't all alone. i decided to jump the gun, shooting him a text.

i breathed out a sigh of relief. maybe he didn't hate me as much as i thought. i immediately thought back to the time i took it. when things were better. happier.

"come on! put it on!" i laughed, holding out the little plastic tiara to him. we had gone to disney world for a summer vacation, and i won a tiara from one of the game booths.

"i'm not putting that on." he said, his arms folded across his chest.

i pouted, looking up at him with those puppy dog eyes i knew he couldn't resist until he groaned, snatching the tiara from my hands and putting it on his head. despite his previously grumpy demeanor, he still wore a smile when i took the pictures.

i missed that.

the moment i saw him walk through those doors, it was like everything hit me all at once. he looked terrible. i did too, but definitely better in comparison.

"hi." i said softly.

"hi." he said back, sitting down in front of me with his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

i bit my lip as we sat in an awkward silence for a moment before i spoke.

"noah, i-"

"[y/n]-"

i couldn't help but smile softly as we spoke at the same time.

"you first." he said.

i took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself. "i know you've been through a lot, noah. and i should've taken that into consideration when i said all that shit. honestly, i haven't been doing too well myself, if you couldn't tell." i said, gesturing to myself.

"it sounds stupid as fuck, but it feels like theres this void in my chest that's just been so empty since i left. i miss you guys. i miss the band." i said.

he sensed there was something more. "but...?"

"but," i began. "i can't come back as the photographer. after i've recovered somewhat from everything, i realized photography isn't for me. i was to pursue something bigger."

"like?"

"music."

he raised his eyebrows. "you want to become a musician?"

"i know, it sounds absurd and like a child's dream, but i really think-"

"no, [y/n] that's fucking amazing." he said with a small laugh, leaning forward. i smiled slightly. there was that smile i missed.

"yeah?"

"yeah. i mean, i've only heard you sing a handful of times, but you're great. you're gonna make it big, trust me." he said.

my heart warmed at his words. "thank you." i said.

"look, [y/n], i'll be the first to admit how much of a douche i was to you. i've had time to think about it. to get over it and stop wallowing in self-pity. and i'm really sorry. i'm kinda shocked you didn't quit sooner, honestly. but, if you'd like, we could start fresh. you don't have to come back to the band, but we can hang out and shit. maybe i can help you with your music."

his words only made my smile brighten. "yeah, i'd like that. a lot. thank you."

"of course, princess."

after our little friend date, we went to his studio to work on some things. he showed me how different things worked and helped me on writing a song that i had been thinking about.

i bit my lip, jotting down a few lyrics in my notebook as he watched.

i don't really wanna know why you went there. i kinda don't care. you want to kill me? you want to hurt me? stop being flirty. it's kinda working.

i hummed a soft tune to myself as i read the lyrics, trying to figure out what would work right.

did you really think this is the right thing to do? is it news? news to who? that i really looked just like the rest of you.

noah snapped me out of my continuous thoughts, turning back to the computer. "i've been working on stuff, too." he said.

"yeah?"

he hummed in response, pulling up a file full of different songs. "pick one." he said, leaning back.

i bit my lip in thought before clicking on the one titled The Grey.

"evened the scores, then i let it all go fall apart. and every step forward put a little more sword in your heart, yeah. looking sideways when i say i'm okay with the past. but i'm afraid of what i might say if you ask."

i leaned back in my chair as i listened to the lyrics, knowing that this song could be about one of two people. me, or alyssa.

"gave you way too many chances, you ran through them all. got everything i could want but it wasn't enough. nobody left for me to talk to, nobody to call. got everything i could want but i still wanted more. yeah, i still wanted more."

the pure emotion in his voice was enough to make my heart break into pieces and clarify who it was about. i knew after what happened with her, he was broken. and this song was only proof.

"there's not another way, don't let me go. don't dig another grave today. i'll make the same mistakes, i'll never know who i was before i faded away into the grey."

the recording stopped, and my eyes darted from the screen to his face. "that's all i have right now." he said. "we have more sessions later this week to finish it."

i gulped. "noah..."

he looked at me and raised a brow. "what?"

"that was fucking beautiful."

i almost felt like i was going to cry. i always loved his voice, but that was on a whole other level. usually he was screaming. he never had those soft vocals like what i just heard.

he smiled softly. "thanks. now get in there."

i blinked, shaking my head. "sorry, what?"

"go on. get in the booth. i want to hear you sing this. we can figure something out."

"noah, i-" "don't argue. go."

i sighed, getting up and heading into the recording booth. maybe it would be okay. i wouldn't fuck it up. i put on the headphones, looking back up at him through the glass. "which one?" i asked.

he hummed, looking through the notebook i had left on the desk.

"what about my future? start it off strong."

i nodded, mentally preparing myself for whatever the hell was about to happen.

"i can't seem to focus, and you don't seem to notice i'm not here. i'm just a mirror. you check your complexion to find your reflection's all alone. i had to go. can't you hear me? i'm not coming home. do you understand? i've changed my plans. cause i, i'm in love with my future. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody else. just wanna get to know myself."

it really was a beautiful song. and it was me putting all of my feelings on the line. the lyrics didn't have a deeper meaning to them like noah's often did. their meaning was just laid flat out. i changed my plans for the future, and i'm waiting to sort things out with myself before falling in love again.

"i know supposedly i'm lonely now. know i'm supposed to be unhappy without someone. but aren't i someone? i'd like to be your answer. cause you're so handsome. but i know better than to drive you home. cause you'd invite me in, and i'd be yours again."

the lyrics seemed to flow freely as i sang, my eyes closed and hands moving in random directions. i didn't even notice him staring.

"but i, i'm in love. with my future. and you don't know her, mm. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody here. i'll see you in a couple years."

i opened my eyes and looked at noah, noticing how his mouth was slightly open. i laughed. "don't start drooling."

he shook himself out of his thoughts. "sorry, that was just. really fucking good. you're a natural, princess. i'm jealous." he said.

i rolled my eyes, stepping out of the booth.

"great, now let's work out a tune."

we spent hours and hours fixing up the song, getting carried away in our musical abilities. last time i checked, it was around 2 am. i didn't want to go home, so i suggested we took a little break and watched a movie or something. he nodded and we sat on the couch, turning on the tv (of course he turned on naruto). my head ended up lulling to the side, landing on his shoulder as i slowly fell asleep. the last thing my brain registered before falling into dreamland was the soft kiss on my forehead and his soft words.

"goodnight, princess."

his lips against mine felt like heaven. it felt like my whole life was complete when i kissed him, when i felt him. he felt like home. something i hadn't known in a long time. i pulled away, breathing slightly heavy as i looked into his chocolate brown eyes.

"noah.." i whispered.

he smiled softly and hummed.

"i fucking love you."

"mm.. [y/n]." he mumbled against my lips.

"princess."

"[Y/N]!"