#her salt lying between

[saltfilled]

Her Salt Lying Between (front & back)

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[oolong-strawbby]

Adria Blærdóttir ⋆ ˚｡୨୧˚♡｡˚ ⋆ moodboard

[pucksandpower]

Fantasy Come to Life

Day 23 → Consensual Non-Consent 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content, CNC, drugging, and conditioning

Kinktober Masterlist

The streets of Monaco glimmer under the soft afternoon sun, a golden haze coating the narrow lanes of boutiques and cafés. Your sandals click against the cobblestone as you make your way towards the boutique district.

Excitement pulses in your veins. The air smells of salt from the sea mixed with expensive perfumes wafting from open shop doors. A vacation, you think. Finally, a breath of freedom.

There’s a group of tourists ahead, their laughter bouncing between the buildings, but you don’t pay them much attention. You’re too busy thinking about the new dress you’ve been eyeing since last night. Just a few more minutes, and you’ll-

A hand. Suddenly.

It’s over your mouth. It’s over your nose. You barely process the scent of something sweet before your body reacts, muscles tensing as you thrash, trying to scream. But your voice is gone. Your world is tipping sideways. The bustling streets dim, muffled voices becoming far-off echoes.

You struggle. Harder now, your legs kicking wildly, hands flailing to grab onto something — anything — but it’s useless. The arms around you are too strong, pulling you back, pulling you down. The cloth over your face smells like chemicals, sickly sweet and heavy.

The light above you begins to blur. Your fingers twitch, reaching for the fading streetlights, for the sky, but everything’s too far away. Your limbs stop responding. You’re falling.

And then — nothing.

***

When you come to, your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Everything is hazy, dark. You try to move but your body doesn’t listen. Panic flares. You can barely breathe, and your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

Then you hear voices. Men, low and murmuring, their words filtering into your consciousness through the haze.

“... should be waking up soon,” one of them says. His voice is smooth, calm, like this is all perfectly normal.

“Why her, though?” It’s the driver, speaking in a clipped tone. The rumble of the engine thrums beneath you, the subtle vibration reminding you that you’re in a car. “There are thousands of beautiful women here, Max. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

There’s a pause.

And then, a deeper voice, Max, answers.

“I knew the moment I saw her,” Max says, his tone dark, possessive. “She’s meant to be mine.”

Your heart thuds. You can hear him shifting in the seat next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

The driver scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t need to,” Max replies smoothly. “Some things are undeniable.”

His words drip with confidence, like this is all part of some grand plan that only he understands.

You try to move again, to make a sound, but your limbs are heavy and unresponsive, and fear curls in your stomach like a fist. You’re trapped, lying motionless in the backseat of this car with two strangers, one of whom thinks he owns you.

“She’ll resist,” the driver says. “They always resist.”

Max chuckles, low and quiet. “Of course she will. At first.” There’s a pause, then you hear him shift closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “But I’ll make her understand. She’ll be perfect once I’ve made her mine.”

The air around you feels suffocating, his presence overwhelming. You want to scream, to cry, but your body remains limp, powerless under whatever they’ve drugged you with. You try to focus, to force your eyes open, but it’s like swimming through quicksand.

“She’s pretty,” the driver remarks after a beat. “But not worth all this. You really think she’s the one?”

Max lets out a quiet laugh, a sound that sends chills down your spine. “She is the one. I’ve seen plenty of women, but none like her.”

The driver grunts, unconvinced. “You sound obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Max corrects him, his tone calm, deliberate. “I’m certain.”

A silence stretches between them, the only sound the hum of the engine and the faint rustle of fabric as Max leans back.

You fight against the drug still clouding your senses, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The luxurious leather beneath you, the soft vibrations of the car — this isn’t just any car. It’s expensive. You can tell by the way it smells, by the subtle way it moves over the road. These men — they aren’t amateurs.

“What’s the plan, then?” The driver asks, breaking the silence. “You can’t just keep her like this.”

Max takes his time responding. “I’ll introduce myself properly once she wakes up. Once she’s calm.”

“And if she’s not?”

“She will be,” Max says, a thread of steel weaving into his voice. “She doesn’t have a choice.”

Your stomach churns. You try again to move, to scream, but nothing comes out. It’s like your body is a prison, and you’re trapped inside, helpless. You feel Max’s gaze on you, heavy, unyielding. Even though you can’t see him, you know he’s watching, waiting.

“You’re insane,” the driver mutters, shaking his head. “This is a bad idea.”

Max doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is low, quiet, almost intimate. “You don’t understand,” he says. “She belongs to me. I knew it the moment I saw her walk out of that hotel. I could feel it.”

The driver sighs. “I still don’t get it. Why go through all this trouble? She’s just a girl.”

“She’s not just a girl,” Max snaps, his patience thinning. “She’s the girl. The only one.”

Your pulse quickens. You’ve heard enough to know that whatever Max wants from you, it’s not something you can just walk away from. There’s something dangerous about the way he talks about you, like you’re an object, something to be claimed and owned.

“Whatever,” the driver says, clearly done with the conversation. “Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I always do,” Max replies, the confidence back in his voice. “Now, keep driving.”

There’s a shift in the car, a turn, and you feel the momentum change as they head somewhere new. You fight to stay conscious, to fight through the fog in your mind, but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. The drugs are still working their way through your system, and you can feel yourself slipping.

Max leans in closer again, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll wake up soon. And when you do, we’ll start over. Properly this time.”

The car hums beneath you as it continues its journey, and with every second that passes, you feel yourself fading again, drifting away into the darkness.

***

Time slips away, and you don’t know how long you’ve been out when you finally stir. Your eyes flutter open, and the world slowly comes back into focus. The car has stopped, parked somewhere dark and quiet. You can barely move, but you manage to shift slightly, just enough to feel the weight of the leather seat beneath you, the tightness of your clothes against your skin.

There’s a rustle next to you, and then Max is there, leaning over you, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and all that comes out is a faint croak.

“Shh,” Max soothes, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Don’t try to talk. You’re still a little out of it.”

Your heart races, and you try to push yourself up, but your limbs are still sluggish, your body refusing to obey.

Max watches you for a moment, then smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This will all make sense soon enough.”

You want to scream, to lash out, to fight, but you can’t. You’re trapped, and Max knows it.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, leaning in close, his breath warm against your skin. “And I’ll make sure you understand that.”

Terror grips you, but there’s nothing you can do. Not yet.

Max sits back, his eyes never leaving you, and for the first time, you realize just how much danger you’re in.

The world outside the car is quiet, the faint rustle of leaves the only sound in the stillness. You’re groggy, trying to push through the fog in your mind as Max’s hands move to unbuckle your seatbelt. His touch is efficient, calculated, not gentle. The door opens with a soft click, and you feel the cool night air wash over your skin.

Max leans down, his face close to yours, eyes sharp and watchful. “I’m going to carry you inside,” he says, almost as if he’s giving you permission to protest. But you can’t. You can barely lift your head. The drug still lingers, turning your limbs to lead.

Without another word, he slides his arms under you, lifting you effortlessly. His grip is secure, possessive, and you can feel the strength in his muscles as he carries you out of the car and toward the looming silhouette of a villa in the distance. It’s massive. Larger than anything you’ve ever seen in real life, with sprawling gardens that stretch into the darkness. The villa itself is lit from within, a soft glow spilling through tall windows. It’s beautiful in a cold, detached way, like a piece of art you can admire but never touch.

As Max carries you up the long driveway, his pace is steady, unhurried. He isn’t worried about anyone seeing him. He’s confident. Why wouldn’t he be? There’s no one around. No one to help.

“Where are you taking me?��� You manage to whisper, your voice weak but steady enough to ask the question that’s been burning in your mind.

Max doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t even look at you. “Home,” he replies simply.

You swallow, the word landing like a stone in your chest. “This isn’t-”

“It will be,” he cuts you off, his voice calm, like he’s already made up his mind about everything. “You’ll see.”

You try to focus, to take in every detail. The way the villa seems to stretch forever, the heavy scent of flowers in the air, the distant hum of the sea. The weight of Max’s arms around you, the way his fingers press into your skin as though he’s afraid you might slip away.

But you’re not slipping anywhere.

He carries you through the grand entrance, past doors that swing open with ease, revealing a marble-floored foyer that’s so pristine, it feels untouched. There’s a quietness to the place, a hollow, echoing silence that sends a chill down your spine.

The sound of Max’s shoes against the marble floor is steady, rhythmic, as he carries you through the house. You catch glimpses of rooms as you pass — an opulent dining room with a crystal chandelier, a sitting room with velvet chairs and enormous windows. But it’s all a blur, your mind struggling to hold on to details as exhaustion pulls at you.

Finally, Max stops in front of a set of tall double doors. He shifts you slightly in his arms, then pushes one of the doors open with his shoulder. The room beyond is lavish, even more opulent than the rest of the villa. The bed is massive, draped in silk and velvet, with heavy curtains framing the windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. The walls are lined with dark wood, polished to a shine, and a crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting soft light across the room.

Max walks over to the bed, lowering you gently onto the soft mattress. Your body sinks into the silk sheets, and for a moment, it feels like you’re floating. But the comfort is fleeting, replaced quickly by the suffocating weight of reality.

He stands over you, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s searching for something. “This is where you’ll stay for now,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Until you understand.”

You blink, struggling to keep your thoughts from spiraling out of control. “Understand what?”

Max’s lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile. “That you belong here. With me.”

You want to argue, to scream, to do anything to break through the haze that’s clouding your mind. But the words catch in your throat, and all you can manage is a shaky breath.

Max moves to the foot of the bed, his hands clasped behind his back as he regards you with that same unnerving calm. “This is the beginning,” he says softly. “The conditioning will start now.”

Your heart lurches. Conditioning. The word feels clinical, detached, like something out of a textbook. But the way Max says it makes it clear that this is no abstract concept. This is real. It’s happening to you.

“What are you talking about?” You whisper, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

Max steps closer, his gaze steady, almost gentle. “You’re going to learn to associate certain things with me. Pleasure, comfort, safety. And you’ll learn that being without me ... hurts.” He says it so simply, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your stomach twists. “You can’t ... you can’t do this.”

“I already am,” he replies smoothly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The process is simple. Every time you wake up, you’ll feel better when I’m here. Worse when I’m not. Eventually, it’ll become instinct. You’ll crave my presence. You’ll need me.”

Your breath quickens, panic rising in your chest. “You’re insane.”

Max tilts his head slightly, as though considering your words. “Maybe,” he says, almost casually. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Before you can respond, there’s a knock at the door. Max doesn’t react, doesn’t even turn to look as the door swings open. A man enters, dressed in a white coat, carrying a small bag in one hand. He’s older, with graying hair and a sharp, clinical air about him. He looks at you briefly, then turns his attention to Max.

“Everything’s prepared,” the man says, his voice clipped and professional.

Max nods. “Good. Let’s begin.”

The man moves to the side of the bed, setting his bag down on the nightstand. You try to push yourself up, but your body still feels sluggish, uncooperative. Fear surges through you as the man opens the bag, pulling out a syringe filled with clear liquid.

“Wait,” you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, don’t do this.”

Max moves closer, his gaze fixed on you. “It’s for your own good,” he says softly. “You’ll understand soon.”

The physician takes your arm, finding a vein with practiced ease. You flinch, but the needle is in before you can even protest. The liquid burns as it enters your bloodstream, a slow, creeping warmth that spreads through your body.

Your vision starts to blur again, the edges of the room fading into darkness. Max’s voice is the last thing you hear before everything goes black.

“You’ll wake up soon,” he says, his voice gentle, almost soothing. “And when you do, I’ll be here. Right where I belong.”

***

The next time you open your eyes, it feels like hours have passed. Maybe days. You’re not sure. The room is the same, the heavy curtains drawn, the chandelier casting its soft glow across the dark wood and silk.

Max is there, sitting in a chair by the bed, watching you. His presence is like a weight in the room, something you can feel even before you fully register it. The sight of him sends a strange warmth through your chest, a flicker of something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low and steady.

You blink, trying to shake off the fog that still clings to your mind. “What ... what did you do?”

Max leans forward slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I told you,” he says softly. “The conditioning has begun.”

You try to sit up, but your body feels weak, drained. The drug — whatever they gave you — is still working its way through your system, dulling your senses. But even through the haze, you can feel it. The strange pull toward Max, the inexplicable comfort that his presence brings. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“You can’t-” you start, but your voice falters. The words don’t come as easily as they should.

Max stands, moving to the side of the bed. “I know it’s confusing right now,” he says, his tone almost kind. “But it’ll get easier. The more time we spend together, the more natural it’ll feel. You’ll stop fighting it.”

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog. “I’ll never-”

“You will,” Max interrupts, his voice firm but not harsh. “You don’t have a choice.”

He reaches out, brushing a hand over your hair, his touch gentle but possessive. The warmth that spreads through you at the contact is immediate, overwhelming, and you hate it. You hate the way your body responds, the way your mind seems to betray you.

“I’ll leave you for now,” Max says, pulling his hand back. “But don’t worry. I won’t be gone long.”

Your heart races as he steps away, moving toward the door. The thought of him leaving sends a sharp pang through your chest, and you can’t understand why. This is what you want. To be free of him. To be alone.

But as the door closes behind him, the room suddenly feels colder, emptier. The warmth he left behind begins to fade, replaced by an aching void that gnaws at you from the inside.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it, trying to cling to your own thoughts, but the emptiness crashes over you like a tidal wave. It’s immediate — sharp and suffocating, spreading through your body like a cold fog. You close your eyes, trying to focus on anything else, but the ache pulses deep inside you. Your muscles tense as though they’re bracing against a storm, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

The room feels unbearably quiet without him, as though the air has been sucked out, leaving only a hollow silence behind. You hate this. You hate how quickly your body has betrayed you, how quickly the comfort of his presence has taken root inside you.

This is wrong, you tell yourself. It’s the drugs, the conditioning.

But the longer he’s gone, the more unbearable the ache becomes. It’s subtle at first, like a distant pressure, but it grows stronger, clawing at your insides until every nerve feels raw and exposed. Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps as you fight against the pull, but it’s relentless.

Time stretches out. You don’t know how long you’ve been lying there, staring up at the ceiling, but it feels like an eternity. Every second without him feels like a thousand needles pressing into your skin. Your body screams for relief, for the warmth of his presence to soothe the burning ache inside you.

You grit your teeth, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. This isn’t real, you think, but your body doesn’t care. All it knows is that it hurts.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, the door opens.

The relief is instant. The moment Max steps into the room, the ache that’s been gnawing at you recedes, replaced by a wave of warmth that rushes through your veins. You hate it. You hate how quickly the pain fades, how easily your body responds to him, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Max walks in slowly, his eyes locked on you, taking in every detail of your face as if reading the changes in your expression. You don’t need to speak for him to know what you’re feeling. He can see it. He can see how desperate your body is for the comfort he brings, even though your mind is screaming for it to stop.

“I told you,” Max says softly, moving closer to the bed. “You’ll feel better when I’m here.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your throat feels tight, the words trapped inside you, and the worst part is you don’t know if they’d come out as anger or something worse.

Max sits on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. The touch is gentle, careful, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m here to make you feel good,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “That’s what I’ll always do. As long as you behave for me.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. He says it like a promise, like he genuinely believes that he’s helping you.

“I don’t need you,” you manage to whisper, your voice shaking. “I don’t want this.”

Max’s smile is soft, almost pitying. “Your body says otherwise.” His fingers trail down your cheek, brushing against your skin. “You can fight it all you want, but you’ll always feel better when I’m close. That’s the way it’s going to be.”

You try to pull away from his touch, but your body betrays you, craving the warmth and relief that comes with his proximity. The ache that had threatened to consume you moments ago is gone, replaced by a simmering heat that spreads through your limbs, making your skin tingle under his fingertips.

Max watches you closely, his eyes dark and calculating as he gauges your reaction. “See?” He murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “You’re already starting to understand.”

“I hate you,” you whisper, but even as you say the words, your body is reacting to him, leaning into his touch despite the protests screaming in your mind.

Max doesn’t flinch at your words. If anything, he seems amused. “Hate me if you want,” he says, his tone light. “But your body knows the truth.”

His hand moves lower, trailing down your arm, sending a ripple of sensation through you that you can’t control. Your breath catches in your throat as the warmth intensifies, and you clench your fists, trying to fight the pull.

Max’s fingers skim the edge of your dress, his eyes never leaving yours as he watches the way your body reacts. “You’ll feel good, I promise,” he whispers. “Better than you’ve ever felt before.”

You shake your head, panic rising in your chest. “No-”

But Max doesn’t stop. His hand slips under the fabric of your dress, his touch deliberate and slow as he hikes it up over your thighs, exposing your skin to the cool air of the room. Your heart races, a mixture of fear and something you don’t want to name thrumming through your veins.

“Shh,” Max soothes, his voice steady. “You’ll learn to trust me. To need me. It’s already happening.”

You try to close your legs, but his hands are firm, guiding you open, controlling the movement of your body as if you’re nothing more than a doll in his hands. A small, broken sound escapes your throat, but he doesn’t stop, his fingers tracing patterns over your skin, making your pulse quicken.

“I told you I’d make you feel good,” he says softly, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “You don’t have to fight it.”

Tears prick at your eyes, your chest heaving with shallow, uneven breaths. You want to scream, to kick, to fight him off, but the weight of your own body holds you down. And worse — the warmth that follows his touch, the heat building in your core, it betrays you. You can’t stop the way your body reacts to him, no matter how much you want to.

Max shifts, his knee pressing against the bed as he leans over you, his hand sliding higher under your dress. His fingers graze the edge of your underwear, and your breath hitches, panic and unwanted anticipation coiling together inside you.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Don’t.”

But Max doesn’t listen. His hand slips beneath the fabric, his fingers brushing against you, and the sensation is overwhelming. You arch against him involuntarily, your body moving without your consent, and the heat inside you builds, the ache that had threatened to consume you earlier morphing into something entirely different.

“You’ll come to love this,” Max says, his tone calm, confident. “In time, you’ll crave it.”

You want to scream that he’s wrong, that you’ll never crave this, but your body doesn’t listen. It reacts to his touch, to the way his fingers move, coaxing a response out of you that you can’t control.

Max’s other hand moves to your hair, brushing it back gently as he leans down, his lips close to your ear. “Let go,” he whispers. “Stop fighting it. I’ll take care of you.”

Your breath is ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as the heat builds inside you, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, caught between the need to escape and the unbearable sensation that’s pushing you closer to a precipice you don’t want to fall over.

“I’ll always make you feel good,” Max murmurs, his fingers moving faster over your clit, his voice a steady, calming presence in the storm raging inside you. “As long as you’re good for me.”

Your body tenses, the wave crashing over you, pulling you under. You gasp, your back arching off the bed as the sensation overwhelms you, drowning out every thought, every protest, until there’s nothing left but the blinding heat of release.

Max’s hand stills, his touch softening as the aftershocks ripple through you, and he watches, his expression unreadable as you come undone beneath him. You hate it. You hate every second of it. But the worst part is that your body craves it.

Max leans back, his hand trailing away from you, leaving your skin burning in its absence. He stands, adjusting his sleeves as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

“You did well,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender. “I’ll leave you to rest now.”

Your body is limp, your mind spinning as you try to process what’s just happened. The ache is gone, replaced by an empty exhaustion that weighs heavily on your limbs.

Max heads toward the door, pausing only briefly to glance back at you. “Remember,” he says quietly, his eyes dark and intense. “You’ll always feel better when I’m here.”

Then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the echo of his touch still lingering on your skin. The room is silent again, but this time the silence isn’t cold. It’s suffocating, pressing down on you like a heavy blanket, and for the first time since you arrived in this place, you realize just how trapped you are.

And worst of all, you know that he’s right.

***

The door opens again.

This time, when you hear it, your body doesn’t flood with fear, or even confusion — it’s anticipation. The ache that had returned in his absence is quickly soothed as Max steps into the room, his presence undeniable, filling the space with a charged energy that you’ve come to crave.

His steps are measured, deliberate, as he crosses the room to you. There’s no hesitation in his movement, no uncertainty. He knows exactly what he’s doing and what you both agreed upon. The room feels smaller when he’s in it, like the walls close in, but in a way that feels safe, protected — like nothing can touch you except him.

Max’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile as he comes to the side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. He says nothing at first, letting the moment linger between you, thick and heavy. You’re not sure if you should speak or wait for him to break the silence.

He doesn’t make you wait long.

“Good girl,” he murmurs softly, his voice like velvet as he leans down, brushing a kiss against your forehead. “You were perfect.”

There’s a flutter of warmth in your chest at the praise, something that makes you feel both proud and vulnerable all at once. You blink up at him, your body still exhausted from what just happened, but there’s something comforting about the way he’s looking at you now. The way his hand reaches out to caress your cheek, tender and affectionate, as if to erase any remnants of the harshness from before.

“I wasn’t sure if you could handle it,” Max continues, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with an intimacy that feels far more personal than anything he’s done before. “But you did. You always do, don’t you?”

You nod, your throat tight, the words caught somewhere between your mind and your mouth. You can’t quite shake the feeling of how intense everything was, how quickly it all escalated. But now, with him here, touching you like this, the pieces of the scene start to fall away, revealing what lies underneath.

Max watches you, waiting for your response, but he’s patient. He always is, especially after something like this. He knows you need time to come back down, to find your footing after the role you’ve both played.

“Was it … okay?” You manage to ask, your voice still soft and hesitant. There’s a vulnerability in your tone, a need for reassurance, even though you know how he feels.

Max’s eyes soften, and he leans down to kiss you — soft, slow, and deliberate. His lips linger against yours, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as he deepens the kiss. It’s a different kind of intensity now, one that speaks to the connection you both share. When he finally pulls back, there’s a hint of amusement in his gaze.

“More than okay,” he whispers. “You were incredible.”

The tension that had been coiled inside you loosens at his words, and you feel yourself relax against the pillows. Max’s praise always has this effect on you, like it fills in the cracks and makes everything feel right again.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as he studies your face. “Every second of it was perfect because it was with you.”

The weight of those words settles into your chest, grounding you in the reality of what you both share. It’s all an act — a scene you agreed upon. Max has always been careful, always made sure you were okay with everything. That’s how it works between you two. The intensity, the control, the power dynamic — it’s all part of the game, part of what you’ve both built together. But underneath it all is the love, the trust that binds you to him.

He presses another kiss to your lips, softer this time, a gesture of affection rather than dominance. When he pulls away, there’s a lightness in his expression, a warmth that makes the remnants of the scene melt away completely.

“I have something for you,” he says, standing up and walking toward the door. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

You watch as he exits the room, the anticipation building again, though this time it’s mixed with curiosity. Moments later, Max returns, pushing a small cart laden with trays of food. The smell hits you first — rich, savory, and mouthwatering. Your stomach growls in response, reminding you that you haven’t eaten in what feels like forever.

Max notices, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a satisfied smile. “I thought you might be hungry.”

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on your elbows as Max wheels the cart over to the side of the bed. He lifts the lids from the trays, revealing an array of delicacies — perfectly grilled meats, roasted vegetables, fresh fruit, and decadent desserts. It’s more than just a meal, it’s a feast.

“Let me,” Max says, reaching for a fork. He cuts a small piece of steak and holds it out to you, his eyes watching your every movement, waiting for you to take the first bite.

You hesitate for only a moment before leaning forward, letting him feed you. The flavors burst across your tongue, rich and savory, and you can’t help the small sound of appreciation that escapes your lips.

Max’s smile widens. “Good?”

You nod, swallowing before responding. “It’s amazing.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and there’s that familiar warmth in his voice again, the praise sinking into your skin like sunlight. He cuts another piece of food, feeding it to you before leaning in to kiss you between bites.

Each kiss is soft, slow, and filled with an affection that feels worlds away from the intensity of earlier. You sink into the moment, into the comfort of his presence, letting yourself be taken care of.

“You were so perfect for me,” Max whispers between kisses, his lips brushing against your cheek. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

You smile softly, feeling the tension of the day melt away as you let him feed you, let him take care of you. There’s something intimate about the act, something grounding. It’s not just about the food — it’s about the connection, the way he looks at you with such devotion in his eyes.

Max takes his time, savoring the moment as much as you are. He alternates between feeding you and stealing kisses, each one a little longer, a little deeper than the last. His hands are gentle as they move over your skin, brushing your hair back, cupping your face, his touch always lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“You have no idea how proud I am of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “The way you trust me, the way you let go. It’s everything I could ever want.”

You close your eyes, leaning into him, the warmth of his words settling deep inside you. It’s always like this after a scene — the tenderness, the closeness. Max knows how to bring you back, how to make you feel safe and loved after everything.

“I couldn’t do it without you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression softening even more. “We do this together. That’s what makes it so special.”

There’s a weight to his words, a promise that echoes in the quiet of the room. You nod, knowing it’s true. You wouldn’t be able to do any of this without him — not the scenes, not the intensity, not the way you let yourself go completely when you’re with him.

Max leans in again, kissing you deeply this time, his hands cradling your face as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. When he finally pulls away, there’s a hunger in his eyes, but it’s not the same hunger from earlier. This one is softer, more intimate, and it makes your heart swell in your chest.

“I love you,” he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you too,” you reply, the words coming easily, naturally, because they’re the truest thing you know.

Max smiles, a slow, satisfied smile that makes your stomach flip. He reaches for one of the desserts on the tray — a small piece of chocolate cake — and holds it out to you. You take a bite, and before you can even swallow, Max is kissing you again, his lips tasting of chocolate and sweetness.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs against your lips, and you can’t help but smile into the kiss.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of kisses and laughter, the food slowly disappearing from the trays as Max continues to feed you, praising you with every bite and every kiss. The intensity of earlier is long gone, replaced by something deeper, something that feels like home.

And as you lie there in his arms, sated and content, you know that no matter what happens, no matter how intense the scenes get, you’ll always have this — this quiet, tender intimacy that belongs to just the two of you.

[charliemwrites]

Part 11!!

Sorry this took so long (and that it’s a bit short) I have trouble with scene switching sometimes, and it makes me cut up the story into pieces.

No Content Warnings For This Chapter

Somewhere between your pride and the numbing passage of time lies the way you really feel about the 141. It's undeniable that you're still deeply hurt by what transpired; a chronic ache like a mended bone, only noticeable in the cold, or when you sleep on it wrong. For them, it was easy to reach inside your chest to extract your heart, sternum soft and malleable. It was harder with SpecGru, the bone grew back harder, thicker. You had to crack your ribs open and scraped the chambers on bone shards, but at least they stopped the bleeding.

You don’t miss the 141, not really. It wasn’t just those final, brutal days spent lying alone in a hospital bed that filled those transfer papers. The culprit had been the time that isolation had afforded, to think more deeply, to analyze your position through a less-optimistic lense. Those last conversations had just been your signature on the line.

You don’t blame the gun for firing, you blame whoever pulled the trigger.

Bitterness seeps onto your tongue sometimes. Masochistically, you let it linger. It has no purpose but to raise your hackles and press on that knitted spot until it bruises. It’s your pride, that’s all, lamenting the blood you chose to spill in sacrifice only to have it wasted.

The present is a much sweeter wash for the taste of the past, sticking to your lips and curling your tongue. Honey-balm for resentment, syrup cutting through salt. You focus on the flavor as you stride into the briefing room.

Your captain is already there, a sly smirk for the flush to your faces as Nova follows you in. He’s speaking to Laswell, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed.

Nikto is leaned up against the wall, a shadow without anyone to cast it. He comes to you and Nova as you take seats, angled to face the only exit. He knee presses to yours as you settle in, eyes flicking around.

Nostalgia is a complicated tide rising and ebbing around your ankles. Memories of your time with the 141 in this very room, planning and strategizing, learning where to support your teammates and where they would support you. Jokes made with Soap and Gaz, loaded glances between you and Ghost, a reassuring nod or shoulder squeeze from Price.

That, you think, is where the ache is. Not in missing those moments; you have them with SpecGru now, and without that lingering sense that you don’t quite belong. But in those rose-tinted relationships you’ll never get back (and know you don’t really want again.)

It was never as good as it is with your team now; they were still the team you thought you belonged with. You’ve learned better since but that doesn’t appease the naive 141 operative that put everything into those four.

Your captain has taken the seat you used to have, and he belongs there, a buffer between his team and theirs. You press your thumb to one of the bruises he left on your thigh and settle in.

“Sunshine,” Keegan greets, brushing his knuckles over Nova’s cheek. “Sweets.”

You tilt your chin welcomingly as he nuzzles his nose against your temple, fabric of his mask itching along your jaw.

“Smell good,” he rumbles, low. Just for you and Nova.

“That’s what happens when you shower,” you answer, playing dismissive.

“You should try it sometime,” Nova adds, smirking.

“Only if you join me,” Keegan coos, drawing a spare chair up close. For as tough and distant as he is towards others, he’s long opened his ribs for you and the rest of SpecGru to crawl inside. You admire it now for as much as you distrusted it then.

“Too late,” you say, sharing a look with Nova, “already helped her wash up for the day.”

She whacks you in the knee, startling a laugh out of you. Keegan scoffs, throwing an arm across the back of your chair.

“Nothin’ says we can’t take another,” he drawls, “if I get you dirty enough.”

Beside you, Nikto snorts. Keegan shoots him a teasing look, arching his eyebrows invitingly. The captain is watching, as always, pride and affection smoldering in coal-dark eyes.

And you’re right where you’re meant to be. With them, always with them.

At the front of the room, Laswell politely clears her throat. All eyes turn to her - though you only just notice that the 141 has filed in, perched on the other end of the briefing table, a collective storm cloud.

Laswell kicks off the meeting with a recap of the ongoing mission - basics that all of you read in the docket before shipping out. It’s a big operation, delicate due to hostages. The 141 needed manpower with comparable skills; enter SpecGru.

“One of our best specialists has patched in to explain the parameters in greater detail.”

The big screen at the front of the room lights up. A familiar puff of curly blond hair and green eyes blink into view.

“Gooooood mornin’! Or is it evening? Either way, I hope it’s good.”

Your captain lets out a long breath, trying (and mostly failing) to hide his amusement.

“This is Duke,” Laswell says for the 141’s benefit. “She’s one of our best technicians. I put her on this assignment when I reached out to SoecGru.”

“And you should be glad she did!” Duke chimes in. Her tongue flashes blue as she speaks, and it’s not just the light of the computers surrounding her. Her love of raspberry candies is practically a calling card. “They’re actually pretty decent at keeping communications to a minimum, but porn bots always get ‘em.”

The captain sighs, running a hand down his face. Nova pats his arm sympathetically. Poor guy.

“Anyway! I have their plans for the hostages all drawn up - check this out.”

One loud click of her mouse and the screen flicks to a map with colored circles and wiggly lines. Locations and routes, with little time stamps above each.

“They plan on taking the hostages in waves. If one transport goes down going in or out, they can cut their losses. Lucky for us, they’re super dumb, so I’ve found a 12 minute window where all their teams are out in the open.”

Another image, the transport routes now sporting little icons of angry faces with their tongues sticking out. They're all at various distances along their colored paths, but none of them have made it to whatever the destination is.

“If they’re hit all at once, no group will have time to warn the others,” Duke explains. “Hostages safe, bad guys caught, we all go home and pet our dogs.”

She babbles through the rest of the plan in that controlled chaos way she has, concise and insightful around a casual tone more fitting a high school presentation. The building where the hostages will be taken, every route, down to the vehicles and guns the terrorists will have.

Eventually, she runs out of pertinent information, there are no questions because she’s covered just about everything short of the humidity. Her face pops up on screen again, eyes always a bit glassy from staring at screens too long without blinking. “Lastly, don’t get shot, or I’m telling ma.”

Your captain huffs, that grin finally cracking across his solemn face.

“Do that ‘n I’ll tell her you drop f-bombs like it’s your job,” he replies.

Her mouth drops open in outrage. “It is my job!”

“Yeah? How about that stipend, huh? How much’a that ‘s going to your candy habit?”

Duke’s face flushes, but she’s got that wide smile beamed up to eleven. “Your girlfriend likes me better,” she sing-songs.

He snorts. “Which one?”

“Both,” you and Nova answer at the same time.

Her eyes narrow smugly before she signs off with a little finger wave and a “toodaloo!”

“Your sister, I take it?” Price drawls in the characteristic silence of Duke’s absence.

Your captain shoots him a sideways look. “What, you can’t see the resemblance?” he replies, dry as desert.

You cough into your arm to hide your giggles but Nova isn’t nearly as polite.

As you’re filing out with the rest of the team, you’re surprised that there aren’t calls from your former team. No overtures to justify themselves or half-assed apologies that still somehow make it sound like everything was your fault. You’re almost tempted to check over your shoulder, but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeming interested. You just don’t trust the sudden silence, even if the captain alluded that there’s some sort of ceasefire in place. You’ve never known the 141 to bend knee to anyone but their own.

A glance at your captain and he’s noticed it too, satisfaction flicking across his face before he catches your eye. He jerks his head. You follow him back to his room, leaning your shoulder in the doorway as he loosens his belt.

“Talked to Price,” he begins.

You arch your brows. “And?”

He blows out a sigh, hands on his hips. “And he wants to talk to you. Him and the rest of the team.”

You groan. “About what?”

He shrugs. “Hell if I know, it wasn’t exactly circle time, doll.”

You roll your eyes. Those useless, cryptic…

“Hey.”

You blink, face going hot when you see the stern look on your captain’s face. Whoops.

“Sorry, sir,” you say. “That wasn’t meant to be at you, I’m just so fucking… ugh.”

“Look, I got ‘em off your back during working hours, but anytime after is outta my hands.”

You puff up, annoyed all over again with the whole situation. It couldn’t be enough for them to ostracize you back then, or try to distract you on-duty now, derailing drills. No, they want your free time too.

“I’m not gonna tell you how to handle this, alright? But maybe getting some of this shit off your chest will do you some good. Let ‘em blow smoke, say whatever you gotta say, and put all this to rest.”

You deflate, giving him a weary scowl that does nothing to deter him from closing the distance. (Not that you wanted it to.)

“Isn’t that telling me what to do?” you mumble, letting your forehead thunk against his broad chest.

“Nah, if I was tellin’ you what to do, you’d be doin’ it,” he chuckles. “If you don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em, you can spend every night in here for all I care. Up to you.”

You’re only putting up resistance because you know he’s right, it’s just not what you want. It’s easier and simpler to be pissed off and short-tempered with the 141. Safer, in a way.

But there’s no getting any safer, in any sense of the word. Worst thing any of them can say is something you already know, or something that isn’t true. You’ve got your own team for support regardless.

“I hate when you’re right,” you grump.

He smooths a hand through your hair. “If that were true, you’d hate me all the time.”

You nip him in retaliation; he tugs a lock of hair for the trouble.

This is home, you think. Your captain. Nova, Nikto, Keegan. Doesn’t matter where in the world you are, they’re your present and your future. Knowing that, the pain and uncertainty of the past are just ghosts. It’s time to put them to rest like one.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[nadvs]

basketballplayer!rafe doing body shots off of cheerleader!reader and everybody is around them hyping them up and recording. after rafe carries her to a room in the house to fuck cause he’s hornyyyy

aaaaa YES i love their college days 🤭

based on this fic! 18+!

rafe is already buzzed when she arrives.

“your wife’s here!” his housemate shouts over the music. rafe grins when she walks into the crowded party with a couple of her friends.

it’s been just over a week since they became official and scrapped their ‘best friends’ title, and his teammates love that they can taunt him for being ‘married’ without him telling them shut up or it’s not like that.

she’s more uncovered than she is clothed in her shorts and tank-top. he’s seen her naked so many times and knowing what she looks like underneath those flimsy pieces of fabric makes his groin tighten already.

she drapes her arms over his firm shoulders to hug him in greeting and he pulls her by the waist and presses his lips against hers. boisterous jeers surround them.

“are they ever going to stop?” she mumbles into his ear as his friends holler, his cheek warm against hers.

“don’t think so.” she can hear the smile in his voice. she knows he has authority as captain and can get the guys to stop if he really wants them to. but maybe he likes the reminder that they’re really together now. “how are you, baby?”

“i had a shitty day,” she tells him.

“how come?” rafe pulls back, gazing at her through softer eyes.

“my classes dragged,” she tells him. “practice was annoying. and now i gotta deal with you.”

“shut up,” he mutters with a laugh. “i’m the best part of your day.”

“is that what you tell yourself?”

“do you need to get out of my house?”

“sure,” she says, pretending to step back. his fingers wrap around her wrist as he tugs her towards him. she laughs, pressed up against him again.

“we’re doing shots,” a voice behind her says, startling her. rafe laughs when she jumps in his arms.

“good,” she says. “i obviously need a drink.”

rafe stands behind her, hands on her hips, as she throws back a couple of vodka shots, looking at him with an adorable wince as the liquor burns down her throat.

“cameron!” they hear. rafe’s housemate liam captures their attention, along with a few other partygoers. “you ever hear that saying about how your girlfriend is the best shot glass?”

laughs scatter across the crowd.

“are we about to get peer pressured into doing a body shot?” she asks with a smile and shake of her head, looking up at her boyfriend.

“i mean, if we have to…” he says. his face is flushed pink and his lids are low. he’s maybe one shot away from being plastered. and she’s starting to feel the buzz from her shots, too. maybe that’s why lying on the dining room table in front of everyone doesn’t sound so crazy.

she settles on the hard surface on her back, her palms over her eyes as she laughs, unable to believe that they’re really doing this.

she lays her arms at her sides and can see a few phones pointed at her as rafe stands by the edge of the table, clumsily getting a few things ready.

“i’m doing tequila,” rafe slurs over the music. she laughs.

“is that a good idea?” she half-shouts.

he holds out a lime wedge over her and she rolls her eyes before opening her mouth just wide enough to let him prop it between her teeth.

rafe’s fingers are hot as he pulls up the hem of her top, exposing her stomach and the bottom of her bra. he loves that the girl everyone is looking at right now is his.

he leans over her, his dimples deep in his cheeks as he smirks, and bends down to run his tongue up the side of her neck.

everyone watching hoots loudly and she feels her cheeks burn. they’ve been affectionate in front of people before, but never sexual like this.

he leaves a warm line of his spit on her, allowing the salt he shakes over her skin to stick.

rafe lifts the tequila bottle, hand a bit shaky as he concentrates on pouring it in her belly button. it’s hilarious, considering how precise and steady he is on the court, to see him so clumsy.

“wait, wait,” he says, a lazy smile on his face, “i need to focus.”

“then focus,” she laughs.

the tequila is cool as it forms a puddle on her navel. she shakes as she laughs, making some of it spill over on her side.

“stay still,” rafe drawls, still smiling, his hands firm on her hips.

“hurry up,” she says, laughing. she’s glad that even their relationship has changed, it hasn’t much, still bickering even when they’re drunk.

he quickly shifts to lick the salt on her neck, then he moves to press his open mouth against her stomach, sucking the liquor off of her body.

rafe just barely grimaces as he swallows the sharp tequila. he shifts back up to bite the lime in her mouth, but impatiently spits it out on the table and takes the opportunity to kiss her.

“that’s not part of it!” she hears one of his friends shout. rafe smiles against her lips, dipping his tongue into her mouth, and she laughs, cradling his jaw with both her hands, tasting the bitter alcohol.

“we need to go upstairs,” rafe mumbles when he pulls away, inches away from her. she knows what he sounds like when he’s turned on. she sees his hand over his groin, hiding that he’s hard.

“should i flash everyone to distract them?” she jokes.

“don’t fuck around,” he laughs. “come on.”

he yanks her off the table by her hips. if he goes another minute without being inside her, he might just go insane.

“alright, bye, i guess?” liam calls loudly as they rush up the stairs together.

rafe’s pushes her onto his bed, kissing her fast and rough. they strip off each other’s clothes, breathing heavily, hot skin quickly making contact.

“get on your knees,” he orders. “ass up.”

she obeys, fingers bunching in his sheets as she feels his big hands run down her bare back. his hand comes down hard on her ass, making her gasp in pleasure.

when she feels the head of his cock up against her, she arches her back, hungry for him.

he takes in the sight, her ass in the air for him, her middle gleaming with wetness. he rubs the tip against her entrance just to taunt her before finally pushing forward.

“fuck,” he whispers as he starts to sink into her. she arches her back even more so he can quickly plunge deeper into her.

rafe doesn’t take it slow. he pulls back and then forward immediately, finding his pace and slamming into her with his hands on her hips.

she exhales with every thrust, moaning over the sound of the bass-heavy music downstairs.

“i bet every guy down there wishes they could fuck you,” he says hoarsely. “but who’s fucking you, huh? tell me.”

“you are,” she groans.

“lying on that table like that,” rafe mutters. “i wanted to fuck you right there.”

she moans into the mattress as he plunges into her even harder and faster. when his hand drags down her stomach and over her clit, rubbing in tight circles, she starts to see stars.

he feels her clenching around him, her walls fluttering and her body shaking. she comes with a loud moan, loving that she doesn’t have to worry about anyone hearing like she usually does when they fuck in his room.

he grips the back of her neck to keep her steady so he can fuck her as hard as he wants to, his groans low with every rough thrust.

her thighs start to ache as he pounds in her and when his hips start to stutter against her, she knows he’s close. he squeezes the back of her neck as he reaches his peak, coming inside her in hard jerks.

rafe needs a moment before he can get up to get her a towel. she’s lying on her back when he comes into the room again, wiping the mess off of her, albeit clumsily from how drunk he is.

they laugh at nothing together, and he settles beside her, loving that her instinct is to wrap her arms around him again. his cheek is on her heaving chest as she cuddles him.

it’s almost unbelievable to her how they can go from fucking so roughly to hugging so fast. she starts to stroke his hair, still catching her breath. she doesn’t know if she even has the strength to go back downstairs.

she lets her eyelids flutter shut, still riding her high, hugging her boyfriend with no intention of letting go any time soon.

[loveindefinitely]

02 — 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐'𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈𝘉𝘖𝘜𝘛

༊*·˚ LUST FOR LIFE — task force 141 x reader

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, angst, graphic violence, slight power imbalance, enemies to lovers, slow burn, betrayal

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

"You assaulted two Special Forces Operators, kid," Price says, a barely veiled grimace contorting his features. "That's not a good look."

You tug against where your hands are cuffed to the metal bars, your brows furrowing. "Kidnapping the girl -- whose dad you killed after taking her virginity -- isn't a good look either."

...Alright.

So, if you could go back in time, and never eavesdrop on the four men who have completely ruined your life, you would take up the offer in a heartbeat.

Between landing your fist to Gaz's jaw, and where you are now, your life has become a total shit show.

Like, complete, this might just be a fever dream level of crazy.

It started from the moment you saw blood trickling from your now late father's forehead, and in the glint of the moonlight, seeing Ghost holding the gun.

Then, you'd turned, without another thought, and landed a punch right to Gaz's jaw. The man who had taken your first kiss no more than two hours ago.

You can relive the moment even now, under the harsh neon lights of an interrogation room, as if you're experiencing everything for the first time once more.

༊*·˚

Gaz hisses, wincing as he brings a hand up to the aching pain radiating from the bone that'd taken the brunt of your punch.

"You guys -- what the fuck --" You stammer out, eyes wide and borderline manic as you gape at the man before you. "You guys just killed my dad!"

"Yeah, but," Gaz starts, before backtracking. You figure he has enough braincells to realise that 'rationality and reason' isn't going to work with you, not in this state, and especially not after you just witnessed the murder of your only living family member. "Ah. Well. He wasn't a good guy."

You really, truly, cannot believe the audacity of this man.

Your mouth opens.

Gaz grimaces.

Your mouth closes.

He takes a step closer, hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Take another step near me and I'll punch you again!" You threaten, with an aggressive point of your finger.

You're extremely aware that your punch had done next to nothing, and Gaz's reaction to it was more one of sympathy, but the threat lands nonetheless.

"Alright, alright, we're not gonna hurt you," he raises his hands further, eyes bouncing between your own. You're not sure what he sees -- maybe resentment, or horror, or fear.

Whatever it is, it makes his frown deepen.

He goes to say something else, when your bedroom door opens with a soft click. "Finishin' up, ya read--"

Soap pauses his whisper, ice-blue eyes meeting yours. His grimace isn't unlike the one Gaz is sporting, and it only worsens your mood. If looks could kill, he would be lying on the grass beside --

Oh god. Your dead dad.

"Steamin' Jesus," Soap mutters under his breath, looking up to the roof in some semblance of a last minute prayer.

There's a moment, then, for a decision to be made. It's as if your brain can only come up with two options, and one of them will lead to your untimely death.

So, really, it's not entirely your fault when you pick up the salt lamp sitting on your bedside table and throw it right into the arrogant Scot's face.

"Holy shit," Gaz's eyes are comically wide as Soap cries out, the heavy pink rock slamming into his nose. He stumbles back, and the sound of your lamp hitting cartilage even has you wincing, panicked state or not. "How the fuck have you survived this long with those kinda reflexes, Soap?"

Soap drops into a squat, cradling his nose in his hand as he tilts his head back, squeezing the ridge between two calloused fingers. His voice comes out nasally as he mumbles, "Mighta' broke 'gain."

Your entire body is trembling, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you creep to the window with soft, quiet steps.

Maybe, you think, in the back of your mind, I can make the jump into the garden.

It's not to be, however.

"You're smarter than that," Gaz directs an unamused glare your way, before grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards your door.

Digging your heels into the carpet, you attempt to wrestle out of his grip -- but a trained military expert and you are no match, not even with the energy overtaking your body.

"Let go of me!" You grit out, tugging and displaying your weight in the opposite way to his goal. He doesn't even turn around as he drags you out of your room, slamming your door shut behind you.

"What the fuck is goin' on," Ghost's growl comes from the stairs, heavy bootfalls following until he's standing, gaze drifting from you, to Gaz, to Soap, back to you again.

"Fuck, man," Soap whines, squeezing his eyes shut as he keeps his head tilted back, blood running down his lips and chin. You somehow find it in yourself to feel slightly bad. Not enough to apologise, and certainly not enough to stop fighting back.

They were going to kill you. Probably. Or, like, what's the skin trade like in your area? Oh god. Fuck. Shit.

"She saw," Gaz mutters to Ghost, and his eyes narrow, black face paint crinkling where it's been put on the upper half of his face, skin not covered by the balaclava.

There aren't any lights on, and it's the lights on downstairs that cast shadows and highlights over the men's' faces.

"Fuckin' christ," Ghost groans, before turning and walking back downstairs without another word.

You continue to struggle against Gaz's hold, but both of your wrists have been collected in his hand, and he's pulled you so your back is to his chest. If it were any other circumstance, you'd be blushing, most likely turned on from such an embrace.

Right now, however, you're questioning every possible decision you've ever made.

"Ye Dad treated ya like shit 'nyways," Soap says, too loud to be under his breath, but too quiet for it to be conversational. "Dinnae why yer freakin''."

"You're murderers!" You hiss back, lips pulled back into a snarl. Your muscles ache from the punch, the hefty throw, and now from struggling against Gaz. "And I don't exactly have any other family, do I?!"

Gaz makes a sound of agreement, before shaking his head and countering. "We're not murderers, not really."

You choke a laugh, but it's entirely too wet and sad for it to be threatening or cruel. "So you guys didn't just shoot my father?"

"Si pulled th' trigger," Soap pouts, almost like a child would over a lack of candy.

"Soap," Gaz exasperates, and although you can't see his face, you're sure it's dismayed and annoyed. "Seriously?"

"What?!" Soap counters, and when it comes out high-pitched, he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his nose tighter. "Jus' tha truth, dinnae why yer so shitty. Yer not tha one bleedin'."

Speechless.

You are fully, unbelievably, speechless.

What the actual fuck was wrong with these... men? And what was wrong with you for being more than ready to spread your legs for them not too long ago?

You needed therapy. And coffee.

And a time machine, preferably. If one was made available at this given moment.

"Get down here," the final man of the hour shouts up the stairs, and your blood runs cold. There's something about him that's not quite as threatening as Ghost, but somehow makes you even more fearful.

Gaz, with surprisingly careful and gentle movements, guides you down the stairs. The parallel of how Ghost's hand had been at your lower back as he invited you to the lounge room, mere hours ago, isn't lost on you.

His hand doesn't move from the tense grip it has on your wrists. You can't help but feel like it's a completely unnecessary gesture, considering the fact that any of them could take you down within seconds if they really needed to. Hell, they all had actual, military-grade weapons.

"Seriously, Gaz?" Price huffs, looking entirely like a disappointed dad in this moment as he stands, leaning against your kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed over. "One job, mate."

"You lot weren't exactly quiet," he retorts, but he slowly releases your wrists.

At this point, you know it's a lost cause to try and escape this situation, so you just ball your hands into wrists at your sides. You can't imagine it's an overly threatening position, considering how your entire frame trembles, and your lips wobble.

Your father was dead.

And the men that had made you feel so comfortable, so cared for, are the culprits.

Stupid, stupid girl.

They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.

"Peas," Soap's voice is practically a beg as he stumbles into the kitchen, opening the freezer door with no preamble as he scours it for... peas.

They're in the far right of the bottom shelf.

You don't tell him that.

"Have some water," Price encourages, holding out a glass cup full of chilled water.

Your eyes narrow, standing your ground. "Not accepting drinks from murderers. Dad taught me that, y'know?"

Gaz chokes a laugh, before covering it up with a fist to his mouth and a clearing of his throat. It fools no one, and you allow yourself the tiny bit of pride that fills your chest at the reaction to your taunt.

"Ghost," Price mutters, resigned and almost frustrated as he looks at you.

You understand why, as soon as the feeling of a needle imbedding into your neck has you flinching, pain prickling at the intrusion in your muscle.

"What --" you begin, before your legs fall out beneath you, your eyes falling to half mast as Price hefts you up, beefy arms holding you beneath your armpits as your body becomes dead weight.

"Sorry, kid," are the last words you hear, before black overrides all of your senses as drugged sleep takes you.

༊*·˚

Sometime between then, and now, you've found yourself in a white-walled room, blinding lights turning the throbbing in your head from a low pound to an echoing boom of a drum.

"We didn't plan for... any of it to happen the way it did. This was our only choice." Price shakes his head, hands resting at the top of his vest as he studies you.

Right. The virginity, kidnapping and assault thing.

...Great.

"I must've forgot the part where I resisted arrest," you retort, forcing your eyes to remain open, despite the heaviness to them. It's as if a weight has been hung from your eyelids, and every blink drags them down more and more each time.

"Jesus -- you're not under arrest," Price rubs at his eyes, head dipped down as if he's recollecting his thoughts. You're not sure if he's had any sleep, although your sense of time has been completely thrown out of the window.

"Then release me," you say, voice softer than you'd intended, more pleading -- a truer reflection of your current state of mind.

The air is crisp, cool, like that of a hospital. Chemicals and bleach are a potent undertone to the clean scent, and it makes you question what could've previously been done in this room to warrant them.

Your heart pounds almost weakly, and you know if there's any more heartbreaks to come, it might just give out.

How you've resisted a complete mental breakdown is beyond you, and frankly, you'd give yourself a pat on the back if you could. Although, that act might in itself be a sign of insanity.

"Not until we can be assured you're safe," Price insists. "And not until we can clear your name from the books. We have enemies, sweetheart, and those enemies were also your father's. They are not above punishing you for your father's sins."

Your heart is lodged in your throat, and it takes everything in you not to just burst into tears and pray. Pray that this is all some sick joke, some terrifying nightmare that you haven't woken from yet.

But you know it's a baseless hope. You know that this is real.

You're in a military base, somewhere, surrounded by the country's most dangerous men. The most dangerous men on their side, at least.

"So I'm not getting charged for assault?" Your voice is entirely too small for the situation, not for someone who's still cuffed to a bed, going through grief in the most ruthless type of way.

The worst part is that you don't entirely miss your father. You miss the comfort of having a family member, that's true, but he wasn't a good parental figure, and his treatment of you could be classed as abuse to most people.

And from what these four are saying, he wasn't a good man either.

People didn't often talk about how separate the two things were. It was possible to be a great man, but the worst of fathers, and the opposite could be true, too.

Fate had dealt you a bad hand, in giving you one who was terrible on both sides of the coin.

"Technically," Price leans back into his chair, his voice littered with exhaustion, "We... should report it."

Your stomach drops.

Price's eyes meet yours, and somehow, he must see the turmoil battling inside of your head, because he lets out a deep breath, deflating just a bit.

"No. You're not getting charged for assault, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that," you reply, too quick for your brain to catch up. The endearment is entirely too wrong, smarting on a chafing wound, a reminder of the mistakes you'd made, and the deception these men had pulled on you. "...Please."

You refuse to meet his eyes as he nods, slowly, as if in understanding.

"What did he do?" You don't mean to utter those words, to ask that question, but after you do, you can't find it in yourself to regret it. "What made him worthy of death?"

Price rubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, you register the lines of his face. Lines of a story having been told, proof of a life lived. It makes you want to learn, to find the origins of the small scars you can see, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"He broke many promises. Betrayed his team," Price states, and you can tell the millions of words he leaves out, the context better off left unsaid. "He did terrible things. Killed people who had made no faults."

Oh.

For some reason, it hadn't truly hit you, not before now, the truth behind his death. What hadn't you been told?

How hadn't you been made aware that he was -- he was part of the special forces. He was a dangerous man -- he was one of the men he'd warned you about. How blind had you been? For so long? Those business trips, when he'd come with bruises, brushing them off whenever you gained the courage to make attempts of caring, of forming a relationship with the man who raised you.

They weren't business trips. They were missions -- ones with impossibly high death rates.

And he just.

Hadn't said a word. Just continued to treat you like you were worthless, a nuisance, a pain in his ass. Something worth protecting, if only so your weight in gold wasn't minimised.

What were you to do, if he just. Didn't come home after a mission gone awry? If he died on the field. If you woke up one day without a single living family member left.

You only realise that tears have fallen down your cheeks when Price's thumb brushes them away, your nose scrunching with a sniffle.

Jerking back, as if electrocuted, it takes everything in you to glare at the man whose gentle hands had led you to this position in the first place. "Don't touch me."

He backs away. Doesn't argue.

It hurts your heart in a way you don't want to touch with a ten foot pole. Not right now. Not ever, maybe. Preferably.

You let out a deep, stabilising exhale, before weakly meeting Price's gaze. "Can I sleep? Feeling kinda shit after the drugs," you mumble.

Price's lips twist into a grim line, but he nods curtly. "'Course, kid. Call out if you need 'nything."

You just lay back, turning on your side, facing the white wall as the lights turn off, leaving pitch black in its wake. Your wrist smarts where the handcuff has left a red mark, your free hand rubbing at the small patch of visible skin.

If you were more aware, more... ready for the conversations you needed to have, you would've demanded all four of them speak to you right this moment.

But your head is heavy, and thoughts are few and far between.

Grief and confusion cement in your brain like a thick fog, your emotions like cars without lights in the thick mist.

No directions, no ability to brake before crashing into one another.

You're an absolute mess, and you have no one to blame but you and your sick curiosity, your reckless decision making.

But, you realise, this was a long time coming.

Because there's one thing Price -- nor the other three men -- don't know.

Your father wasn't the only one who held secrets.

And it was you who held the key to this force's undoing.

a/n. lol so like. who's ready for some enemies to lovers? sorry to everyone who wanted immediate hurt/comfort!! for some reason plot lines and depth hit me and i was like. i need to do it justice. so here we are!!!

thank you all SOSOSO much for the reception of the first part. it genuinely means a lot to have people excited about my stories??? like omg youre all SO kind. comments and reblogs make my absolute week!! mwah mwah mwah

taglist comment/msg to be added. @captainjamster @alfa-jor @simp4miguell @yaboibauldano @dreamaboutpinkk @guyser @lovewithasideoflust @redz0mbie @ghost-is-my-bbg @astro-ghoul99 @the-faceless-bride @casterousaudrey @cutiecusp @kit-williams @lilpothoscuttings @florabelll

[d0llcuries]

LYING HAS TO STOP

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: neteyam is haunted by memories he shared with you before he left for awa'atlu

author's note: i think this could technically count as angst but it's more melancholic to me, there's just lots of longing. consider this a warning i suppose. i really can't put it here but listen to “lying has to stop” by clairo while reading for the best experience!! unrelated but i have midterms tomorrow and i haven't studied #yolo !!! 😜 (help me)

neteyam stood on the shore of awa’atlu, watching the sky, it's orange and pink light reflecting off the vast, endless sea. the sky here always seemed too wide, too open, nothing like the comforting embrace of the forest canopy he had grown up beneath. here, there were no towering trees to shelter him, the cool breeze that came off the ocean didn’t carry the scent of the forest, of wet earth and soft moss.

two years had passed since they fled. two years since the sully family left their home, their people, and everything they had known. awal'atu, for all its beauty, for all the new skills and wonders he had discovered, this place would never be home.

home was where she was.

he glanced down at the bracelet that circled his wrist, a simple thing—woven vines and tiny purple and blue beads. he hadn’t taken it off since the day she gave it to him. the memory of that moment was burned into his mind, one of the last things he could hold onto when everything else had been stripped away.

the way her wide, tear-filled eyes had stared up at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was leaving. he explained everything to her, his voice breaking as he explained why they couldn’t stay. she had understood, of course. she always understood. but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

the day his family decided to leave the omaticaya had been one of the worst of his life. the guilt of it still weighed heavily on his shoulders. they had no choice—quaritch wasn’t just hunting his father, he was hunting all of them. staying would have put their entire clan in danger, would have brought death and destruction to their people. but leaving... leaving meant abandoning the life they had built. it meant leaving her.

he could still feel the soft warmth of her hands, the trembling in her fingers as they brushed against his skin. and he could still hear the way her voice had cracked when she told him she loved him, right before she kissed him as if for the first time. her lips soft and trembling, her breath warm and uneven, the way she had pressed herself so close to him, as if she were trying to imprint herself into his very soul. he had kissed her back just as fiercely, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

his heart ached at the memory. every night he replayed it over and over, the feel of her, the taste of her, the way her breath had hitched in her throat when he deepened the kiss. he could still taste the salt of her tears, mingling with the sweetness of her lips. it had been bittersweet—knowing it was a goodbye, even if she had promised it wasn’t forever.

forever, neteyam. i’ll wait forever.

he wanted to believe her. he had to believe her. but the distance between them seemed to grow wider with each passing day.

bitterness haunted his heart at the thought of what should have been. they were supposed to be mated by now. it was all so clear back then, so simple. it wasn’t even a question of if, but when. he could still remember the way she had smiled when he first mentioned the possibility of them being mated, how her cheeks had flushed a soft shade of violet, her eyes bright with excitement. he remembered how shy she had been at first, her hands fidgeting nervously as she offered him a carved trinket she had made. a symbol of their courtship. his heart had swelled with pride and affection, and he had taken it from her as if it were the most precious thing in the world. and to him, it was. everything she touched became sacred, imbued with her warmth and care. the future had seemed so sure, so inevitable, like the turning of the seasons or the rise of the sun.

but then quaritch came back, rearing his ugly head into their lives once more, like a demon from some nightmare. everything shifted in that instant. the careful plans they had laid, the promises they had made—all of it was torn apart in the blink of an eye. nothing was certain anymore. nothing was safe.

the metkayina were kind, welcoming. they had taught him to swim, to ride the ilu, to adapt to their ways. but no matter how much he learned, no matter how skilled he became in their ways, neteyam still felt like a stranger. and at night, when the village was quiet and the only sound was the soft lapping of the waves against the shore, he let himself feel it. the loneliness, the heartache, the longing for a life that seemed further away than ever before.

he thought of her constantly. every day, every night. he wondered what she was doing, if she was safe, if she still thought of him the way he thought of her. he would lie awake, imagining what it would be like to see her again. to hold her. to hear her laugh. his mind would drift back to the quiet moments they had shared—the way she would lean into him, her head resting on his shoulder, the way her fingers would trace the lines of his palm as they sat together in the stillness of the forest.

she was always there, in the back of his mind, a constant, aching presence. he would catch glimpses of her in the most unexpected moments—a flash of her smile in the curve of a wave, the sound of her laughter in the distant call of a tulkun. at night, when the village was quiet and the stars reflected off the still water, he let himself remember her fully, let himself drown in the memories of her.

he remembered how she used to laugh, how her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she was truly happy. how she would tug at his braids playfully, teasing him in that soft, affectionate way of hers. he could still hear her voice, soft and melodic, as she whispered his name in the quiet moments they shared alone.

but as the days stretched into months, and the months into years, that trust had started to feel fragile. had she moved on? the thought plagued him, gnawed at him like a festering wound. she had promised to wait, but how long could he really expect her to? he didn’t know when—or if—he would ever return. and if she had found someone else, if she had chosen to be with another, he couldn’t blame her. he knew she had every right to. after all, he had left her. not by choice, but he had still left. he couldn’t expect her to put her life on hold, to wait indefinitely for something that might never happen.

the idea of her being with someone else, though—it tore at him. the thought of another man holding her, kissing her, making her smile the way he used to—it was unbearable.

“neteyam?” his father’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. jake stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable in the fading light. neteyam had grown used to the look—his father’s concern, his quiet observations. “you alright, boy?”

neteyam nodded, though the tightness in his chest told a different story. “yeah.”

jake studied him for a moment, then sighed, stepping closer. “i know this move hasn’t been easy for you,” he said, his voice gentle. “for any of us. but you... you’ve been carrying a lot on your shoulders.”

neteyam glanced down at the sand beneath his feet, not trusting himself to speak. his father didn’t know the half of it.

“ke’loreä’s been asking about you,” jake continued, his tone careful. “she’s a nice girl. strong, kind. maybe you should give her a chance.”

she was kind, sweet even, with a laugh that rang like a bell and sea-green eyes that sparkled when she looked at him. she had taken an interest in him from the beginning, always finding excuses to be near him, to talk to him, to laugh at his jokes, even the ones that weren’t particularly funny.

at first, he hadn’t noticed. or maybe he had, but he hadn’t let himself think about it. but as time passed, it became harder to ignore. she would linger by his side during training, brush her hand against his arm when she spoke, offer to help him with tasks that didn’t require any assistance. she was... nice. there was nothing wrong with her. in fact, she was everything a mate should be.

but she wasn’t his.

“i cannot,” neteyam said, his voice tight. he shook his head, his jaw clenched. “i cannot do that to her.”

“to ke’loreä?” jake asked, raising an eyebrow.

“to yn,” neteyam corrected, his chest tightening at the mere mention of her name. “i can’t... i can’t betray her like that.”

jake let out a slow breath, his expression softening. “son, it’s been two years. i know you miss her. i know this isn’t what you wanted. none of us wanted this. but you can’t hold onto the past forever. we all left people behind. but maybe it’s time to start thinking about—”

“i am not holding onto the past,” neteyam said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “i am holding onto her. she is not the past. she...” he trailed off, unable to find the right words to explain the depth of what he felt. “i promised her,” he said finally. “and she promised me. i am not going to break that. she is waiting for me.”

“and what if she’s not?” jake asked quietly. the words hung in the air like a heavy weight, pressing down on neteyam’s chest.

he hadn’t let himself think about that. he couldn’t. if he let himself believe, even for a moment, that she had moved on, that she had found someone else, it would destroy him.

“she is,” neteyam said, his voice firm, though his heart trembled with uncertainty. “i know she is.”

jake didn’t say anything for a long moment. finally, he placed a hand on neteyam’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “i just don’t want you to spend your life waiting for something that might not happen.”

neteyam swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding stiffly. his father meant well, but he didn’t understand. how could he? he didn’t know what it was like to love someone so deeply that their absence felt like a physical wound, to miss someone so much that every day without them was like another weight added to his chest.

jake didn’t push the issue any further. he placed a hand on neteyam’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before turning and walking back toward the village, leaving neteyam alone with his thoughts once again.

he closed his eyes, letting the sound of the waves wash over him. he could almost hear her voice, soft and sweet, carried on the breeze. he could almost feel her hand in his, the warmth of her skin against his. he could almost see her smile, the one that always made his heart race.

but when he opened his eyes, she was gone. just like she had been.

sobbing. should i do a part two?

[coldfanbou]

Homemaker

Well you could say this week is mommy madness with the two fics being that way. Anyway, enjoy step-mom Mina losing her mind.

Length 2.1K

Mina X mreader

“Sweetie, come down; breakfast is ready,” You roll over in your bed, wanting to sleep just a little bit longer. You hear your stepmother's voice call you again and choose to ignore her for the moment, needing just five more minutes of sleep. Her footsteps grow louder as she comes down the hallway and approaches your door. 

The jiggling of your door knob soon gives way to her. Mina stood in the doorway, “Come on, breakfast is ready. I worked really hard on it today.” 

You turn over onto your back and look at her, mumbling, “Five more minutes.” 

Mina’s face turns a bright red, and she gives you a quick nod before turning away and closing the door. You think nothing of it and sleep for those five more minutes before getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen. Your dad was already gone by the time you got down, but you weren’t surprised he always left early in the morning, leaving you and Mina alone. “O-oh, you’re finally here,” Mina says, patting her apron as she turns back to the stove. “Let me just warm this up for you,” she says, her hand shaking slightly as she rewarms your food. Mina plates your food and hands it to you before sitting on the other side of the table and eating her own.�� Your meal was silent; while you were focused solely on Mina’s cooking, she looked over your features. “You’re getting pretty strong now, aren’t you?” You give her a slight nod and rub your eyes before looking at her. She had a shy, gummy smile on her face. Her grin grew more prominent as you met her eyes briefly before she shot her head to the side.

“Is something wrong, Mina?”

“No, no. It’s just I put a little too much salt on my food.” You shrug and continue eating, occasionally glancing at her. 

“Thank you for the meal, Mina.” Once you’re done, you change, leave the house, and head to your university classes. Once you’re gone, Mina takes a deep breath. She heads into your bedroom, lying on it, taking a deep breath, and taking in your scent. Her hand runs up and down her thigh, before she shakes her head and slaps her face. 

Moving onto her back, Mina takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t be thinking of him like this. He’s my stepson,” she says aloud. “But…” Mina places her hand on her clothed crotch, rubbing herself slowly. “It was so big,” she moans. Mina thinks back to the morning when she saw the outline of your morning wood. She reaches under her shirt and finds her nipple, twisting it between her fingers as she begins to slip her other hand under her pants. Mina shuts her eyes and lets her voice fill the room as she moves her fingers along her lower lips; she was getting wet as she imagined your cock. “N-no, I can’t.” She moaned, trying to hold onto the idea of you as her stepson. Your scent floods her nostrils, and she turns onto your stomach, taking it in as she continues to slide her fingers along her lips. As Mina pushes her fingers inside, she moans your name, and the last bits of her resistance fade away as she imagines you taking her. Mina’s walls press against her fingers, coating them in her nectar. “It’s all your fault,” She moans, thinking about her husband. “Why couldn’t you have been bigger?” Mina’s fingers begin to move faster, and she tugs on her hardened nipple, bringing more moans out of her.

You return to the house a few minutes after you’ve left, having forgotten something.  You head straight for your room before slowing down as you hear moans filling the room. They were coming for your room, and as you poke your head from behind the doorframe, you see Mina masturbating on your bed. Your ears are filled with her moans, and then you hear her moan your name. You feel your pants tighten as your other head begins to awaken. Mina was in her own world, completely unaware. You walk into your room and call her name. Mina scrambles to sit up, completely flustered. “It’s not what it looks like! I-I I was,” You drop your pants along with your underwear, letting your stepmother see your cock. Mina gulps and unconsciously licks her lips. 

You always thought Mina was a beautiful woman; you were just showing her what you thought about her. As you jerked yourself off slowly, your eyes moved up and down her body. She tentatively reaches forward, her eyes shifting from meeting yours to your cock. “May I?” You give her a nod and soon feel Mina’s gentle and wrap around your shaft. Her hand slowly slides down to your base before returning to the head, “It’s amazing.” She whispers. 

You bend over, getting by her ear. “I want to see my stepmom’s body.” After you say that, you can feel the heat radiating from her face. 

“I-I,” Mina stutters, struggling with her words. 

“You were moaning my name, and you have my cock in your hand. A good mother would help me with it, right? And you’re a good stepmom, right?” You run your hand along her face, moving her long black hair behind her ear. 

“I’m a good stepmom,” Mina says before beginning to strip. She grabs the bottom of her shirt and brings it over her head; a dark blue bra is hidden underneath. Mina stands up, her eyes remaining on your cock as she unbuttons her jeans and pulls them off; she has a matching blue panty on. You stared at Mina’s body, happy with its appearance. Mina takes hold of your cock once more, stroking it slowly. “I’ll take care of you, son,” She says, staring into your eyes. “Mommy will take good care of you.” Mina kneels before you, her hand sliding to the base of your cock. Mina kisses the tip of your cock, shutting her eyes as she swallows the head. She bobs her head slowly, her tongue moving, swirling along the tip as she lets out a low moan.

“Fuuck, Mina. You’re so good at this,” you groan, gently pushing her to take more in. Mina’s lips stretch as she tries to service you. Her tongue drags itself along your shaft, moving up the sides to coat it in a thick layer of her saliva. You lean over, unlatching her bra. Mina continues to bob her head as she moves the straps off her shoulders and discards it. You pull away from your stepmother, taking your cock in hand. Mina immediately tries to get you back into her mouth, saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth and making her look like a cock-hungry whore. You slap her cheeks with your cock, each time Mina moves her head, trying to get it back into her mouth. “Does it taste that good?”

Mina nods her head, “It’s great.” You rub your shaft across Mina’s cheek; she turns her head, running her tongue up and down the side of your shaft. You pull it away from her again, this time moving her onto the bed. You spread Mina’s legs apart, noticing the wet spot on her panties from her earlier masturbation session. You move your index finger down the middle, listening to Mina whine. You hook your fingers around the waistband and pull down her panties, letting the fresh air hit her cunt. 

You stroke your cock as you lean over her, “Tell me how much you want it, Mina.” You prod her with your cock, rubbing it against her inner thigh. “I want to know how much you want your stepson’s cock. Is my dad’s that pathetic that you want mine?” Mina whimpers as you move the tip between her folds. 

“I want you,” Mina whimpers as she brings her hands down and spreads her lips apart for you. “Please fuck your stepmom.” You smirk and prepare yourself. You press the tip against Mina’s entrance, pushing the head in. Mina's head rolls back, her lips forming an O as she moans.  You grab Mina’s waist and slowly move the rest of your length in, forcing more moans out of Mina as she feels you go deeper than any partner she’s had. She grips the bedsheets as you ram the last bit inside her. You feel her walls squeezing your cock tightly. 

“Whose is better, Mina?” Mina stays quiet, refusing to answer your question. “Alright, be that way.” You kiss Mina’s neck before whispering, “I’ll make you scream my name by the end. Don’t break on me.” You drag your cock out of Mina, listening to her moans before you slam your length back in. She cries out from the pleasure, still gripping the sheets. You begin your thrusts, making sure to push deep into Mina’s tight cunt; her walls coat your cock in her nectar, allowing you to slide in with ease. Her small tits bounce, moving in circles as you buck your hips and force her tight body to take every inch. 

“Mmm, ahh!” Mina cries, bringing one hand to her mouth to cover her moans. You grab that hand, moving it to the side of her head, and you steal a kiss from Mina. Forcing your tongue into her mouth, Mina is at your mercy. You explore it as you move your free hand down to Mina’s thigh, giving it a rough squeeze as you hold it against your body. With each thrust, you hear Mina’s moans grow louder. Her walls were clamping down on your cock. You knew she was nearing her climax. 

“Who’s better, Mina? If you don’t tell me, I’m not going to let you cum.” You slow your thrusts to make your point clear.

“You’re better! You’re so much bigger and better! Please let me cum, I need it!” Mina pleads with you to let her reach her climax. You continue to slow your thrusts. You kiss Mina again, playing with her tongue as you suddenly begin ramming your cock back inside her at a rapid pace. Mina’s muffled moans become whines as she nears her climax. She locks her legs around your body, pushing further in as she gets closer. You feel her body tense up, “AH! I’m cumming!” Mina shouts. Her toes curl, and her body stiffens, with her back arcing as she cums. You bury your cock inside her, enjoying the feeling of her walls tightening around you. You were close to cumming, needing just a little bit more. You make small thrusts, barely moving inside her just to keep yourself hard as her body relaxes. Once her legs fell to your sides, you pulled out of Mina and turned her onto her stomach. “What are you doing?” She mumbles, her mind hazy from her orgasm. 

You pull her ass up, forcing Mina’s back into a deep arch. You rub her ass, squeezing the soft piece of flesh before striking it. Mina moaned; she enjoyed the mixture of pain and pleasure. You align your cock once more and drive your cock deep into her cunt, “Oh shit!” You smirked; that was the first time you had heard Mina curse. Your thrusts were quick and strong, each one stirring her insides. 

Mina’s toes began to curl again as she felt your cock splitting her in two. She was still coming down from her previous orgasm and was highly sensitive. She felt her core tightening as another orgasm came. Mina pulled her nipples, driving her to her climax. 

Her walls clamped down around your cock. You were about to climax, too; Now was your chance. You bury your cock inside Mina’s needy cunt and pour your load into her womb. Mina’s body shakes as she feels your warm cum fill her. Her body collapses onto your bed with you still inside her. You thrust lightly, getting the last of your cum inside her before you pull out. You kiss the back of Mina’s head before heading to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You return to your room and grab what you had forgotten before leaving again, “I’ll be going now, Mina.” 

When you returned home that day, everything was normal. The next morning, you woke up overhearing Mina and your father talking; it was her seeing him off for the day. You stroked your cock, knowing Mina would come to your room. Her footsteps grew louder until she reached your door; there was a moment of silence that led to the door opening to a naked Mina. A smile formed on her face as she stepped into your room for another round.

[livebeforeyoulearn]

Touch You Softly - Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You have a knack for leaving without saying another word.

-

You live in a maze of your own design, a tangled, endless place where the paths are formed from the opposing desires that hold you captive. You’re caught between the pull of wanting her – the stranger with the soft eyes and intoxicating lips – and the stubborn need to remain alone, untouched, and unbound. You crave the freedom of solitude, a life without judgement, where you can exist without shame, and yet, her memory has become the one thread that tangles everything up. You miss the simplicity of your old life, the predictable rhythm that was your constant companion, the song and dance that never changed. You knew every beat, every step, and there was comfort in that. But now, she’s here, invading your mind like an unwanted guest, making you question what you thought you knew about yourself. 

It’s as if meeting her has rewired something inside of you. You don’t even know her name, and yet you can’t stop thinking about her. The kiss you shared on the beach plays on a loop in your head, endlessly replaying that fleeting moment where her lips were on yours. You can still feel it – the softness, the warmth, the electric thrill that coursed through you. You know you’d do it again. If you saw her again, you wouldn’t hesitate; you’d kiss her just as fiercely as you did that night, letting yourself get lost in the taste of her, letting her pull you under like a tide that’s too strong to resist. You’ve kissed people before, strangers whose names you never cared to learn, whose faces have long since faded from your memory, but none of them ever lingered like this. 

You find yourself at the beach again, drawn there like a moth to a flame, even though the sky is heavy with clouds, the threat of rain looming overhead. The air is thick with the smell of salt and storm, and the wind whips at your skin. But you don’t care. This is the only thing that seems to quiet the noise in your head, the endless spiral of thoughts that keep you awake at night. You walk along the shore, letting the cold, damp sand cling to your feet with every step, searching for that spot – the place where the two of you had been together. It feels like retracing the steps of a dream, something half-remembered and hazy, but you find it eventually, that stretch of sand where the memory of her feels the strongest.

You crouch down, pressing your fingertips into the cool grit of the sand. Slowly, you begin to trace her outline, drawing her figure with careful, deliberate strokes as if you could bring her back with the simple act of sketching her into existence. It’s a crude outline, nothing more than a shadow of her, but it’s all you have. You know it’s pathetic – lying on a beach, tracing a memory of a stranger you barely know, just to feel close to her – but there’s no one here to see, no one to mock you for it.

When you’re finished, you lie down beside the figure in the sand, stretching out on the cold, rough ground. You close your eyes, letting the sounds of the sea wash over you, and try to imagine what it would be like if she were really there. You see her beside you, her skin glowing in the moonlight, her hair spread out like a halo against the pale sand. You imagine the way she looked at you that night, her eyes wide and curious, the way she laughed, soft and low, like a secret meant only for you. You picture the way her fingers brushed your skin, leaving trails of warmth wherever she touched, and the way she gripped your wrist as if she needed to hold on to something solid, something real.

You let your mind wander, dreaming about how that night could have gone if you hadn’t walked away. You see the two of you lying under the stars, talking about anything and everything, sharing pieces of yourselves that you’d never given to anyone else. You imagine the hours stretching on, the sky slowly lightening as dawn approached, and neither of you wanting to leave. You picture moving from the beach to somewhere more secluded, where you could lie in the sun, feel its warmth on your skin, away from the prying eyes of the world. You imagine days spent in each other’s company, becoming inseparable, but it’s all just a fantasy – a sweet, painful dream.

You remember her softness – her voice, her lips, the way she touched you like you were something fragile and precious. You remember the way she let you trace her features with your fingers, memorising the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, burning the image of her into your mind. You see her every time you close your eyes, her face tilted up towards you, her expression open and unguarded, and it haunts you. 

You think about how she was willing to go further that night, to let you in, to share more of herself, and you can’t help but wonder what would have happened if you’d let her. But you didn’t. You walked away because you’ve always been cynical when it comes to love. You’ve built up walls around yourself, convinced that it’s easier to keep people out than to let them in and risk the pain of disappointment. And now, lying here on the sand, you curse yourself for it. 

You reach out, your hand hovering over the outline you’ve drawn, and you press your palm against the rough sand where her stomach would be. You close your eyes, imagining the feel of her skin under your touch – warm and smooth, rising and falling with every breath. You want to know what it’s like to really touch her, to feel the softness of her, the strength hidden beneath. You ache with the wanting of it, a deep, hollow yearning.

After what feels like hours spent in a haze of longing, lost in the rhythm of the waves and the memory of her touch, you open your eyes, expecting to see only the grey sky and the empty beach stretching out before you. But she’s there, sitting beside you with her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them protectively, as if bracing herself against the cold wind whipping across the shore. Her hair, a wild tangle of strands, dances in the harsh gusts, and her eyes squint against the sand that’s swirling in the air.

For a moment, you freeze. Is she really there, or is this some cruel delusion – your mind, twisted and cynical, conjuring her up just to deceive you? You can’t be sure. The wind, the isolation, the intensity of your longing – it all feels surreal, like you’ve manifested her out of sheer desperation. You want to reach out, to touch her arm, her face, something, anything, just to confirm that she’s real. But you don’t. That would cross a boundary, wouldn’t it? Instead, your fingers dig into the sand, gripping it as if the coarse grains could somehow ground you back into reality. You need to know what’s real.

You’re staring at her, trying to make sense of the impossible sight before you, and her head turns, just slightly, enough for her eyes to meet yours. There’s no doubt – those eyes, deep and familiar, are unmistakably hers. This is not a hallucination or some trick of your mind. She’s real, sitting right there, as if she’d been waiting all along.  

"Why are you here?" you ask, your voice blunt, the words slipping out before you can really think about them. There’s no softness in your tone, no greeting, no warmth. It’s more a question for yourself, because how do you process the sight of her sitting there so casually beside you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world? It’s as though you wished her into being, and now you have to deal with the consequences of it.

She doesn’t flinch at your question. “I came back for the same reason you have,” she says simply, her voice steady, calm. You remain still, your body pressed into the cold sand, your mind spinning. 

"You don’t know why I’m here," you reply, though the words come out quieter than you intend, almost too soft for the wind to carry. You’re afraid to speak too loudly, as if raising your voice would shatter whatever fragile reality you’ve stumbled into. There’s an odd emptiness in this exchange, a lack of the heated emotion you thought you’d feel. It’s detached, almost clinical, and you don’t know if that makes you relieved or disappointed. Is this what you wanted?

“I do,” she replies, turning her head fully to look at the figure you’ve drawn in the sand. Her gaze lingers on the outline, tracing its imperfect shape, and then she points to it with a delicate hand. “Why do you still come back here and think of me if you’re the one who left without saying anything? If you stayed, it would’ve been a lot easier than thinking so much.” Her voice isn’t accusing; it’s contemplative, a rhetorical question that doesn’t demand an answer but lays bare the truth between you. It’s almost as if she’s musing aloud, trying to understand the quiet tragedy of your connection.

You sit up, the coolness of the sand seeping into your palms as you cross your legs and settle beside her. You look out at the sea, the swell of the waves crashing in the distance, and you shrug. What could you possibly say to that? She’s right, after all. But it doesn’t make the truth any easier to admit. 

“I don’t like meeting new people and having to go through the process of trusting them,” you finally say, the words coming out more intimate than you expected. It feels strange, vulnerable, saying it out loud to her. “Staying would’ve meant I had to have some sort of trust in you.” 

She hums softly, the sound carried away by the wind, and it’s almost like she understands. You don’t know how or why, but there’s no judgement in her expression, only a quiet acceptance of the tangled mess of your confession. “You trust me enough to tell me that,” she says, side-glancing at you briefly. “It’s a start.” 

Her eyes return to the sea, but you keep your gaze on her, studying the way her hair is pushed back by the wind, exposing the curve of her jaw, her lips – those same lips you kissed under the stars – are caught between her teeth, and there’s something undeniably attractive about it. You’re not sure she even realises how it affects you. You can see her chest rise and fall as she inhales deeply, her eyes still focused on the distant horizon. Then she turns her head, her gaze locking onto yours, and you feel your breath catch. Her eyes search your face, taking in every detail, and you know she sees the way your own eyes are drawn to her lips, how you can’t seem to look away.

“Will you tell me your name now?” she asks, her voice gentle, almost hopeful. She waits, her eyes searching yours for an answer, but you can’t bring yourself to give it. The silence stretches between you and when you don’t answer, she offers something instead – an olive branch. “My name is Alexia.”

You watch her as she writes the letters in the sand, each stroke deliberate, as if she’s making sure you’ll remember. Alexia. Finally, you have a name for the face that’s been haunting your thoughts. A small smile pulls at your lips as you watch her, and then, almost without thinking, you reach down and trace the first initial of your name beside hers.

Her eyes linger on the letter you’ve drawn, running over it again and again, as if she’s trying to coax the rest out of you with just a look. She glances up at you, her expression softening into something almost pleading for you to finish. But you don’t. Instead, you watch her as she sighs and begins to trace your initial over and over in the sand, repeating it like a mantra. There’s something oddly soothing about the sight, and you find yourself smiling again.

“It’s just a name,” she says, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Why won’t you tell me?”

But it’s not just a name. It’s your name. And giving it to her would mean taking a step forward, into a future you’re not sure you’re ready for. It would mean opening up, letting her in, and that thought still terrifies you.

“I will tell you everything one day, Alexia,” you promise, your voice steady. She looks at you then, her eyes sweeping over your face, searching for any hint of deception. But there’s nothing hidden, nothing masked. 

“I know,” she says softly, and there’s a certainty in her voice that leaves you wondering how she can be so sure. But before you can question it, she’s leaning in, her breath warm against your lips, and your eyes flutter shut as her mouth meets yours. For a moment, it’s still, gentle, before she deepens it, and you sigh into her mouth, feeling the familiar rush of desire flood through you. She tastes like salt and rain, and it’s everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve been longing for, and nothing else matters. Your fingers lift, almost instinctively, to find the curve of her jaw, feeling the smoothness of her skin under your fingertips.

There’s something deeply intimate in the way she kisses you, like she’s pouring herself into the moment, into you, and you feel it echo back in the way your body responds. You can sense how much she wants this – it’s palpable in the way her lips press a little harder, the way her body leans into yours, craving more. 

You push her hair back when it falls between you, your fingers lingering as you thread through the soft strands. She smiles against your lips, and you do too, laughter bubbling up despite the heat between you both. You find yourself laughing together, breaking the kiss. It’s a joy you hadn’t expected to feel, a lightness that fills the space where doubt usually lives. 

Then she shifts, her hands moving to your shoulders, and with a gentle nudge, she pushes you back. At first, you’re startled, eyes widening as the realisation of what’s happening settles in. She’s guiding you down, her hands steady on your shoulders, until your back presses against the ground. It’s unexpected, and your lips part in surprise, a soft gasp escaping as she hovers above you. Her smile never falters – it’s still there, bright and inviting, as if she’s already sure of the path you’re now on.

You feel the weight of her body just above yours, her presence surrounding you in a way that makes you hyperaware of everything. Your pulse races, heart hammering in your chest as your breath catches in your throat. Her lips find yours again, cutting through the whirlwind of thoughts running through your mind. Her kiss is deep and slow, drawing out every sensation until you’re dizzy with it. Her hands move with purpose, tracing the line of your neck, her fingers brushing over your collarbones and shoulders, before travelling down your arms. 

You miss the control, the touch you once had over her. You remember that night, the one where your hands were the ones exploring her skin, dictating the pace, leading the way. But now, it’s her – her touch, her hands, her guidance – and it’s unsettling. You’re not used to letting go like this, to surrendering yourself to someone else’s touch. It’s unfamiliar, almost disorienting, and you can’t decide if you want her to continue or if you need to stop her. But even as those thoughts creep in, she pulls away just enough, her breath warm on your lips as her gaze locks with yours.

“Come back to Barcelona with me,” she whispers, her voice low, intimate. The question lingers between you, as heavy as the space she’s created by pulling away, her breath still mingling with yours. 

Your eyes blink slowly, trying to process the words, “Barcelona?” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath. You blink again, your mind struggling to catch up to the weight of the moment. “You’re from Barcelona?”

She giggles softly, and the sound vibrates through you, her eyes twinkling with something light and playful. “Yes,” she says, her smile widening just a little. “I’ll bring you back tomorrow, I promise. Just come with me for the night.”

You stare up at her, a thousand thoughts rushing through your mind, none of them quite making sense. There’s something about the way she’s looking at you, the way her eyes seem to see right through all the walls you’ve carefully built, that tugs at you. You know you should say no, you should keep your distance, maintain the space that keeps you safe from feeling too much. But there’s something different about this. Something about her.

Her hand reaches out, fingers tracing lightly over your cheek. It’s such a simple gesture, but it pulls at something deep inside you. Something that makes you want to let go, to stop fighting what’s right in front of you. You don’t say anything. Instead, you nod. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but she notices, her smile softening in a way that makes your heart clench.

She stands, pulling you gently to your feet with her, her hands brushing the sand from your clothes in an almost absent-minded way. Her touch lingers on your arms, her fingers tracing patterns that feel far too intimate for how little you’ve known her. You look at her, really look at her, and there’s a contentment in her expression that makes you wonder how she can be so sure of this, so sure of you.

Your heart beats faster as she takes your hand, leading you towards her car. You follow without hesitation, despite the warning signals flashing in the back of your mind. 

The night you share with her is wrapped in intimacy, each touch more deliberate, more meaningful than the last. Alexia moves with a quiet tenderness, her fingers ghosting over your skin like she’s memorising every curve, every shiver she elicits. There’s an implicit understanding between you – this moment is fleeting, but for now, it's all that exists. Her lips find yours, slow and intentional, drawing you into her with each soft press, each lingering kiss. Her hands follow, tracing the lines of your body in a way that feels reverent, almost worshipful. It’s overwhelming, how fully you surrender to her touch, how deeply she seems to care for you in the quiet of this room, even though she still doesn’t know your name.

When it’s over, when you’re both left breathless, she pulls you against her. The warmth of her body seeps into yours, and you can feel her heartbeat slow beneath your cheek, her breath evening out as exhaustion begins to pull her under. Her fingers don’t stop moving, drawing lazy circles on your back, grounding you in the present. But it’s more than just a soothing gesture – there’s a possessiveness to the way she holds you, like she’s trying to keep this moment from slipping away too soon. Alexia’s lips brush against your forehead, then your cheeks, then the corner of your mouth, a series of soft, delicate kisses that feel like promises she can’t speak aloud. Her breath is warm against your skin, her closeness intoxicating, and you let yourself sink into it, into her, until sleep starts to pull at your edges. Even as she drifts off, her arms remain wrapped around you, as if even in her dreams, she isn’t ready to let you go.

You can’t help but wonder if she feels the same fear, the same uncertainty about what tomorrow might bring.

—

The next morning, you wake in her arms, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath against your cheek. There’s a kind of light that filters through the curtains, a golden hue over the tangle of sheets and limbs, that doesn’t wake you immediately but gently nudges you back into awareness. Her hair is tousled, scattered across the pillow. It smells faintly of salt and something sweet, a mix of the sea and something uniquely hers, and you breathe it in, letting the scent linger in your lungs. 

You shift slightly, lifting your head to take in her face. Her lips, slightly parted, are still swollen from the kisses you shared the night before. You let your gaze trace the curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, and the way her lashes fan out against her skin, dark and delicate. There’s something almost ethereal about her, something that makes you feel like you’re seeing her for the first time, like the person in your arms is someone you could never truly know.

The space between you feels impossibly small, and yet it’s in these small details – the way her fingers twitch softly against your side, the gentle press of her leg hooked over yours – that you find yourself beginning to unravel. You let your hand rest on top of hers, tracing the delicate lines of her knuckles with the tip of your finger, marvelling at how easily your bodies seem to fit together, as if they were made for this exact moment.

She stirs slightly, her grip tightening on you in her sleep, and you freeze, not wanting to wake her. But the weight of her arm, the way she holds you so securely, makes your heart ache in a way you hadn’t anticipated. It’s so easy, so effortless, the way she pulls you in, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that you belong here, that this closeness is something you’re capable of. You let yourself imagine what it would be like to stay.

But reality starts to creep in. The dreamlike haze begins to fade, and doubt worms its way into your thoughts.

You watch the light slowly stretch across the room, and you feel the weight of your decisions from the night before. You feel foolish. It was a leap you weren’t supposed to take, a moment that felt too much like falling. How could you have let yourself get this close, let your guard down enough to wake up beside her in a city that isn’t yours? 

You can’t remember the last time you let someone this close. It’s disconcerting, this sense of comfort that you’ve found in the curve of her body against yours, in the silent language that’s been built between you without a single word. 

Sitting up slowly, you’re careful not to disturb her, though a part of you already misses the warmth of her body pressed against yours. As you pull away, she rolls onto her side, her back now facing you, and there’s a strange emptiness where her touch had been. You stare at her for a moment longer, taking in the sight of her, this beautiful woman who somehow made you forget yourself, even for just a night. 

You can’t bear to wake her, to see the look in her eyes when you tell her you’re leaving. Running a hand through your hair as you take in the sight of her, still half-buried in the sheets. You linger for a moment longer, memorising the way the light kisses her skin, the curve of her bare shoulder, the slow rise and fall of her breath.

The air is cooler now that you’ve left the bed, the morning chill creeping in through the window, and you shiver as you slip one of her shirts over your head. The fabric hangs loosely on you, and the faint scent of her clings to it, reminding you of the closeness you’re so desperate to flee from. You stand in the centre of the room for a moment, staring at the bed where she still lies, peaceful and unaware, and you wonder how you’re going to explain this to yourself when you’re back in your own space, alone again.

Your eyes land on a piece of paper on the nearby table, and almost instinctively, you reach for it. You grab a pen and, without really thinking, scrawl your name across it in messy, hurried letters. You pause, staring at the ink, and after a moment, you add your number. You don’t know why you do it, but maybe it’s for you, more than for her. Maybe it’s a way to tell yourself that this wasn’t just some fleeting moment, that there’s a possibility – however small – that she might reach out to you again. It feels inadequate, a poor substitute for all the words you can’t bring yourself to say, but it’s all you can offer. 

There’s a pang of guilt as you set the paper down, a sharp twist of regret that bites at the edges of your resolve. It would be so easy to slip back into bed, to curl up beside her and let the day pass by unnoticed, to bask in the quiet intimacy that feels both impossible and inevitable. But you can’t. You won’t. It’s easier to pretend you don’t care, easier to walk away before the morning sun can shine a light on all the things you’re too afraid to face. You draw a small smiley face next to your name – a sad attempt at levity, a parting gesture that feels empty and full all at once.

You wonder if she’ll be disappointed, or hurt, or if she’ll simply shrug it off as inevitable. 

You pull her shirt tighter around you and with one last look at the apartment that’s already beginning to fade into memory, you slip out the door. The streets of Barcelona are still quiet, the city slowly waking up around you. You find a bus that heads in the direction of your own place, and you climb aboard, the seat cold against your skin. 

You close your eyes, leaning your head against the window, and you wonder if this is what it will always be like – this push and pull between desire and the need to be alone, between wanting to be close to someone and the fear of losing yourself in the process. 

You hope, for both your sake and hers, that you haven’t messed up something beautiful by running away. You think it’s easier to keep moving, to keep running, than to face the quiet truth that you’ve left behind someone who held you like you were something worth holding onto. And maybe that’s the saddest part of all – that you don’t know if you’ll ever let yourself be held like that again.

But that hope feels distant now, lost somewhere in the space between what was and what will never be, and as the bus carries you away, you let the memory of her slip through your fingers like sand. 

You tell yourself it’s for the best, that you’ll forget her soon enough. You always do.

Don’t you?

[oolong-strawbby]

Niryn Emcharoen ★彡 moodboard

[fieldofdaisiies]

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart pt. II

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 3,3k  warnings: curse words, mentions of a one night stand, unexpected pregnancy summary: an appointment with Madja reveals more about your condition; fic masterlist

It hurts.

Azriel has always wanted a mate. Azriel has always wanted to be in love. Azriel has always wanted a child. A family. To be a father. He has never spoken this wish out loud, has always kept it to himself, but deep inside his mind and heart the thought has always been there.

He never deemed himself worthy, yet still he has always wanted a family. A family with his mate. A home where their children would be joyfully running around.

But now things are different and he is sure he is not worthy of the life he created. With you. A female he spent a night with. Not his mate. Not his wife.

You are wonderful and brilliant… He had never planned on risking your life just for one night of pleasure and fun. He had never wanted what is happening here, right now. 

Under different circumstances – if you had been his mate or wife– you would have talked about children before trying to conceive. You would have talked about the potential risk of the wings.

But how it is now, you were given no choice. You had no choice. He ruined your life...risked it just for his pleasure.

You are becoming a mother. He is becoming a father. Sooner than expected. And not planned.

You are a female he has been intimate for only one time. He doesn’t even really know you, you don’t know him and yet he put a baby inside of you. A baby with wings. A baby that can risk your life.

His throat constricts so much it makes it hard for him to swallow, the back of his mouth is burning, his eyes feeling like salt has been sprinkled into them.

His scarred fingers curl tighter around the counter, his gaze solely focused on you. 

A small whimper parts your lips, Madja's hands are as carefully as possible pressing down on your belly. "The bleeding…since when has this been going on?" Her voice is soft, gentle. 

But Azriel is immediately on alert. He straightens up, leans forward, forehead lying in furrows as he looks between you and the healer. Panic courses through his veins, an icy shiver dancing down his spine.

You haven't told him about the bleeding, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily. He already worries too much, you did not want to add more on top of hos remorse and regrets. And the bleeding hasn’t been going on for too long. It has only started…

"A few days ago." You avert your gaze, not wanting to see her expression. You know you should have contacted a healer earlier, but you thought the bleeding would just go away again.

"How much is a few?" Madja raises her brow at you, a bit of reprimanding lacing in her voice and shimmering in her eyes.

"Three days, I think."

Majda purses her lips, her expression as if she is deep in thought. And she probably is. Her fingers stroke over your skin again, you cringe, and suck in a sharp inhale. The pain is quite vivid, and as much as you don't want to let it show, you can't hide it. 

Hands placed on your belly, she presses down gently and it feels like something shifts inside you, like the baby is turning and a low cry of pain leaves you.

Icy claws pierce into Azriel's heart at the sound, and he curls his fingers towards his palms. He knows it isn't Madja's intention to hurt you, but she is hurting you...his...his...the mother of his unborn child and that is enough for him to be on edge.

"It is what I thought…" She looses a long breath and finally lifts her head to meet your gaze. There are many emotions you can't place, except for one: worry.

"The tips of the talons are scratching against the inside of your womb, that is where the bleeding comes from. Your hips and womb are not made for a baby — an Illyrian baby— with wings. There is not enough room for the wings."

You know this. Azriel knows this. Everyone knows this. But hearing it...it hurts and makes concern spread out again. Throughout your entire being, and you shudder.

You turn your head a little, a sad smile on your lips when your gaze lands on the father of the unborn child.

Azriel, his expression pained, eyes dead, pushes off the counter and stalks over to you, and places his hand on your shoulder. It is just a small gesture, but it calms your rapidly beating heart, and makes the tears that started to build up in your eyes disappear. 

"But there is a chance for…" Azriel's voice is hoarse. He can't finish the sentence. 

"There is a chance both the baby and…your—Y/N will survive. We only need to get the babe out quite a few weeks earlier, and with a C-section. And that quite a few weeks earlier. Meaning in the next few weeks."

That is so early. Too early. But you trust Madja.

And so, you find yourself nodding, accepting everything if it means you and especially the little baby growing inside of you will survive.

Turning your head, you find Azriel looking at you, expression pained and worried. But you nod slowly, a smile appearing on your lips. "It will be fine," you whisper.

He does not react, only holds your gaze and that for a long moment. The shadows dance around him, stretching out, curling and swirling, brushing over your belly in calming, soothing motions.

It is almost like they can sense the life growing inside of you, and they probably can, somehow communicating with the little babe. Comforting it. It feels like they are whispering, 'It will be alright, and we will get to know you, little faerie. We took care of your father, and we will take care of you.'

Azriel's grip on your shoulder tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he needs something to ground him, an anchor. The weight of the news hangs heavy in the room, there is an undercurrent of tension, of uncertainty that courses through the both of you. Azriel opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat.

Madja steps forward, her lips pursed while she regards the two of you for a moment. But when she speaks her voice is unwavering and soothing. "Y/N, Azriel, I need you to understand that this will not be easy, nothing of this pregnancy will be. The surgery will be dangerous. But we can do this. You can do this. After all, you have each other. And Y/N, you are never alone in this."

You draw in a deep inhale and turn to look at Azriel again. 

He nods, his jaw clenched and turns his attention back to you, his eyes showing fear but also a little glimmer of hope. "You will be fine. We…" Azriel swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "We will be a family."

You don't know if he is just saying this to comfort you, or if he really means it, but tears start to burn behind your eyes at the mention of you three being an actual family. The thought is too beautiful. 

You smile through the pain, your love for the little baby coursing through every fibre of your being. And not only for the baby… 

"I know, Az. We can do this."

Azriel's hand moves from your shoulder to gently cradle your cheek. "We'll get through this." 

It feels lightning zaps between you, your eyes staying locked. You look deep into each others eyes, lost in the moment of this intense contact between your eyes. And your souls. Your chests warm from the inside out and something behind to glow deep inside of you.

His callused thumb brushes over your cheek and then Azriel closes his eyes. He turns his head a little, and so do you, now looking back at the healer. 

Madja gives a small nod of approval. "Exactly. I'll start making preparations for the surgery. And we will talk again in a few days. If anything comes up, you have to tell me immediately. In the mean time I will give you some herbs and potions for the baby and for you, also something that will help with the bleeding. I tried to push in the wing a little, and it should be fine for now."

You exchange a look with Azriel. "Here." He offers you his hand for support as you climb down the healer's bed. You accept, carefully curling your cold fingers around his and—

"Your hands..."

Your didn't want to be straightforward, but the emotions and hormones get the best of you and often make you talk before thinking.

Silence stretches our for a moment, and it almost seems like he wants to pull his hand back, but you won't let him. "You can tell me later." Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. "We have time."

The cool evening air greets you when you step outside the High Lord and Lady's estate where Madja looked over you. Azriel insisted on taking you home, and of course you agreed.

"Thank you," you say after a moment of walking, still holding onto his hand. It feels so good, so right. 

Azriel is about to answer you, but gets no chance to do so. 

Suddenly, an unexpected fae male collides with you, jostling you for a moment. He had probably rushed out of a shop and not seen you. The impact sent a shockwave through your body, and for a fleeting moment the world seems to spin. He hit you harder than expected, but he apologises immediately. Yet, Azriel has none of it. Azriel, with his graceful wings tucked against his back, stands tall, glowering at the male, holding him by his arm. 

His anger and power stretch out like a dark cloud, the cobalt stones on his armour glowing vividly. 

"Careful!" Azriel growls, a protective arm wrapped around you to shield you from the fae male. "Don't you see she is pregnant." His wings stretched out slightly, a dark, yet comforting shadow.

You slide your hand over Azriel's and look up at him. "Azriel," you say in a soothing tone. "He probably didn't notice."

"He still should be more careful." Azriel's arm lowers a little, fingers spread wide to cover a big part of your round belly. The touch is simultaneously tender and protective.

The fae male once again stammers an apology and quickly retreats from the scene, his eyes filled with regret as he rushes away.

Azriel's protective stance softens, but he keeps his arm around you. His fingers, resting on your belly, tracing comforting circles as he acknowledges, "He could have hurt you and the baby."

"It is alright," you whisper. "I am alright and so is the little babe."

He nods slowly, almost like he does not believe you, but you set out again. "Come on, lets go home it is getting cold out here."

His protective side is wonderful and you love it, but you don't want him to worry too much. You are fine, you've mentioned so many weeks, months without him knowing about the baby, managed your every day life without him. It is good having him now, but you can also still protect yourself. 

You head home, Azriel not once removing his arm from around you, only when you step into your flat. The place where a short time ago you told him about everything. 

"You want to stay for a little?" you offer, and Azriel accepts, nodding but not saying a word. He closes the door behind you, and you sit down on the couch, soon joined by the shadowy male. 

"Somehow I imagined this all in a very different way. With a different outcome."

A cold chuckle parts Azriel's lips and he crosses his hands behind his neck before lowering them again to wipe his hands down his thighs. "Me too."

You give him a side-long look. "Just phenomenal sex and then never seeing you again."

"Is it so bad to see me again?" Azriel turns to you, his brow raised slightly. There is a sparkle in his eyes, and you know it comes from the mention of the phenomenal sex. Males…

"I would have preferred different circumstances," you answer honestly and move your hand over his. "But everything happens for a reason, so it is alright for me. I am alright with how things have turned out. And no, seeing you again is not at all bad. Quite the opposite actually."

He regards you for a long moment, not saying a word. There is still a glow in his eyes, but it is dimmed now, his whole posture slouching a little. He looses a long breath and stretches his legs. 

"I feel like I destroyed your whole life." His chin falls to his chest, hands one again crossed behind his neck. 

You immediately move close, your hand lifting and curling around his biceps. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever say something like that."

"But it is true!" He lifts his head and with eyes wide open looks at you. "The babe has wings because of me. Because I—"

"I wanted to sleep with you that night as well, knowing you have wings. I did not even think it would be an option to get pregnant that night. We both were sure we took the tonic and yet it happened. Receiving for fae is so difficult and still it happened. Azriel, everything happens for a reason and there is no blame on you."

You lift your hand and brush your finger tips over his face. "I gave you my consent that night. I wanted you in the same way you wanted me. I wanted to sleep with you, and I did not for one second think about the consequences — the possibility of becoming pregnant. Neither did you. The blame is not solely on you and will never be. For making a baby it always needs two people. I wanted fun that night. Pleasure, sex for no reason other than enjoying myself. And you wanted the same, we are both not innocent in this."

Your thumb catches a stray tear. Azriel turns his body to you, eyes not once leaving yours. He swallows thickly.

"You remember what I told you that night when we slept together?"

The corner of your mouth curls. "All the filthy things you whispered into my ear? Or when you told me to scream your name for everyone to hear?"  

You raise your brow at the shadowsinger and give his hand a gentle squeeze. A smile blooms on your face, some lightness filling the gloomy atmosphere.

And it even makes Azriel chuckle a little, his eyes flashing as if he is remembering exactly what he said to you. And you do too, and a hot rush fills your entire being. But you bite down on your lower lip, and focus on what he wanted to tell you. 

Azriel is smiling slightly, colour blooming high on his defined cheeks and he hums. "Apart from the filthy things."

His hand is holding yours and he meets your gaze. It almost feels like he can look right into your soul – like something connects your souls. Not the baby, something else... 

"You told me that I am the most beautiful female you've ever seen, if I remember correctly."

Now, he is leaning in. "You do remember correctly. And nothing has changed about that."

Something has shifted, the tension and the desire from that night is back. The room feels warmer all of a sudden, him and his presence the only things on your mind. Almost fully on its own accord, your body leans into him. 

Azriel's lips brush yours, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "I still think so and it has nothing to do with the baby. It is you, and back then was also you. I saw you and wanted you."

He kisses you gently. "I wanted you like I’ve never wanted anything before. I've never felt like that before, and I am not just saying this right now. I mean it."

The next kiss is a little deeper, more passionate. His tongue sweeps over your lips, parting them and you allow him the entrance, lips melding. You lose yourself in him and the soft groans escaping him, accompanied by your sighs. 

Azriel lets one hand slider under your shirt, his warm, callused palm placed on your bare skin. "May I?" he asks and you nod, although you don't even really know what he is asking for. 

Azriel gets up, and down onto his knees in front of you. 

He is crouched down in front you and the couch, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and excitement as they meet yours. The only sound in the dimly lit room is the gentle rustling of Azriel's wings as he tucks them in, and for a moment you find yourself dreaming about a time where he teaches your child how to fly. 

With tenderness visible in every line of his being, he reaches out and places his hands on your pregnant belly. The love in his touch is palpable, his fingers tracing the gentle curves of your bump as if he can feel the heartbeat of the little babe inside. Wonder and joy fills his eyes, and a few tears slip out of them. 

The shadowsinegr leans in closer, his lips pressing a soft kiss onto your belly. You can feel the warmth of his breath and it sends a shiver of happiness down your spine. His love for the little babe reaches you and your own tears roll down your cheeks. "Our baby," he whispers, voice quivering.

Your heart swells, and happiness over the life growing inside of you outrules the worry and the fear about it having wings. 

You can't help but smile, your hand moving to rest atop his. 

The room falls quite and Azriel presses his lips against your belly once again. Then he looks back up at you. As you gaze into his eyes, you know that, with him by your side, you can face whatever is about to come. And you will have a future together. 

When he sits back down on the couch, Azriel helps you bring your clothes back in place and leans in again. 

"We can do this," he whispers against your lips. "We will do this. We will be a family. The kind of family our little boy deserves."

His words are so lovely, so wonderful, they make your heart warm from the inside out, and yet you pull back with a giggle, and tears glistening in your eyes. "Our little boy? How do you know it will be a boy?"

Azriel smiles, both his hands now cradling your face. He looks at you like you truly are the most beautiful female in the entire world, his eyes full of love and hope. "I have a feeling." 

He leans his forehead against yours, stroking your skin gently. 

"And yes, yes, we will be a family. A wonderful one." Your eyes close, and you revel in the feel of his hands on your face, his closeness, his presence. You blow out a breath and shift a little, wanting to snuggle against him, but—

A scream parts your lips, and you can feel liquid. Everywhere. Wetting the couch beneath you and running down your legs. Your hands fold over your belly and you groan loudly. And the liquid is not the one of your water breaking…it is a deep red. 

The last thing you hear before the blood rushing in your ears gets too loud is Azriel saying — or rather shouting, "I'll get Madja!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ tags for this series: @amysangel @bookishbroadwaybish @theofficialmadman tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

[warlocksoup]

haikyuu angstober

day two: iwaizumi hajime

art: oracle of black enchantment by mildred payne

soundtrack: ignorant piece of shit by carissa's weird

word count: 700

warnings: implied terminal illness, death, hospital setting, religion, grief, unhappy ending, i cried while writing

taglist is open, complete this form to be added

Iwaizumi does not have a relationship with God. His parents never cared, so he never learned to care. He never learned how to pray, and he’d never needed to.  

The stagnant, sterile smell of the cramped hospital room fills his lungs, and he holds onto her hand, limp and weak. His breathing is shaky, and each inhale is interrupted by a cutting sob. Iwaizumi does his best to hold his breath as he looks down at her, laid out in a hospital bed, eyes shut and gently snoring, IVs tying her down like overgrown vines.

He’d been warned that this was coming. Iwaizumi had been given ample time to prepare; whether that be to cut and run or prematurely grieve or prepare himself for this eventual reality. But instead, he grit his teeth and dug his heels in and pretended that everything she gave him was endless.

Iwaizumi doesn’t let go of her hand as he kneels at her bedside. It’s cold, and he holds it between his own hands as he cups them together in prayer. He doesn’t know how to pray. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs. So he starts with a choked up, broken exhalation of, “Please.”

Please, he says again in his head, eyes screwed shut. Please don’t take her away. Please give her another year, at least. She deserves a hundred. She deserves so much more than what you’ve given her. Please don’t take her from me. I’ll do anything. I don’t want her to die. Please. She can’t die. Please, please, please.

The weight of a world without her in it is pressing down on his chest, and he can feel in encroaching, getting heavier and heavier with each plea that echoes in his head. It’s starting to devolve, spinning out of his control and Iwaizumi has to bite down on his tongue and hold all the air in his lungs so his sobs don’t wake her.

His wet eyes open and look up at her, and he exhales slowly, carefully and controlled. She doesn’t look like herself, lips chapped and cheeks hollow with deep, purple bruises under her eyes. She looks like half of her is somewhere else.

Please, he says internally again, lifting her hand slightly to place a kiss on the curve of her finger. Please, he pleads as one hand reaches up to smooth out the ends of her tangled, brittle hair. Please, his thumb traces the outline of her jaw, just slightly trembling.

When the sun was high in the sky and she could still stand steadily on her own two feet, she had taken a hold of Iwaizumi’s hand and drawn patterns on his palm. The air smelled like the salt of the sea. “When the time comes,” she had asked, quiet and unsure, “can you be there with me? I don’t want to go alone.”

Iwaizumi turned his head at the time. He regrets this now. He wishes he had taken hold of her then and looked her in the eye when he said, “Of course I will.”

Please, Iwaizumi thinks, like it’s the only word left that he knows. He bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. Please.

When it happens, it’s uneventful. It’s quiet. Iwaizumi is sitting by her side, in the same spot he’s occupied for weeks, tangling his fingers with hers like he was trying to tether her down.

He almost doesn’t notice it, when the constant beeping off the heart monitor slowly starts to fade, and then peters off. Iwaizumi was focused on her hand, how it felt in his, how cold it had gotten. It takes a few moments for the silence to settle over him.

And when it catches up to him, he raises his head to look at her, half-expecting her to be sitting up, the wires that connected her to the monitor ripped off and hanging limply in her curled fist. But she’s just lying there, still, like sleep.

Iwaizumi stands and leans over her. His hand is shaking as it reaches down to caress her cheek. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until it drips onto her hospital robes. Her snores stop, and her chest doesn’t rise.

if you enjoyed please consider reblogging or sending in an ask <3

taglist: @hiraethwa @lale-txt @kr1nqu @angee444 @psychedellyc @geektastic84 @solzscribblez @asrinchin @nyxlai @miiyas @wyrcan @chocolains @tsumuus @kameyyy

[perlukafarinn]

Usually when Claire works the closing shift at Rocky's, she and Dean will wind down with a couple of beers at the end of the night. It's a nice little ritual Claire looks forward to every time she comes around, though she'd never admit as much out loud.

Tonight, Dean has mixed up a batch of one of his specialty cocktails - The Queen of Moondoor. It's bright, a sort of red-orange color, and has a sweet and sour taste that makes Claire's jaw ache.

"Do you like it?" Dean asks, like Claire's opinion really matters.

She nods. "It's good."

She's not lying. Dean isn't really a cocktails kind of guy but he's put a lot of effort into every detail of Rocky's. From the various pride flags carefully hung behind the bar, to the salt painted into the windowsills, every inch of the place is meticulously planned out. Rocky's isn't officially a hunter's bar - though it is explicitly a gay bar - but it's become an unofficial gathering place of queer hunters across the continental US.

Even the cocktails on the menu are Dean's own invention. All of them have a backstory, some of which Claire isn't privy to. She knows enough to understand why the Queen of Moondoor is Dean's personal favorite, though.

It also packs a surprising punch. Two drinks in, and Claire already feels herself tilting from tipsy into full-on drunk. She slows down her pace.

"How long are you planning on sticking around now?" Dean asks, because free booze is never just free booze with him. There's always the interrogation. He's almost as much of a mom as Jody is.

"A few days," Claire answers vaguely. "Maybe longer, who knows. I don't have any hunts lined up right now and you pay pretty well."

She knows for a fact he pays her double what he does his other bartenders. Neither one of them ever mentions it, though.

"Weren't you heading back to Jody's?"

Claire shrugs, uncomfortable. She had been, before last night's call with Kaia. They're good most days, even with the strain of Claire being on the road half the time, but sometimes when they talk, they'll hit on a sore topic for one of them and things will get stilted.

The anniversary of Mom's death is coming up in a couple of weeks. Kaia wanted to join Claire for her visit to the cemetery.

"What's on your mind, Strawberry Shortcake?"

Claire is supposed to roll her eyes now. Tell Dean to fuck off and mind his own business.

She doesn't really want to do that. But she doesn't know how to explain to Dean what she's feeling, either.

"It's stupid," she says. "I'm being dramatic."

"You? Never."

Claire scoffs, and Dean's eyes soften.

"You can talk to me, you know."

"Yeah," Claire says, because she does. He gets her, weirdly enough. They get each other. It probably doesn't say great things about either of them. "I just... I feel like I'm making up problems."

Dean takes a sip of his drink. It's difficult to look dignified, drinking out of a straw, and he does not remotely manage it. "Let me be the judge of that."

"Kaia wants-" Claire stops herself, because that's not the point of it. "I - we're good. Me and Kaia. I don't feel ashamed about it."

Dean waits for her continue.

"I'm a lesbian," Claire adds, even though, duh.

"Congrats," Dean says, and it feels like it could be sarcastic but it's not. He means it.

"I don't think -" no, that's not right. "I know my parents wouldn't be okay with that."

The statement lands heavily between them. It feels bitter on Claire's tongue, an ugly truth held at bay for far too long. She feels awful saying it, like she's failing her parents. Speaking ill of the dead. But it's the truth.

Mom and Dad would make these... comments. And Claire remembers each one with perfect clarity, because she's known something was different about her for a very long time. She knew those comments were aimed at her, even if her parents didn't.

They were wonderful parents in every other aspect. Up until they abandoned her, that is. Claire still can't help but feel like she's failing them, sometimes, being who she is.

"They might have changed their minds," Dean offers. "If they'd known. It's different when it's your own kid."

Claire eyes him, curious. "Was it different for your parents?"

Something crosses over Dean's expression, too quickly for Claire to catch it.

"No," he admits after a beat. He runs his hand over his face. "Maybe - Mom might have been fine with it. She didn't know."

Claire swallows. "But your dad did. And it wasn't different."

She feels cruel, pushing the topic. But there's some perverse part of her that needs the confirmation. Dean reminds her of herself, in a lot of ways. He'd say it was the other way around. If he experienced the rejection that Claire feared as a kid, the one that still scares her even if it's purely theoretical now, then that proves something.

"It wasn't," Dean admits. "But Jimmy Novak was no John Winchester."

Claire's chest aches. There's some hollow triumph at the abstract confirmation of her worst fears. Mostly, she just feels like shit.

"For what it's worth," Dean adds, "I think you're perfect. No notes."

Embarrassingly, Claire's lower lip wobbles. She clears her throat, looking off to the side as she tries to regain her composure.

"You think you're my dad or something?" she asks, voice rough.

Dean shrugs, looking embarrassed himself. "I kind of think of you as my kid, yeah. If that's okay."

Claire crosses her arms, feeling warm and aching and off-kilter. "I - yeah. Yeah, that's fine."

[itryhardtomakethishouseahome]

Jjk love languages

~Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Maki, Megumi, Choso

pt 2(toji & sukuna)

a/n: sorry if this sucks, I wrote in in two hours(i just realized i left out toji but lmk if you want me to write one for him too). also, please reblog if you can, I'd really appreciate it!!!

Gojo~

Annoying the absolute fuck out of you(obviously)

You could be lying down reading a book or watching a show/movie and this man will sneak up behind you and try to jump scare you or use his infinity to prank you. When he’s laying on you and you haven't said anything for a while he’ll look up at you and start poking your cheeks or biting you.

On days where his behavior doesn’t resemble a child fueled by 6 bottles of coke, 3 monsters, 8 red bulls, and 10 tons of sugar, he’s extremely gentle and soft with you. Satoru will cling to you and kiss your cheeks, neck, forehead, or hands or caress your face while staring deeply into your eyes telling you that he couldn’t imagine a life without you. 

Maki~

Encouragement 

Sparring with Maki was never easy and 100% of the time you end up getting knocked on your ass which is a little sad considering she always takes it easy on you. She has a habit of letting everyone know how much they suck and rarely ever encourages those that train with her but with you she’ll help you up and tell her that you almost had her and to not give up with a half soft half cocky smirk. 

Because of where and how she grew up, she’s not the best with emotions but if you’re sad/stressed she’ll rub your back and tell you everything's gonna be okay or let you fall asleep in her arms if you’re at home.

Geto~

Princess treatment

If you need something but you're sitting with your legs over Suguru’s lap or laying on him and don’t feel like getting up he’ll sigh and immediately get up and get it for you. 

When you’re out shopping with him, Suguru always pays for everything even when you try to fight him over it. He’ll always buy you food or offer to share his with you even though he ends up fighting the reflex to swat your hand away  when he sees you reaching for some out of his peripheral due to Gojo trying to steal some all the time.

When you’re too tired to get ready or you’re sick he’ll bathe and clothe you then brush your hair while telling you how beautiful you are and that he’ll always take care of you.

Megumi~

Honestly all i can say is “idk i just work here🤷‍♀️”

In the beginning of your relationship Megumi was awkward. He was a mix between vibing in silence with you and trying to figure out what to say and do. You knew he was never good with his emotions and that was completely fine because he had other ways of showing what he was feeling or thinking. When he missed you he’d text or call to “check on you” but really it was to hear your voice. When he randomly felt like saying ‘I love you’ he would rest his head on your shoulder or lap or play with your hair.

When you’re sick or stressed but have stuff to do he’ll get sassy with you and demand that you stay in bed and that he’ll take care of both everything you need done and you.

Nanami~

Acts of service and princess treatment

Kento’s acts of love and affection range from small forehead kisses every time he walks by you or leaves the house to you coming home to find a trail of rose petals leading to the bathroom while he’s leaning over the tub, pouring in bath salts and essential oils. He’s always doing something for you like cooking dinner in a pink heart shaped apron and massaging your feet even when he’s the one that had a long day. 

You getting sick is a whole different story. Kento goes from calm mama Nanami mode to uncharacteristically panicked mama Nanami mode. He makes you soup, runs bathes for you, checks your temperature on the hour, and forces you to stay in bed but the second he hears you having a coughing fit his composure goes out the window and he’s by your side in a millisecond rubbing your back and asking if you need to go to the hospital in a panicked tone.

Choso~

Another “idk I just work here🤷‍♀️” moment 

Choso is not only new to society and normal people but also to relationships. He has absolutely no idea what to say and when to say it, but he notices that when he acts on his urges that you seem to like it. Sometimes he wants to blurt out how much he loves you, but he feels like it’d be weird so he’ll either hold your hand and stare at you or pick you up, take you to bed, and cuddle.

Choso noticed that you love playing with his hair so when he feels as though you’re not giving him enough attention, he’ll ask you to brush his hair or wash it for him.

When you get sick he breaks down and panics. He’ll call Itadori balling saying that he needs help, you’re dying, and he doesn’t know how to make you better. It happens every time you get sick; panic and call Itadori to come help while he cradles you in his arms, begging you not to die, with his tears dropping on your face while you try to calm him down.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; best friend's dad | John Price x Reader infidelity. age gap.

He breaks your heart in Greece. Cuts a jagged line down your middle. Spills your wet, sticky blood over the Naxian marble outside of the Temple of Apollo with just a handful of words.

(fitting, you find: you've always considered your aimless pursuit to his heart some bastardised delusion akin to Icarus chasing the immovable sun—)

And you suppose it's kind. Or as gentle as a man like him could ever let himself be. Still gruff, surly. But you've always loved the sound of his voice, haven't you? That sarky growl reminding you of classic muscle cars, American-made; the low, gritty purr of an old Mustang. Enough to make you shiver, even as he's shaping it around these awful, cutting words. It makes you heart flutter, enraptured as he speaks like he's ripping a bandaid off.

Except that now that wound is being filled with salt. Acid. Cauterising itself from the friction burn when the gauze is wrenched off your skin. A permanent scar right in your sternum. A gaping hole spilling all the ugliness out. You wonder if he cares that it's being slashed across his shoes—no sandals, he griped when you teased him in the airport; I hate the feelin' of sand between my toes—that this madness inside of you is finding a home on the hot pavement, rotting under the summer's sun.

"m'thinkin' about marryin' her."

The her in question is ten years older than him. Pettily, you wonder if this is to compensate for the fact that he's nearly two decades older than you. An obscene age gap, you know. But—

It's Price.

Your best friend's dad. The man you've been in love with since you were sixteen. Falling all over yourself after a dumb boy broke your heart, and he offered to drive you home, silent the whole way there before he stopped, a block away from your house, and told you that boys weren't worth your time. Boys. Boys—

Not men.

Foolishly, you let yourself hope. Let yourself become the very thing they talk about in TikTok videos lambasting age gaps and silly little girls who let older men run them into the ground. Why would a man his age have any reason to be interested in a girl yours? Sickening. Disgusting. You're being lead stray, groomed. But you clung to it still, even as you thumbed through the comments on those videos and found pieces of yourself lying among the rubble.

You've always known what they say about girls like that. And you were just delusional enough to believe that you were different somehow.

And now—

"Gettin' older," he grouses out, and you wonder if she finds the ornery lilt to his cadence as comforting as you do. Or if it rubs her all the wrong ways. "Might be time to settle down."

Shamefully, you wish he'd say, but maybe you can convince me otherwise, climb into my lap, and eat this decision from between my teeth until all I see when I open my eyes is you.

But that's not the John Price you know. Mr Price. Single dad. Widower. Untouchable.

Mr Price who sees you for what you are—smarter than them, he'd said when you broke down in his Bronco after a softball game where everyone, your best friend included, went to an afterparty that no one invited you to.

Quiet, thoughtful, even when you spent the evening afterwards (the fight hashed out between your best friend and you; i'm so sorry and me too) thumbing through old vinyl records he kept in his basement, listening to the classics that kids your age just didn't understand, so why the fuck do you?

Weekends spent bonding over golden cinema (movies just ain't what they used to be; there's no romance anymore, it's all so—vapid; you don't talk like a kid; i've never considered myself one, do you? he didn't answer. you didn't expect him to). Listening to music older than your dad. Niche jokes and texts that read like I saw this and thought of you.

Your fault, of course, for thinking you could trick him into loving you if you played your feelings through Johnny Cash, Vashti Bunyan, Fleetwood Mac, and Smokey Robinson. An impossibility you know now.

Mr Price who knows you. Who sees through the thin skin you wear and into the heart, the core of you. Who must have known since you called him in the pouring rain to pick you up when you got too drunk to drive home. A house party in the suburbs. Waterlogged flats he told you to toss.

Said nothing at all when you apologised with your head pressed against the foggy glass. You never told him that your sorry, Mr Price was for kissing a boy and wishing it was him.

But he must have known.

open book. pages spilling out. silly little girl with your heart cupped in your palm—

So he knows. Has known. Hindsight says this is him letting you down gently before you get any ideas about forever with your diploma tucked into your chest like a shield. A trip to Greece with your best friend and her dad to celebrate the rest of your life looming over you like a thundercloud. Your eye slanting sideways, glancing yearningly back at him.

sorry, but no. look the other way—

And you think fine, fine, whatever, so long as this doesn't hurt anymore—but what comes out is, "oh."

What follows is this:

He says he's thinking about marrying her with his hands tucked tight under his arms. He tells you he wants to settle down with his chin tucked against his chest, four lines rucked across the pinch of his brow. An emphasis, perhaps, on just how serious he is.

You taste salt in your throat. Sand between your toes. The sun blisters against the thin straps of this pretty blue dress that match the melting sapphire of his burning gaze. It's heatsickness, maybe. Or just all the years of want building and building, festering and growing, until it can't climb any higher—forever reaching for god that won't spare you a glance—and—

falling down around you. wings of beeswax and bird feathers.

Solemn, he says, "it's what I should do."

(i saw this and thought of you—)

Your fingers knot into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut between your knuckles until it peels back from the seams, curling between buttons.

You've had too much to drink. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. Somewhere along the walk to the temple, you snatched a puff of his cigar, the nicotine blooming between your teeth. Head full of cotton too thick for you to think. To retreat.

In the morning, when he refuses to look at you, you'll blame it on the drinks. On the sun. On being young and dumb and untouchable under the Greecian sky.

Daddy issues, you can shrug. You have the diagnoses from every single TikTok psychologist embedded between your teeth. See, mine never loved me and now I'm taking it out on you—

But right now, you kiss him.

Or maybe—

Maybe he kisses you.

It's a mess in your head. Everything turned upside down, all askew because when your lips touch his, he shudders. His chest rumbles under your fingers, expanding with the sudden inhale as he breathes you in. Deep. Takes you into his lungs—all salt-slick, and sunburnt—and groans low in his throat, all want. All heat.

He should push you away. He's your best friend's father. Two decades older than you. Dating another woman who's so far removed from the person you are that she might as well be a different species. Mature. Stoic. Poised. Graceful.

The perfect antithesis to you.

Everything about this must be ringing shrill in his ears: abort, abort, do not engage. He should push you off.

And he does.

After a moment of your greedy, unpractised kisses pepper along the bristles hanging low over his lips, he makes another sound. Angry. Whitehot. His hands slip free from the damp prison of his armpits and latch tight onto you. Thick, hirsute fingers curling over your upper arms, and pushing, shoving—

Your back hits the marble pillar. The air in your lungs punched out.

But when you try to siphon more balmy air into them again, you find an obstacle in your way.

His mouth.

Searing, blistering. Slanting hungrily across yours, devouring. Intense, dizzying. Your head cracks against the wall when he shoves his thigh between the silken softness of your inner thighs, blanketed by the dress that made him swallow when he first saw you in it, eyes darkening like a storm.

(bit short, ain't it? he'd groused, and your friend slipped her hand into yours with a huff. stop being such a dad, dad—)

It slots there now like it's owed the right. Thick thigh spreading yours apart on a gasp, a groan. Corded muscle pressed taut to the seam of you that burns hot. Melted wax. Dripping against his leg. He must feel the way he liquifies you, turns you into putty. It drags a sound his chest. The misfire of an engine.

"Fuck," he breathes, all teeth. Salt. He should be saying, no, stop. go back to your hotel room, and we'll pretend this never happened, silly girl. But he pulls you closer instead, his hand looping around to cradle the back of your tender head in the cup of his palm. A small comfort as he delves his tongue between your teeth. "Makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"

The words are growled against your mouth. You taste the tobacco-smoked fury between his teeth when they sink into your lower lip. Angry, maybe, that you're making him do this. That you had to be who you are, and despite that, he kisses you like you're not.

"Price," you whine, arching into his chest when he pulls at your bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Skin tender, bruised. He ruts into you at the sound, nearly purring. You feel it then. The hard press of his thickening cock against you. Mindlessly gyrating against your hip. The turgid length proof of his desire. His want for you. All you. "Please—"

He folds himself over you. Tucks you into the bracket of his chest, his arms. His fingers are iron bars on your skin, holding you tight to him. Unwilling to let go. His hand on your crown; his fingers gripping your thigh, hiking it up his waist. It's good. Better than all of your meagre fantasies combined. You've wanted this since you knew what want was. When he wandered into the kitchen the morning after a sleepover with a towel slung loose around his hips, his hand scrubbing the damness from the wet tangle of his hair, spilling them down his neck where they disappeared into the thick bed of hair on his chest, his belly.

He paused in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the island, eyes wide and drilling holes into his chest.

"Shit," he'd cussed, gruff and mean with sleep. "Didn't think—"

But you did. Over and over again. With your face pressed against your pillow, fingers shoved into the sticky wetness leaking out of your cunt. Thinking of him. Wrong. Wrong. Terrible—

Dad bod, your friend said with a cluck of her tongue that afternoon. And you feel it under your fists as he heaves. As he eats you alive, whole. Because kissing John Price, Mr Price, is a whirlwind. A maelstrom.

He devours. He conquers. He owns.

He licks into your mouth, petting over your tongue, your teeth, until you can't remember anything else except the tobacco and whiskey tang of him. Heady. An elixir you want to sip from for the rest of your life. Damn him—

He tells you he's thinking about marrying someone else. Then whispers, ash-soft, against your chin that he can't get enough of you.

Grunts, "you need to go," as he sinks his teeth down, hard, into the throbbing skin of your pulse. Laying claim as he slowly comes to.

The coarse hair of his beard rubs your flesh raw when he buries his face into your neck. You can feel the thunder of his heart against the knob of your wrist. The heat of his skin burning through you.

"Fuck," he rumbles again, and you know this time it's for good. Ironclad. But the remorse is paperthin. "Shouldn't have done that, should have—"

"I want you," you whisper through bruised, kiss-bitten lips. "I want you so bad. I loved you since I was—"

"Don't."

The sweat beading along his hairline smears across the naked arch of your shoulder and neck when he moves; a shallow shake of his head. Muted and small. Heavy with reluctance.

The man who meets you when he pulls back is frowning with wet, red-stained lips. His eyes are hardened sapphire reinforced with unbreakable obsidian. There's no inch to move. No cracks to squeeze through.

"This—" he swallows. You hope he tastes you still. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. The drag of his cigar, the one he coached you through, scoffing when you choked, when you cough. You hope he runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes nothing but you. "This shouldn't have happened."

You don't say anything. Can't. The words are staining his lips.

You nod, slow. Cautious. He tells you he's marrying someone else. Thinking about it. Says this shouldn't have happened—

But he holds you like he can't bring himself to let go. Fingers clutching, clenching tight around you. Possessive. Greedy, even he as he slowly unspools from around you. As he pulls away, scouring his hand down his face with a deep, ragged inhale. Rough, worn fingers digging into his jaw until the knuckles under a dense cropping of umber hair turn white, nails pinking under the strain.

"This isn't—"

You nod again. Soft and slow, but you let your tongue flicker out, chasing the smoke drying on your swollen lips. It stings. The burn makes you think of him. Of his hot, heavy hands on your skin.

His eyes drop down to follow the slip of red that teases out between your teeth, blackening as they trace the new wetness left behind. You can feel him twitch against your thigh.

Your name is a broken snarl trapped in the thick of his throat. You've never heard it like that. Never. It does something. Lights you up from the inside out. Supernova in his arms. Icarus burning, crashing down to earth—

Catch me, Apollo—

He pulls away instead. Detaches from you with a heavy groan, as if the distance that now sits between you hurts him just as much.

The silence is broken by the sound of the crowd just beyond the pillar. You can see the moment it settles over him in the flattening of his eyes, the erasure of all affection that bloomed bright in blue. The terse set to his shoulders. The distance, the space, that grows and grows and grows—

He clears his throat. Mr Price once more. Untouchable. Off-limits.

"You should go," he says, and there's not an ounce of give in the rough flatline of his voice. Fixed. Firm. "You should go back to your hotel room. Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

"And you?"

He sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Don't worry about me. Just—go back to the hotel room. We can—we'll talk in the morning."

"Where'd you?" She asks when you crawl into bed, the starchy sheets rubbing against your sunbitten skin.

There is a deluge of things you want to say. Things like—

I'm sorry. I love him. I—

can't let go.

"I think I just got my heart broken," you say instead, and wonder when the tears are supposed to come. At the wedding, maybe. But right now, you just feel numb. Empty.

The bed creaks when she rolls over, facing you in the dark. "Really? Didn't know you were, you know, foolin' around with anyone."

"I wasn't. It's—" your dad. But you can't say that, can you?

There's something painfully nostalgic about loving a man you're not supposed to want. A man who cannot, should not, want you back. An unrequited love in a foreign land. Unconsummated in the summer's heart. Sticky, bittersweet heartbreak.

Or, that's what it's supposed to be.

They are not John Price, though. Your best friend's dad. And they didn't kiss you back—

But he did.

And you think it's the worst thing he could have ever done.

[tightjeansjavi]

as natural as another leg around you in the bed frame

A/N: well..this was supposed to just be a fluffy little piece with a dabble of smut but uhh we took the angsty route! Don’t act so surprised ;)

~word count: 2.0k~

Summary: Joel returns home to you after patrol injured, and hiding it from you.

Pairing | post! outbreak Joel Miller x f!reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, minor injuries, mentions of a knife wound, stitches, blood, brief lying, stubborn Joel, soft! Joel, protective! Joel, he turns into a whimpering mess! Joel, comfort, care, unconditional love, tending to Joel’s wounds, intimacy, handjob in the tub, praise, talking him through it, ends with a well deserved nap, reader has no physical descriptions, no age gap, +18 minors dni!

main masterlist masterlist

If there’s one thing that Joel Miller loves most in this cruel, unforsaken carnage of what is left of the world that he knows, it’s the privilege of getting to come home to you. He has someone to protect outside of Ellie, who is well off in her own life with Dina by her side. Joel would still put his life out on the line for her without a second thought. He’d do the same for you because well, you’re his; and he is yours.

He comes home to you, to your arms, to your warmth everyday. He thrives in it the second his arms loop around your waist and he hugs you so tight to his chest you can hardly take in a lungful of air. You let him hug you just like so every time. You love him, and that’s all there is to know.

Your Joel sometimes returns home to you with speckled blood spattered on his cheeks, dusting his eyebrows and salt and pepper hair. Sometimes his flannel is caked in dirt and congealed blood, but it’s never his own. He always reassures you that it’s not his. He kisses the frown that appears between your brows when you’re feeling unconvinced. Maybe it’s due to the way his hands tremble at the slightest, or his breath hitches in his throat, a wheeze slides past his lips as he tries to mask it with a quick clearing of his throat.

You see right through it, and he knows you do.

“Joel,” You softly whisper through the calming domestic air. “Are you hurt?”

He tightly shakes his head, back going rigid and stiff like a plank of wood. He avoids making direct eye contact with you to try and mask the fact that he is lying.

“M’not hurt, sweet girl.” He murmurs as he slowly slides his rifle strap from his shoulder. He winces slightly from the jagged gash on his right bicep as he hangs the strap of the rifle along the rusted hook on the wall.

“Please don’t lie to me. You’re hurt. I can see it written all over your face, Joel.” You pleaded with him as your hand traveled up the expanse of his chest and finally rested along his jaw. You could feel the patches of his wiry beard lightly scratch across the soft underside of your palm.

“S’just a scratch. Ain’t deep or nothin.’ I’m alright. You don’t gotta worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.” His words rumbled like thunder from an oncoming storm. He wasn’t exactly an expert liar.

“Let me see it.” You demanded in an urgent tone, thumb gently brushing across his chapped lips.

His head dips down in defeat as he leans into your soft caress, “Honey,” He starts, almost vying to plead with you, but you don’t let him finish.

“Joel, please. Please just let me take care of you. You’re hurt, and I need to make sure it’s not infected.”

He begrudgingly agrees because he knows this is a battle he cannot win. His hand slowly reaches up towards his face as his fingers find yours and thread them together before dropping them to his side. He lets you lead him up the staircase and to your shared bathroom. He doesn't speak, only grunts as you sit him down on the edge of the closed toilet seat.

You can feel his eyes drifting across your back as you grab the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet.

You’re too good to him, he silently thinks to himself as he begins to undo the buttons of his flannel. His shoulders ache as he peels the fabric from his skin and discards it onto the faded tile floor. He’s got a makeshift bandage wrapped around the wound as you use the empty trash cash as a makeshift stool. “Just a scratch?” you question as he unties the fabric. The gash is at least an inch or so deep. Just enough that he’ll need stitches.

“S’nothin.’ Stopped bleedin’ hours ago.” He mumbled under his breath.

“Why did you want to hide this from me, Joel?” The firstaid kit is resting along your lap when he finally makes eye contact with you.

“Cus’ I don’t like seein’ you upset when I get hurt. S’my fault. M’gettin’ slower out there. Can’t keep up like I used to.” He sounded defeated as his shoulders slumped forward.

“Joel, I'm not upset, okay? I just don’t like it when you hide these things for me. I’m sure the guy that knifed you is in far worse condition than you are.” You responded softly as you pulled out what probably was 20+ year old disinfectant, but it still did the trick.

“Let’s jus’ say he’s gonna have a real long sleep. Bugs n’the critters will make good use outta his body.” Joel was never shy when it came to his duty on patrol, and what it sometimes turned out to be. He knew you were not frightened by this knowledge, and he knew you held no moral judgment over his head for it.

“This is going to sting a little.” You briefly warned him as you held the spray bottle a few inches above his wound before administering a few spritzes.

“M’favorite part.” He teased with barely a wince given.

When his wound was clean, and the needle was sterilized, Joel pressed a tender kiss to your temple in reassurance. “G’nna patch me up nice n’good now, baby?”

“Mhm.” You murmured softly.

“‘Atta girl.” He relaxed his posture, and his arm so you would have an easier time stitching his skin back together. He knew this part always made you a little apprehensive, but humming soothingly under his breath did the trick.

Once you had successfully sutured his wound, you wrapped it firmly in a bit of gauze before tilting your head in the direction of the tub. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

He didn’t argue this time, but before you could stand up, he was reaching for your face with both hands as he pressed his lips to yours in a gentle embrace. It was tender, sweet, ignited by his devotion for you. The kiss lasted all of a few seconds before he was reluctantly pulling away. You heard the familiar crack of his knees as he slowly stood up.

You silently started the water for the tub. Checking the temperature every few seconds to make sure it was adequately warm enough for the two of you.

You listened to the faint clink of his belt, followed by the denim of his jeans sliding down his strong thighs. You watched from your peripheral as his broad form slowly sunk down into the soothing water. He made sure to keep his bandaged arm resting along the rim of the tub so that it wouldn’t accidentally get wet.

“S’nice.” He softly grunted as he stretched his legs out. “Y’gnna join me?” He tilted his chin to the side, watching you with a soft expression etched across his weathered face.

“Of course I am, baby.” You saw a hint of a smirk tug on his lips. He couldn’t help but indulge himself in watching you undress. You were beautiful, and he was a man after all.

Much to his surprise, you didn’t make yourself comfortable between the expanse of his thighs. Instead, you sank down behind him, with your arms wrapping around his middle, breasts pressed firmly to his back as you hugged him tightly.

“What’re y’doin’ back there, honey?” He asked, words vibrating through your body as he craned his head over his shoulder to try and look at you.

“Just want to hold you.” Was your response as you began to press soft kisses between his shoulder blades.

“You’re a sweetheart, y’know that? M’so lucky to have ya.” He nearly whispered as he settled further back into the warm water, and your gentle grasp around him.

Your hands traveled upwards from the soft swell of his tummy, and up to his shoulders where you gently began to knead the sore muscle tissue with your fingers. You worked your way through a stubborn knot just below his right shoulder blade. He melted into your touch like warm butter on a pan. He didn’t realize just how tense he was until you started working your way through his sore spots.

“Y’don’t gotta be doin’ all of this f’me, sweet girl.” His eyes fluttered shut as he let a breathy sigh escape past his lips.

“I want to, Joel. I want to take care of you. You’re always taking care of me..you deserve the same kind of treatment. You do so much to keep me, Ellie, and the rest of the town safe from harm. Most importantly, I love you. You’re my partner, and you deserve all the care and attention from me right now.”

Fuck.

“I love you too, sweet girl. Love you s’fuckin’ much. You’re always s’good t’me. Luckiest man in town, gettin’ to be loved by you.” He hummed appreciatively.

He could feel you smiling against his damp skin as your hands slowly drifted back down to rest along his tummy as a comfortable silence washed over the two of you. The water had begun to turn a slightly diluted pink color from the dried blood naturally being washed away on his skin. The tub faucet dripped a few droplets that landed on the tub's surface leaving delicate ripples in their wake.

He could stay like this forever; here with you.

When your fingers lightly brushed across the expanse of coarse, dark hair along his pelvic area, words were already tumbling from his lips before you could even ask him.

“Please.” He murmured as he desperately tried to grasp at his rational straws. So many times he had denied himself of his own pleasure, simply because he’d much rather take care of you.

His hand that wasn’t resting along the edge of the tub slipped under the water and guided your hand to where his softened cock laid between his thighs.

“Please,” He asked again, voice nearly cracking from the desperation to feel your touch.

“I’ll take care of you.” You whispered as your fingers slowly wrapped around the base of his shaft, thumb reaching up to paint across his weeping tip.

His head fell back to rest upon your shoulder as he gripped the side of the tub with knuckles turning stark white. A whimper escaped past his lips as you slowly began to twist and pump your wrist. You worked him in expert, slow strokes as he praised you shamelessly.

“S’good.” He uttered with a soft grunt. “S’good to me. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop, sweet girl.” He’d beg you if necessary, but based off the way you were softly shushing him with delicate kisses laid upon his cheekbones, he knew you had all the intentions of taking care of him.

His thighs began to quiver underwater, toes curling, hips bucking upwards against your hand as profanity mixed with praise tumbled from his parted lips like an avalanche along a steep mountain pass. He turned into a whimpering mess just from your hand alone.

“Shh. I got you, Joel. I got you. You’re safe..let go baby, it’s okay.” You whispered against the shell of his ear as he cried out your name. His hips stilled in the now cloudy water from his post release. He felt spent, placid, calm in your grasp as his cock went soft in your palm.

You washed away the remnants of blood that stuck to his hair and face, before you departed from the lukewarm embrace.

He was the one to wrap a fluffy towel around the both of you as he left soft kisses anywhere his lips could reach. You declined his generous offer to go down on you simply for the fact that you could sense his exhaustion from the day. You softly offered him a nap instead. His one request was to feel your skin against his, while he paid no mind to the sheets getting damp from not properly drying off. His legs tangled protectively around yours as you lazily pulled the duvet over your bare skin. His nose nuzzles the spot between your neck and collarbone as his arms wrap around your middle. One hand splays out across the soft swell of your tummy, while the other rests across your hip. You sleep for hours in this domestic intimacy that you have forged tirelessly together.

You’re his; and he is yours, and that’s all there is to know.

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