#i NEED them to find comfort in one another

[4nicolas]

satoru thinks he likes the moments after sex with you more than the actual sex itself.

I mean, don’t get him wrong he absolutely loved when the two of you fucked but there just something about the intimacy of the afterglow.

whether satoru was collapsed on top of you or you were collapsed on top of him it felt great. the warmth of your bodies combined made you feel even better.

the two of you coming down from your highs and simply enjoying one another’s presence was another kind of bliss.

he couldn’t get enough of you, he wanted nothing more than to keep you in bed all day; cuddling or being intimate he didn’t care. as long as it contained both your bodies pressed together.

although you were both sticky and sweaty you still felt incredibly comfortable. laying in your own fluids is gross, yeah, but with satoru none of that mattered.

even when the two of you were intertwined satoru still needed more, he needed his arms around you and his legs tangled with yours. he just needed you as close as possible.

your presence alone made him tremendously happy, having your physical touch was just an added bonus, he feels like the happiest man alive when you give him something as simple as a hug. so obviously cuddling was his favorite pastime.

the two of you breathing heavily, not speaking but all the words you wanted to get out being said. your love and adoration was already communicated through the past moments and laying in a comfortable silence was just the cherry on top.

satoru liked to trace little shapes on your skin, his fingers lulling you into a trance, he tried not to let you fall asleep though, he needed his precious lover to keep him company.

if you did find yourself falling asleep satoru would mumble your name or gently scratch your scalp, though if you were genuinely exhausted he would let you sleep.

when you did end up falling asleep he would try and maneuver the both of you under the covers, the added layer keeping you cozy, and being in satorus arms even more so.

other times satoru would try and coax you into taking a quick shower or bath, especially if you both went a bit rougher. all he wanted was the make you feel safe and comfortable and he would always try his hardest to do so.

sometimes the showers consist of satoru lazily holding you against his or vice versa, simply basking in the warm water and each others bodies. did satoru ever mention he loved being close to you?

he does tell you that, a lot actually. but if he didn’t he most definitely would make up by showing it. sometimes when you two take a bath together he’ll let you lay against him, gently massing your shoulders or arms after a long day.

he’ll give you space treatment if you really wanted, anything for you, just say it and he’ll get it.

one part he didn’t like was having to bother or move you so he could wash the sheets, which leads to him not cleaning them just to keep you comfy.

sometimes he would have you sit in the warm tub while he washed the blankets and took care of everything. he wanted to make sure you came back to a clean and fresh pair of covers.

he gave you royal treatment and he knows what that means because he was treated like a king his whole life. though he definitely did much better than that, he gave you all the love and attention you could need tenfold.

when all was said and done the two of you normally got cuddled up under the freshly washed blankets of your shared (king sized) bed, after having taken a nice hot shower or bath of course.

the two of you would hold each other close the entirety of the night, not letting go for a second, and you better hope you don’t have to pee in the middle of the night because you’re not getting out his grasp.

all in all during intimacy and the aftermath and he would take care of you the best he could. after all your the only person whose ever made him feel this way before. it was weird to care so much about one person, he didn’t know how to feel.

he tries his best and will continue to for as long as you two live (yes live, because you’re not breaking up ever.) satoru will do anything and everything for you because he loves you.

he loves you more than anything in the world and couldn’t imagine life without you, so for the rest of his life he will do everything in his power to appeal to you.

of course you tell him he doesn’t need to do all of that but he insists and who are you to say to the satoru gojo?

—

not proof read, im tired and it’s 3am! :P

[asherlockstudy]

A friend and I once thought we had encountered a haunted elevator. We were sitting in the lobby of a hotel very late at night and there was nobody around for a long time, nobody who could have called the elevator. Suddenly as we were talking in the dark, the elevator arrived at the ground floor. The doors opened. There was nobody inside. My friend and I looked at each other, screamed and ran out of the hotel.

I mean, there's still no solid explanation about what happened with this elevator.

Actually, since I am at it, one more story of my haunted hotel lore. Once I and two friends were travelling to a post-Soviet country. Our tour group had booked an old MASSIVE MONSTROUS hotel, a pinnacle of 80s - 90s brutalism. We arrived later than we expected and there was nobody to receive the 40 people of our group. The restaurant had our dinner all served at the tables but there were no waiters or cooks in sight. I don't know how we figured our rooms because there was no receptionist, just our tour guide apparently talking to somebody on the phone. Our room was clean but very old fashioned and austere. From our window we had a view at the pool which was empty and shut down and covered but there was a light illuminating a shadow and my friend was convinced some stranger was there by the pool. My friend went through a full panic attack because she was scared and also she hadn't pooped for a week but the environment was not allowing her to "let go". Needless to say, we needed to ask some questions about the room but there was never a maid, a porter, a receptionist, just ANYONE around.

The next morning we went down for breakfast on time and THERE WAS STILL NOBODY AROUND. We ate and went upstairs to pick up our stuff to leave because thankfully we were staying there only one day. The natural daylight made me feel comfortable and I really had to poop (my friend still didn't) so I told them to go to our group and tell them I was coming in a minute. I didn't take long. I took my stuff and went down the - again, enormous - lobby. There was nobody there. I started looking at the corridors for any late members of my group. Nobody. I ran to the restaurant, just to find a person. Nothing. I returned to the reception and shouted for help. Nothing. I was calling my friends on the phone. No response. I took my luggage and ran to the garden. Nobody. No sign of any living being whatsoever, much less my group. I left the hotel and started running and yelling like crazy. At what seems like an unacceptable distance, which wasn't visible from the entrance of the hotel, there was our bus stopped. I was screaming and running and when I went in, I started yelling at my friends. Turns out there were numerous fights going on in there and my friends were so vehemently scolded for being late, that they could not even drive their point across through the mayhem that there was still another one of us left behind until the bus was gone for quite some distance. We weren't that late, especially my friends. I suspect that everyone just wanted to leave the place as soon as possible.

This was my first time abroad by the way.

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[himasgod]

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

Where you are mute PART 2

How would the housewardens act towards you if you were mute?

kalim, idia, vil and malleus.

Part one with riddle, leona, azul is on my profile <3

Kalim Al-Asim

For Kalim, the fact that you're mute doesn't change how much he enjoys being with you.

If there's anyone who's never had any prejudices about how people communicate, it's him.

From the very beginning, he treats you with the same warmth and enthusiasm as anyone else.

His reaction to learning that you can't speak is more curiosity than concern.

"That's amazing! So how do you communicate? Do you have a special method? Teach me, I want to learn!"

He's not immediately good at sign language because he's a bit slow with memory :( but that doesn't stop him from trying his best.

If you use another method, like writing or using expressions, Kalim adapts quickly because he's already someone who is very guided by emotions and gestures.

Something he loves about you is that, even though you don't speak, you express so much with your eyes and your smile. He finds it beautiful how your face conveys so much without words.

When he's really excited, he forgets that you can't answer him right away and talks nonstop, but as soon as he notices you need a moment to type or respond with signs, he waits patiently with a big smile.

"Oh, sorry! I got too excited again, didn't I? Hehe, it's okay! Take your time, I want to know what you think."

Because he's so expressive, it's easy for you to understand him without him having to say much.

Sometimes just by looking at him, you know exactly what he's feeling, and that makes him even more attached to you.

If someone makes an insensitive comment about your muteness, Kalim flies into a rage. He's not the type to get angry easily, but if someone disrespects you, you can see the serious glint in his eyes as he says,

"Don't ever talk like that again."

Overall, Kalim is the type of person who loves and understands beyond words, and being with you is proof of that.

Idia Shroud

When Idia finds out you're mute, his first thought is like

“Great! I don't have to worry about talking out loud all the time-”

It's not that it bothers him when people talk, but he's someone who hates forced social interactions and finds it stressful to have to respond constantly.

However, when he starts getting closer to you, he realizes something important: it's not that you don't talk, it's that you have a different way of communicating. And that intrigues him more than he thought.

If you use sign language, Idia feels clumsy trying to learn it.

His fingers are fast for games, but when he tries to sign, it feels like he's casting a weird spell with his fingers.

“Ugh, this is harder than learning to program in five different languages…”

But if you use a device to type or communicate in other ways, he feels much more comfortable.

He programs a personalized app that helps you type responses faster, or even a voice synthesizer if you ever need it.

At first, he gets nervous trying to interpret your expressions, but after spending so much time with you, he begins to understand you with just a glance.

"Hey, hey, … in this new game, there's a character who communicates without speaking, just like you! Want to see it? I'm sure you'll love it."

If someone ever makes a hurtful comment about your muteness, Idia first goes pale with fright, then red with fury, and then hacks their devices to play a cruel prank on them

No one messes with his special someone and gets away with it :>

He may not say it out loud, but Idia truly loves how you communicate without words. After all, the best connections don't always require sound.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil has always believed that elegance isn't just about appearance, but also about the way a person communicates and expresses themselves.

When he meets you and discovers you're mute, his first impression is fascination.

“How interesting… You speak without words. It's a unique and beautiful form of expression.”

If you use sign language, Vil learns it without difficulty. He has an excellent memory and is a perfectionist, so he masters it quickly.

If you communicate in other ways, such as with expressions or writing, he watches closely. He becomes adept at interpreting your emotions with just a glance.

He loves the way you convey so much with so little. Sometimes, when others are filling the air with unnecessary words, he looks at you and feels that the connection you have is purer and more genuine than any empty conversation.

When you're in public with him, he doesn't let anyone make you feel inferior for not speaking up.

If someone tries to belittle you, a single glance from him is enough to make them immediately shut up.

“You don't need words to prove your worth. Your presence speaks volumes.”

Malleus Draconia

For Malleus, the fact that you are mute is neither strange nor worrisome.

He himself has spent centuries surrounded by awkward silences and conversations filled with empty formalities.

In comparison, your presence is refreshing.

From the beginning, he takes a genuine interest in how you communicate.

If you use sign language, he learns quickly, and whether you prefer to write or use gestures, he adapts seamlessly.

He isn't someone who needs words to understand you. Over time, he develops a special sensitivity to your body language, to the point where he sometimes asks you something and, before you answer, he already knows the answer just by looking at you.

"You don't need to explain anything. I can see the answer in your eyes."

He loves the reassurance you bring. In a world where people always fear him or treat him with extreme formality, the fact that you can communicate without words gives him a special kind of intimacy he's never experienced before.

When you go for a walk together at night, the silence between you isn't awkward.

Sometimes he simply sits beside you and enjoys the feeling of company without needing to speak.

If anyone dares to belittle you or mock your muteness, his dark presence becomes crushing. Suddenly lightning illuminates the sky man, and his gaze turns icy.

"You dare disrespect someone so precious to me? How insolent."

He's a prince, but to you, he's just Malleus, someone who understands you beyond words.

[halfmoonaria]

her words, not mine

pairing: top!tara carpenter & sub!female reader

summary: you and tara kept things simple, no complications—until she made one.

warnings: smut (18+) fingering (r receiving), secret relationship, office sex.

author’s note: i haven’t proofread this one so..

Tara liked control.

She always had. Even as a child, she found comfort in order. It wasn't just about neatness or routine—it was about knowing.

Knowing that things were in their right place, that nothing unexpected would throw her off balance. Her toys had to be arranged a certain way. If someone moved them, she'd notice instantly. Her bookshelves had gone through endless reorganizations—not because she couldn't decide on a system, but because she needed to find the best one.

Genre made sense, but what if she wanted all her favorite books together? What if she needed to sort them by spine height so they looked even? What if, what if, what if?

She liked puzzles. Not because she enjoyed the picture at the end, but because she liked solving something that had a clear answer. She liked math for the same reason. Two plus two would always be four, no matter what. There was no uncertainty. No surprises. Just rules that made sense, that she could rely on.

She learned early that people weren't like that.

At school, group projects were a nightmare. The moment the teacher assigned one, Tara's jaw would clench, already anticipating the frustration. No one ever did what they were supposed to. No one ever cared as much as she did. So she took over. Not because she wanted to, but because if she didn't, things would fall apart.

People didn't appreciate that.

They called her bossy. Controlling. Too serious.

But what was wrong with wanting things done right? What was wrong with making sure things were finished on time instead of hoping someone else would magically pull through at the last second?

She stopped caring what people thought of her.

By the time she was a teenager, she had already accepted that if she wanted something done properly, she had to do it herself. And that suited her just fine. She didn't need anyone else. She had her plans, and she followed through on them, no matter what.

Tara never half-assed anything. If she committed to something, she owned it.

It was how she got through college at the top of her class. While other students partied, Tara studied. While others procrastinated, she finished assignments weeks in advance. Not because she was a genius, but because she refused to let herself fail. She didn't do 'good enough.' She did more.

And when it came time to enter the workforce, she carried that same mindset with her.

The first job she landed was nothing special. Just a stepping stone. She knew that the moment she walked in. But while others treated it like just another paycheck, Tara treated it like an opportunity. She learned fast, adapted even faster. She memorized company policies inside and out. She figured out what made people listen, what made them respect her.

She wasn't the boss. Not yet. But she knew she would be.

So she worked. And worked.

Late nights, early mornings, weekends sacrificed in the name of something bigger. It wasn't enough to be good at her job—she had to be the best. She studied the people above her, watched how they operated, learned from their mistakes. She climbed the ladder so quickly it made people's heads spin.

By the time she got to the top, no one could say she didn't deserve it.

Now, she was the one in charge. The one who gave orders instead of taking them.

Her office ran exactly the way she wanted it to—strict, efficient, with no room for distractions.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be.

But then there was you.

Tara didn't notice you at first. Not in the way she would later. You were just another name on a new hire list, another employee she expected to follow orders and do their job. You weren't the first person to work under her, and you wouldn't be the last.

But you were different.

She saw it almost immediately. While others hesitated around her, unsure whether to tiptoe or challenge her authority, you never wavered. You didn't shrink under her sharp tone or the weight of her expectations. You never sighed when she gave you extra work, never rolled your eyes when you thought she wasn't looking.

The others tried to hide their exasperation, their thinly veiled frustration whenever she demanded precision. It was in the subtle way they hesitated before saying yes, ma'am, in the tight-lipped expressions they wore when she sent them back to redo a report that wasn't up to her standards. They obeyed, but with reluctance. Even the best among them still carried that underlying sense of just let it go, it's not that serious.

But not you.

You followed every instruction to the letter, not just meeting her standards but exceeding them. If she asked for paperwork, it was on her desk before she even had to remind you. If she wanted reports sorted in a specific way, you did it without question. Not once did she have to send something back because it wasn't done right.

You did everything her way. Everything she wanted.

And you never complained.

At first, she told herself that was all it was—just appreciation for competence. Respect for someone who took their job as seriously as she did. But then she started to watch you.

She noticed things she had no business noticing.

The way your fingers tapped lightly against your desk when you were deep in concentration. The way you chewed on the end of your pen absentmindedly during meetings. The way you bit your lip when you read over a document, eyes narrowing just slightly as if you were committing every word to memory.

It was ridiculous. Inappropriate. Unprofessional.

And yet, sometimes—only sometimes—she would catch herself looking lower.

It wasn't intentional. At least, that's what she told herself. But her gaze would flicker downward, lingering for a second too long. It didn't matter that you never dressed revealingly. You could be wearing the most modest blouse imaginable, and still, her eyes would betray her. The way the fabric hugged you just enough, the way it shifted when you moved—it was infuriating how easily her mind wandered.

She scolded herself for it. She was better than this. Smarter than this.

You worked for her.

And yet, no matter how many times she told herself it was nothing, that it didn't mean anything, the thought was always there. Looking isn't doing anything wrong. Thinking isn't acting.

As long as she never did anything about it, there wasn't a problem.

Right?

...Right?

Tara told herself it would pass.

That it was just a phase—an overactive mind, too many late nights, nothing more.

But the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Because you made it hard.

She had control over everything. Everything. Her schedule. Her business. The way people spoke to her, the way they listened when she gave orders. Control was what she did. It was what she was.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't control this.

Couldn't control the way her eyes lingered on you when you weren't looking. The way she caught herself anticipating your presence, your voice, the way you carried yourself so effortlessly through the office. Couldn't control the way her mind drifted at night, replaying insignificant moments as if they meant something.

But you—you were controlled.

You followed the rules. You knew how to navigate her world, how to move within the strict lines she had drawn. You did everything right. Everything she wanted.

And it infuriated her.

Because no matter how much power she held over you in that office—no matter how much control she had over everything else—she couldn't control what you were doing to her.

She tried to push it down. Buried it beneath long hours and stricter expectations, forced herself to focus on anything but the way her breath caught when you got too close.

It didn't work.

Because eventually, there was that night.

It was late. The office was empty, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of computer screens still in sleep mode. She hadn't planned to stay so late, but neither had you.

And she hadn't planned on letting her control slip.

But it did.

And once it happened the first time—once that line was crossed—there was no going back.

The headache had settled in hours ago, a dull ache at the base of Tara's skull that no amount of pinching at the bridge of her nose had managed to fix. The office had been silent by then—just the faint buzz of a light she had kept meaning to replace, the occasional creak of the building settling.

She should have gone home.

But the end of the day had always felt like a void, like the moment she stepped outside, she would have nothing but time—time to think, time to dwell, time to let her mind wander places it shouldn’t.

So she had stayed.

A few reports had still needed reviewing, a contract had been waiting for her signature—excuses, really, but enough to justify the extra hours. She had skimmed through the papers in front of her, rubbing at her forehead as she had tried to focus.

Then, a soft knock against the doorframe.

Tara had looked up sharply, her thoughts scattering like glass.

And there you had been.

You had smiled, the same polite, professional smile she had seen a hundred times before. The kind of smile you had always given her when you had stepped into her office with a file in hand or a question on your lips.

But that night, it had felt different.

Or maybe that had just been her.

Because it had been after hours. Because she had been tired. Because her body had been tense and restless in ways she hadn't been proud of, and now you had been standing there, looking at her like you always did, and for the first time, she had felt like she couldn't look away.

"Ms. Carpenter..." Your voice had been soft in the quiet space, hesitant but not nervous.

You had shifted slightly, holding up a folder with one hand. "I was finishing up the reports from the vendors, but there were a few inconsistencies in the invoices. I thought you might want to go over them before I send them back."

Tara had swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Of course. Work. That had been why you had still been there. Why you had approached her. Why you had spoken her name so softly it had sent a shiver down her spine.

She had nodded, forcing herself to look at the folder instead of at you. "Right. Leave them on my desk."

But you hadn't moved right away.

And Tara had realized, in that small pause, that this had been the moment where it all had started to go wrong.

You had nodded at her words and stepped forward, placing the folder neatly onto her desk before turning to leave.

And Tara had watched you go.

It had been instinct, at first. A passing glance that had lasted a second too long.

The way you had walked—unhurried, confident but not cocky. The way your skirt had hugged your hips just enough to make her grip tighten around her pen. She had never let herself stare before, but she had been exhausted, her thoughts already slipping past her usual restraint, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she had let herself want.

Just as quickly, she had forced herself to look away.

Of course she hadn't said anything. Of course she had stayed silent, eyes snapping back to the papers in front of her, pen dragging across the page as if that could erase the fact that, for one split second, she had almost wished you had stayed.

But the knowledge that you were still somewhere in the building—that it was just the two of you, alone in the dimly lit office—was enough to make her pulse thrum a little too fast.

She had tried to push it down. To ignore the sudden heat simmering beneath her skin, the restless energy that made it impossible to focus on the words she was supposed to be reading.

But her hands had felt unsteady.

Her grip on the pen had been too tight, her skin too warm, her breathing a little too uneven. She had even flexed her fingers, pressing her palms flat against the desk as if she could ground herself, but nothing had helped.

And it had been infuriating.

Because this wasn't what control felt like.

Control was certainty. Control was discipline. Control was her thing.

This? This had been something else entirely.

Tara had exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face before glancing at the clock. It was late. Too late.

She had decided then—before her thoughts could spiral any further—that it was best to go home. If she was feeling this off, this hot and restless, she was probably coming down with something. Maybe a fever. That would explain everything.

With that excuse firmly in place, she had snapped her laptop shut and started gathering the scattered papers on her desk.

And that had been the exact moment you had walked in again.

She had frozen, just for a split second, fingers still curled around a loose stack of documents, before forcing herself to relax.

The same soft smile. The same perfectly put-together demeanor. A thinner folder in your hands.

"Ma'am," you had said, voice smooth, effortless, sending something sharp and electric straight through her spine.

She had swallowed, gripping the papers a little tighter.

You had stepped closer, holding out the folder. "I finalized the edits on the quarterly report, but I wanted to double-check if you wanted me to send it to the board as is, or if you'd prefer another review first."

Tara had barely heard a word you had said.

She had tried to listen—to focus—but she had still been picking up the last of her things, still forcing herself to act normal, and that had already taken every ounce of willpower she had left.

You had glanced at her desk then, at the way she had been straightening up. Something in your expression had shifted, a flicker of hesitation before you had spoken again.

"Did you want me to close up?"

Your voice had been softer that time, more casual.

And it had been a simple question. A normal one. But for some reason, the sound of it had made something deep in Tara's stomach tighten painfully.

She had nodded, too quickly. "Yeah, that would be great."

Her voice had been neutral. Measured. Like she had barely been paying attention.

But she had been paying attention.

Too much.

Because she had still been pretending to organize the papers in front of her, still trying to do something so she wouldn't have to think about the fact that her whole body had felt wound too tight.

And then you had said it again.

"Yes, ma'am."

And that had been the last drop.

Tara had never let herself indulge. Never let herself do more than look—and even that had been rare, controlled, brief.

But suddenly, none of that had felt like enough.

Suddenly, control hadn't mattered at all.

Tara hadn't planned it.

She hadn't thought about it—not really, not in a way that acknowledged what she was actually doing.

She had just moved.

One second, she had been standing there, still gripping the edges of her desk like it could somehow ground her, still trying to will away the heat in her chest, the tightness in her stomach. And then, suddenly, her hands had been on you, her lips pressing hard against yours.

It hadn't been careful. It hadn't been slow or thoughtful or rational—it had been instant. A desperate attempt to make it all stop.

Because if she kissed you, maybe the thoughts would go away.

If she kissed you, maybe the tightness in her chest would finally ease, maybe the heat in her stomach would stop twisting itself into unbearable knots, maybe she could get her control back.

And for one agonizing second, as she had felt your breath hitch against her lips, she had been terrified that she had ruined everything.

That you would push her away. That you would look at her like she had crossed a line. That you would pull back, storm out, and cost her everything—her reputation, her position, everything she had worked for.

But then you had leaned in.

Not quickly, not in a way that screamed urgency or recklessness.

You had just looked at her—wide-eyed, surprised, the soft glow of the office lights making your lips look even more kissable than they already were.

And then you had kissed her back.

Tara had barely registered the sound of a sharp inhale, barely processed the way her pulse had thundered so hard it almost hurt, because suddenly, her back was hitting the desk, and her legs were wrapping around your waist like she needed you closer.

She had needed you closer.

Everything had been fast—desperate.

The sound of her desk chair scraping back, the crash of a stapler and loose papers hitting the floor as she grabbed at you, pulled at you, let herself want.

She had never been this desperate before.

But she had clung to you like she needed you to breathe, grinding up against your hips with reckless urgency, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, lips parting against yours as her fingers tangled in your hair.

She had felt electric.

Like her whole body was on fire, like every part of her was wired too tight, coiled up with months of restraint she hadn't even realized she had been holding.

And then your hands had slid down.

Slow. Intentional.

You had pushed up her skirt, fingers grazing along the inside of her thigh.

Tara had gasped—actually gasped—her nails digging into your shoulders, her body arching up into your touch, her mind blanking completely when your fingers pressed against her.

She had never let go like this before.

But with you, she hadn't wanted to hold back.

She remembered everything.

Every sound. Every touch. Every second she had let go.

She remembered the way her legs had trembled when your fingers pushed inside her, how she had gripped at your shoulders, nails digging in like she needed something to anchor herself, to keep herself from completely falling apart.

She remembered how wet she had been, how embarrassing it should have been, how it only made you move faster, made your touch rougher, made her hips chase the pressure.

She remembered the way she had moaned—loud, desperate, shameless. How she hadn't even thought about keeping it down, about the fact that anyone could have still been in the building, about anything except the way your fingers curled just right inside her.

She remembered your mouth.

How it had found the skin of her neck, her jaw, the shell of her ear. How you had sucked at her pulse, kissed down her throat, whispered things against her skin that made her throb.

She remembered the burn of her desk against her back, the way her blouse had ridden up as she squirmed against the wood, the way her thighs had ached from being spread so wide around your hips.

She remembered how her own voice had sounded—breathless, high-pitched, needy.

She had never sounded like that before.

She had never let herself sound like that before.

But she had wanted it. She had needed it.

And when she came—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry, forehead pressing into your shoulder—she had realized something that terrified her.

For the first time in her life, she had lost control.

And it had felt so fucking good.

After, there had been silence.

No awkwardness, no words, no need to fill the space with anything but the sound of hurried breaths and rustling clothes. Tara had smoothed down her skirt, fixed the buttons on her blouse with slightly unsteady hands, and watched as you did the same. Neither of you spoke about what had just happened.

And maybe that was for the best.

When you left the office, you didn't look at her any differently. You didn't linger in the doorway, didn't hesitate, didn't ask what it meant. You just said Goodnight, Ms. Carpenter—like you always did—and walked away.

Tara didn't say anything back. She had just sat there, perched on the edge of her desk, feeling HOT all over, feeling something that wasn't quite regret but wasn't satisfaction either.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

She had tried. She had needed to, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the way your lips had parted against hers, the way your body had pressed against her own, the way you had taken without hesitation, without letting her control a single moment of it.

And that was what stuck with her the most.

She had never let that happen before. She had never let anyone else dictate HER. Not at work, not in life, and definitely not in bed.

But she had.

And the worst part—the best part—was that she had liked it.

She wanted it again. She knew that much.

But if it happened again, it had to be her way. Her rules. Her control.

Because this wasn't who she was. She wasn't reckless, she wasn't impulsive, and she wasn't someone who let her own employee bend her over a desk without thinking.

If she was going to do this again, it would be different. It had to be.

And it happened again.

It shouldn't have. Tara had told herself that. She had laid in bed the night after that first time, forcing herself to believe it had been a mistake—one she wouldn't repeat, one she couldn’t repeat.

But then, not even a full day later, she had found herself alone with you again. And just like before, she hadn't thought. She hadn't stopped herself.

It kept happening after that.

At first, there had still been some semblance of restraint. A tension she tried to hold onto, an unspoken boundary she convinced herself still existed. But then it became a routine.

She didn't call you into her office for work anymore.

There were no excuses, no flimsy justifications—just a glance, just a moment, just a shift in the air between you that made it clear what you were both there for.

It happened almost every day.

And if a day was missed? It was made up for the next.

Tara hadn't expected it to get that far. She had thought maybe it would be like some passing phase, some moment of insanity that would fade with time.

But it hadn't.

And what made it worse—what made it better—was that it didn't just happen after hours anymore.

It happened during the day. During work.

Behind a locked office door, when the sun was still high and the sounds of the office still filled the space beyond the walls, you would take everything she gave you. Let her be the one in charge. Let her have the control.

And maybe that was why she let herself keep going. Because even though this was the one thing she shouldn’t be doing, at least in this, she still had control.

Most of the time.

Because there were still moments—rare ones, fleeting ones—where you took it back. Where you reminded her of that first time, of what it had felt like to be completely at someone else's mercy. And when that happened, she told herself she hated it.

But that was a lie.

It always started the same way.

A glance. A shift in the air. A moment where the tension between you sharpened, like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap. And then it did.

Tara would push you up against the door, lips crashing into yours before the lock had even clicked into place. She was always desperate in those first moments, always acting like she had spent the entire day trying not to think about this—about you.

Her hands would be on you immediately, slipping under your blazer, shoving it from your shoulders. Your blouse was next. She had learned how to work the buttons quickly, how to get you bare in seconds. She never wasted time.

Her mouth would trail down your neck, your collarbone, as she backed you toward the desk. She had done it enough times to know the perfect angle to sit you on the edge, to stand between your legs, to push your skirt up just enough to let her fingers tease along the inside of your thigh.

She liked teasing at first, watching you shift against the desk, watching your body react before she even really touched you. But she never made you wait long.

Because she couldn't.

Because the second she slipped her fingers inside, she always realized just how wet you already were. For her. From nothing but the anticipation. And that drove her insane.

Tara knew exactly what you liked by now. She knew the pace, the rhythm, the angle that made your body tighten, that made your fingers grip the edge of the desk like you'd fall apart otherwise. She knew when to slow down, when to speed up, when to press her thumb against your clit just right. She knew how to get you to say her name exactly the way she liked it.

But it was never enough.

Not for her.

Because by the time she felt you clenching around her fingers, by the time she felt you coming undone, her own body was aching for more.

And you always gave it to her.

She barely had time to catch her breath before you were tugging her blazer off, pulling at the buttons of her blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. Your hands always moved differently than hers—slower, more deliberate, making her feel seen in a way that made her shiver.

When you pushed her onto the desk, when you kissed your way down her stomach, she never stopped you.

She couldn't.

Because by then, she was gone. The moment your mouth was on her, the second she felt your tongue against her, she lost everything else—her control, her thoughts, her pride.

All that was left was this.

Your mouth, your tongue, your fingers pressing into her hips, holding her there as she gasped and writhed and tried so fucking hard to keep quiet even though she never fully could.

And it was in those moments—when you were on your knees between her legs, when she was unraveling, moaning, shuddering—that she knew the truth.

She could tell herself whatever she wanted. That she had the control. That this was just another thing she handled the way she handled everything else.

But it was a lie.

Because the truth was, when you had her like this—when you had her completely—you could do whatever you wanted to her.

And she'd let you.

Only until she decided she was done letting.

Because no matter how good it felt to give in to you, to let herself forget, to let herself be taken—Tara never forgot for too long who was really in charge.

Like now when she had you right where she wanted you.

You were on her desk, legs spread around her hips, your back arched slightly from the cool surface beneath you. The usual casualties of your encounters—a few scattered papers, a pen rolling off the edge, the ever-present risk of knocking over her coffee—were long forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the way Tara was inside you, her fingers buried deep, her palm pressing against your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust.

She watched you, dark eyes fixed on the way your body moved against her hand, on the way you clenched around her fingers with every roll of your hips. It wasn't enough for her to just have you like this. She needed to see what she was doing to you. To feel it in the way your breath hitched, in the way your fingers dug into the edge of the desk like you needed something—anything—to hold onto.

You were grinding down against her hand, chasing the friction she was only half-giving you, and that alone made her smirk. It was always like this. Always you getting so desperate for more, even when she was the one giving it to you.

Her free hand skimmed up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh before sliding higher. She tugged at your blouse, pushing it further up your stomach, exposing more of you to her. Not that she needed to—she had already seen you like this more times than she could count—but she liked it. Liked having you spread out for her, flushed and desperate and completely at her mercy.

Her pace didn't change, even though she knew you wanted her to move faster, to push you over the edge. But that wasn't how this worked.

Not with her.

It had started the way it always did. With Tara deciding she wanted you and making sure she got you.

She had been restless the night before, shifting beneath her sheets, unable to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was you. The way you looked when you dropped to your knees for her. The way your lips parted when she pushed her fingers deep inside you. The way you whimpered her name when you were close—breathless, desperate, completely hers.

By the time morning came, she knew she wouldn't be able to make it through the day without doing something about it.

So she did.

She had barely been in the office an hour before she made sure you'd end up exactly where she wanted you. She didn't call you herself—she never did. That would've been too obvious. Instead, she had one of her employees, someone whose name she barely remembered, find you and let you know that she needed to see you in her office.

It was routine. Expected. If Tara Carpenter called someone to her office, it was for a reason, and when she was finished, they'd leave.

No one ever suspected that when you went in, you didn't come back out right away.

That by the time you did, your blouse was just a little more wrinkled, your legs just a little shakier, your lipstick just a little smudged.

Now, Tara had you exactly where she wanted you.

You were gasping beneath her, moaning into her mouth, your forehead pressed to hers as her fingers fucked you, deep and slow, the way she knew drove you crazy. Your breaths mingled—hot, shaky, desperate. She could feel the tension in your body, the way your thighs clenched around her, the way you needed her to move faster, to give you more.

And fuck, she loved this.

Loved the way you looked right now—eyes hazy, lips parted, skin flushed. Loved the way you sounded—soft moans mixing with shaky breaths, filling the space between you.

Loved knowing she had done this to you. That she could have you like this whenever she wanted.

Your hand fumbled for her tie, fingers curling around the silky fabric she had chosen that morning—the one she only wore on certain days, for reasons only she knew.

It was loose around her neck, slightly loosened from the heat between you, but not enough to ruin the sharp, put-together look that drove you crazy. You wrapped the material around your fingers and tugged, not hard enough to choke her, just enough to make her feel it—to pull her closer, to make her fingers push deeper inside you, dragging a desperate whimper from your lips.

Tara exhaled through her nose, slow and heavy, her lips parting just slightly as your mouths hovered against each other. Your breath tangled together, hot and uneven, your gasps mixing in the small space between you.

You felt burning—all over, inside and out. Every brush of her fingers, every shift of her wrist, every slow, torturous drag of her touch sent another wave of pleasure coursing through you, tightening in your stomach, making your thighs tremble around her hips.

Your lips barely moved against hers when you whispered, "I love when you wear a tie."

Tara let out a slow, shuddering breath, like she was feeling your words as much as she was hearing them.

And fuck, she was.

Because the second you said it, she felt it—low in her stomach, pulsing between her legs, sinking into her chest like an intoxicating warmth that she never quite knew how to handle. Your voice, the way you said it, the way you looked at her as you did—it sent a fresh spark of heat through her veins, made her fingers curl inside you on instinct.

You gasped at the sensation, a choked sound escaping your lips as your thighs tensed around her waist.

Tara smirked, just a little, her confidence spiking at the reaction she pulled from you. "Oh yeah?"

Her voice was lower now, thick with satisfaction, teasing but dark—like she already knew the answer. Like she just wanted to hear you say it, wanted to watch the way your face twisted with pleasure when you admitted it.

Your stomach tightened, and you pressed down against her hand, chasing the pressure, the friction, the pleasure.

Her fingers curled deeper.

Your breath caught.

"Yes, ma'am."

Tara sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, her entire body reacting.

Her fingers stilled inside you for half a second, but only because she felt it—really felt it. Like the words sent a jolt of electricity through her veins, like they cracked something open inside her.

Her stomach clenched. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. A deep, primal kind of satisfaction settled low in her gut, making her pulse throb in the worst, most intoxicating way.

You saw it happen. You felt it happen. The way her muscles tensed, the way her throat bobbed with a quiet swallow, the way her eyes darkened—heat flickering in them like a barely restrained fire.

And then she exhaled, slow and heavy, before letting out a quiet, dangerous laugh.

Her smirk returned—wider, more dangerous, dripping with the kind of power she knew she had over you.

Her fingers moved again.

And this time, she was ruthless.

Tara's eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—every messy, undone, wrecked part of you.

Your hair, which had started the day in a neat ponytail, was loose and disheveled now, strands falling around your face and sticking slightly to your skin from the heat between you. It framed your features perfectly, making you look even more ruined, even more gone under her touch.

Your shirt—crisp and professional when you arrived—was a mess. The top buttons had been carelessly undone, either by you in desperation or by her when she pulled at the fabric to get her mouth on your neck earlier. The soft lace of your bra peeked through the open collar, teasing her, taunting her. And fuck, if she wasn't already losing her mind, that definitely would have done it.

She dragged her eyes back up to your face, breathing heavily, watching the way your lips parted, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your forehead pressed against hers like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

And fuck, she wanted to ruin you even more.

Her fingers moved again, curling deeper, pressing harder—just to see the way your body jerked in response, just to hear the way your breath hitched in your throat.

But then—

A sharp knock at the door.

The handle rattled.

You both froze.

A voice��muffled through the wood but clear enough to snap you both back to reality.

"Ms. Carpenter?"

Your stomach dropped.

Tara's body tensed between your legs, her fingers still buried deep inside you. Your breath hitched in your throat, your entire body humming with the worst kind of anticipation—stuck somewhere between panic and overwhelming need.

Tara didn't move. Didn't pull away. Didn't stop.

She turned her head slightly toward the door, her expression unreadable, her breathing slow and controlled. And then—very deliberately—her fingers curled again.

You gasped.

Tara smirked, her fingers still moving inside you, slow but deliberate, as she turned her head slightly toward the door. Of course she knew who it was. She always knew.

"Yes, Derek?" she called, her voice perfectly even, professional—like she wasn't currently fucking you on her desk.

And then—

She pressed deeper, her fingers curling inside you, her palm pressing firmly against you as she quickened her pace. The sharp, overwhelming pleasure sent a jolt through your body, making your legs tighten around her waist, your breath stuttering.

The moan slipped out before you could stop it—loud, desperate.

Tara reacted instantly.

Her hand clamped over your mouth, the warmth of her palm pressing firmly against your lips, muffling the sound. Her grip was just tight enough to be controlling, just enough to make it clear—you had to stay quiet. Her dark eyes locked onto yours, a silent command flashing in them. Behave.

On the other side of the door, Derek kept talking, oblivious.

"I just sent over the reports you requested, Ms. Carpenter. I wanted to go over the projections for next quarter—"

Tara's fingers dragged inside you, slow and deep, pressing against the spot that made you tremble. Your whole body clenched around her, your hands gripping at her arms, nails digging into the fabric of her blazer. Your muffled whimper barely escaped against her hand.

She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. Her voice was impossibly soft, teasing.

"Be quiet."

Your thighs twitched against her hips, your entire body working against you, betraying how desperate you were for more.

Derek continued, still unaware. "There were a few discrepancies I thought you should look at before we move forward with—"

Tara's fingers curled, pressing deeper, her wrist flexing as she fucked into you with slow, devastating precision.

Your entire body shook. Your head tipped back slightly, your lashes fluttering, your breath coming out in sharp, stifled gasps against her palm.

Tara's smirk deepened, her lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. She felt every little movement, every twitch, every uncontrollable reaction you had to her.

"And?" she prompted smoothly, as if she weren't currently ruining you.

Derek hesitated on the other side of the door, then cleared his throat. "Uh—actually, may I come in and show you?"

Tara exhaled a soft, knowing laugh, like she found the idea ridiculous. Because it was.

She didn't stop. She didn't slow down. If anything, she only pushed harder, deeper—testing you, taunting you.

"I'm currently speaking with Ms. L/N," she said, her voice steady, unshaken, the perfect contrast to how wrecked you were against her.

She knew what she was doing to you. She knew how close you were. And she knew you couldn't do a thing about it.

Her fingers curled again, sharper this time, hitting just right, and your entire body shuddered. Your nails dug into her arms, your hips jerking forward, desperate for more.

Tara pressed her forehead to yours, her eyes locked on yours, watching you come undone in her hands.

Her smirk widened.

"I'll be ready in just a second."

Her voice was steady—controlled, composed—but you could feel the way her breath hitched against your lips, the way her fingers pushed just a little deeper, chasing something she wasn't even sure of.

And then, just as you hit that peak, just as your body clenched around her fingers, she pulled them out.

Not slow. Not gentle. A calculated retreat, leaving you trembling, gasping, still teetering on the edge.

She brought her fingers to her lips, holding your gaze as she sucked them clean, and something about the way she did it—just a little slower than usual, just a little less smug—made your stomach twist.

Then it was gone.

She smirked as she straightened your skirt, smoothing it down over your thighs like she hadn't just had her fingers buried inside you. Like you weren't still sitting there, trying to catch your breath.

"Fix your shirt," she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

It was normal. The same teasing aftercare she always gave.

And yet.

There was something in the way she stepped back too quickly. The way she turned away before you could see her face. The way she ran a hand through her hair like she was trying to shake something off.

It wasn't obvious.

But it was enough.

And later, when everything changed, you'd realize that maybe it had started here.

___

Tara had been acting weird.

At first, it wasn't anything obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. But you did.

Because she hadn't called you into her office.

Not once.

Days passed. The longest you'd ever gone without her pulling you aside, without the press of her lips against your skin, without her hands gripping your waist, pulling you close, taking what she wanted. The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken, but you felt it every time you glanced toward her office door and saw it closed. Locked away. Off-limits.

Still, everything else seemed normal. Or at least, it should have.

Tara walked the halls like she always did, head held high, voice sharp and sure when she spoke. In meetings, she still nodded at your input, still approved your reports with the same efficient flick of her pen. But the moments in between—where her gaze should have lingered, where her fingers should have trailed along your wrist as she passed by—were gone.

It didn't make sense.

You saw her in the break room, standing by the coffee machine like usual, but she didn't acknowledge you beyond a brief glance. Not a smirk. Not a word.

In the hall, you brushed past her, felt the heat of her presence right there, but she didn't stop you. Didn't pull you aside. Didn't so much as glance over her shoulder.

And yet, sometimes, when she thought you weren't looking—you swore she was watching.

But it wasn't the same.

Because before, when her gaze had lingered, it was heavy with intent. With want. Now, when your eyes met, something unreadable flickered across her face before she quickly looked away.

Something wasn't right.

Something had changed.

And it wasn't like you could just ask her.

That wasn't how it worked.

You didn't get to knock on her office door and ask if you could come in. Didn't get to slip her a note or send an email saying, Why don't you fuck me on your desk anymore?

That wasn't your place.

That wasn't the deal.

Tara called the shots—literally. She decided when, where, if. And for weeks, that had been fine. More than fine. She wanted, she took, and you let her, because it worked. Because she always wanted. Because there was never a reason to question it.

Until now.

Now, the days dragged on in silence, and you didn't understand.

How do you go from every day—every single day—to nothing?

At first, you told yourself she was busy. Of course she was. She was the boss. She had a company to run, responsibilities, meetings, deadlines. She couldn't always make time for you. That was reasonable. That made sense.

But then—shouldn't she have at least acknowledged it?

Even if she couldn't pull you into her office, couldn't press you against the door, couldn't have you falling apart beneath her hands—shouldn't there have been something? A glance, a smirk, a comment under her breath when no one else was around?

Anything?

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

And it didn't make sense.

Tara had stopped calling you in.

That much had been obvious from the start.

That was the first thing you noticed—the first thing that made no sense.

It happened so suddenly that, at first, you didn't even realize it. Maybe it was because you were busy with your own work, caught up in the never-ending tasks that came with the job. Or maybe, deep down, you just hadn't wanted to notice.

But the absence of it became impossible to ignore.

Days passed. Then a full week. Then another.

And still, nothing.

No glance in your direction when you walked by her office. No subtle nod, no small, barely-there smirk that told you to close the door behind you. No teasing remarks under her breath as you followed her inside. No whispered orders. No lingering looks.

You had told yourself it was fine.

Tara was the boss. She had responsibilities. She wasn't exactly available every second of the day, and it wasn't like the two of you had some set schedule—this was never something you had planned in advance. It had always been unpredictable, sporadic. Sometimes you'd see her multiple times in a week. Sometimes you'd go days without so much as a touch.

That was normal.

That was how it worked.

But this...this was different.

Because it wasn't just that she didn't have the time.

It was like she had chosen not to.

And then, there were the other things.

The moments that should have been insignificant, the ones you would have ignored completely if they hadn't felt so off.

Like the way she suddenly couldn't look at you.

You noticed it one afternoon, passing by her office at the exact time she would normally call you in. It was almost muscle memory at this point—the way your body tensed slightly, the way your pace slowed just enough to see if she would give you a look, if she would signal for you to step inside.

But she didn't.

Instead, she kept her eyes locked onto her computer screen, her fingers tapping against the desk in an anxious rhythm.

And it wasn't just that she didn't see you.

It was that she wouldn’t.

She had seen you from the corner of her eye—there was no way she hadn't. But instead of even acknowledging you, her shoulders went stiff, her expression blank, like she was forcing herself to focus on anything else.

You almost stopped walking.

Almost said something.

But what the fuck were you supposed to say?

And then, a few days later, you tested it.

You had found a reason—something small, something professional, something completely work-related. It wasn't an excuse, not really. You had needed the information. She had to answer.

So, you had gone up to her desk, waited for her to glance up at you, and asked.

And she had answered.

But only in the shortest way possible, her voice clipped, her tone completely detached, like she had no interest in having the conversation at all. She gave you just enough to satisfy your question, nothing more, then immediately turned back to her computer as if you weren't even there.

There was nothing playful in it. No teasing, no lingering glances, no flicker of amusement in her eyes. Just a sharp, calculated disinterest.

And then there was the break room.

Late at night. The office almost empty.

You had been standing by the coffee machine, half-expecting—no, half-hoping—for her to say something when she walked in.

A tease. A smirk.

Something.

But she didn't.

She didn't even acknowledge you.

She walked past you like you weren't even there, went straight for the cabinet, grabbed a mug, poured herself coffee, and left.

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

And you had just stood there, fingers wrapped too tightly around your cup, heart pounding in a way you didn't understand.

You had thought, for a while, that the worst part was the silence. How quickly she had slipped out of your reach—like all those nights, all those moments, had meant nothing at all. Like she had just...moved on, and you were the only one still stuck in place.

At first, you had tried to reason with it. Maybe this was just how things were now. Maybe it had always been inevitable. You weren't entitled to her attention, after all. You weren't owed anything.

But knowing that didn't make it any easier.

And lately, it had started to feel heavier—the quiet, the distance. Like you were walking on a fault line, waiting for it to crack beneath your feet.

But it never did.

Not yesterday. Not today.

Today had passed like all the others. You had come in, sat at your desk, gone through emails and reports, answered questions, filled out forms—played your part, just like always. But it wasn't just another day, not to you. It had been a week now. A full week of nothing.

No call into her office. No lingering glances. No accidental touches.

You had still looked for it, though. Every time you heard footsteps, every time your phone buzzed, every time you passed by her door, you felt that flicker of something—hope, desperation, whatever it was—only for it to be ripped away just as fast.

And it wasn't just about the sex. It wasn't about the heat of her hands or the way she used to look at you like she needed you. It was the absence of it all. The absence of her.

The office had started to empty now, the low murmur of voices fading as people packed their things and headed home. Someone laughed a few desks over, lighthearted, easy. The scent of coffee had gone stale in the air. Phones still rang in the background, but fewer now. The usual hum of the place—the life of it—was winding down.

But you were still here. Still waiting.

And she still hadn't called for you.

Until she did.

It was just as you were reaching for your phone, pretending to check something that didn't matter, that you heard the soft click of a door closing down the hall. You barely had time to register it before footsteps approached—heels tapping against the tile with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

You glanced up just as the sound reached your desk, and there she was—Sophie, from marketing.

She was around your age, maybe a little older, with sharp, dark eyes and a practiced kind of friendliness that never felt too forced. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her makeup was still intact despite the long day, and she carried herself with the kind of effortless confidence that made her good at her job.

She had just come from her office.

You knew it before she even said anything—before she stopped beside your desk, before she tucked her phone into the pocket of her blazer, before she shot you a look that was neither warm nor cold, just neutral. Indifferent.

Then, with no warning, no weight behind it, she said, "Ms. Carpenter wants to see you."

No glance in your direction. No hesitation. No reaction.

Your grip tightened around your pen.

For a second—just a second—it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Your heartbeat, slow and dull all day, suddenly jumped in your chest, rattling against your ribs like it had been waiting for something. Waiting for this.

It was automatic, the way you straightened up. The way your breath caught. The way you felt yourself reacting before you could stop it.

Because finally.

Finally.

She wanted you.

It should have been obvious what this was. It should have been clear that this wasn't an invitation, that it wasn't some whispered promise of relief. But you had gone days without hearing her say your name, without feeling the weight of her attention, without even knowing where you stood.

And now, she was calling you in.

You weren't expecting an apology. You shouldn't have expected it to begin with.

But this—this was something.

You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly as you grabbed your notebook—an instinct, an excuse, something to hold—and stood. Sophie was already gone, her heels clicking away, already moving on with her day.

But you were stuck there for a moment, standing beside your desk, fingers pressing into the cover of your notebook, heart pounding so hard it almost made you dizzy.

This was it.

You had been waiting.

And now, she wanted you again.

You moved without thinking.

The path was familiar—down the hall, past the break room, past the framed awards and corporate slogans lining the walls. It was the same walk you had made so many times before, the same quiet stretch of polished floors and low conversation, the same flicker of overhead lights casting everything in that soft, sterile glow.

It felt like routine. Like muscle memory. Like something ingrained in you, something you had done over and over until it no longer required thought.

But today—today, something about it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your pulse hadn't settled, the way each step felt just a little too careful, like you were trying not to let yourself get ahead of anything. Or maybe it was the fact that, for once, you had no real idea what was waiting for you when you got there.

Not that it stopped you.

You reached the door too quickly, or maybe not quickly enough.

It was closed.

Of course, it was.

You hesitated only for a second—just long enough to take a slow breath, to steady the way your fingers twitched at your side—before lifting your hand and knocking, light but deliberate.

The response came almost immediately.

"Come in."

Her voice.

It sent something through you, something automatic and unshakable, something that made your stomach tighten in a way you shouldn’t have let it.

You exhaled, turned the handle, and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the first thing you noticed was that she wasn't standing.

She wasn't waiting for you. She wasn't already crossing the room, wasn't reaching for you, wasn't closing the space between you before you could even get your bearings.

She was sitting.

She was perched at her desk, one leg crossed over the other, pen in hand as she finished writing something in the notebook before her. There was a chair in front of her desk, positioned deliberately—waiting for you.

That was new.

Your gaze dragged over her, slow, searching—like you were trying to find something familiar, something that would make this feel normal again.

Her blazer was still on, though it looked slightly looser, like she had been tugging at the collar absentmindedly. Her hair was the same, dark and perfect, framing her face in a way that made her unreadable.

And then, finally, she looked up.

Her eyes met yours, and for a second, she just held your gaze, expression unreadable. Then, she offered a polite nod, her voice measured.

"Welcome."

Her tone sent something uneasy down your spine.

You barely had time to process it before she added, smoothly, "Ms. L/N, would you mind closing the door for a second?"

For a moment, you just stood there.

Closing the door wasn't unusual. It was something that had happened plenty of times before.

But not like this.

Not like this, where your fingers curled around the handle, where you turned and pushed it shut yourself. Normally, it wouldn't be you closing it at all. Normally, the weight of it against your back would come from her, from the way she would back you up against it, from the way she would kiss you like she needed to.

This—this didn't feel like that.

Nothing about this felt right.

You turned back to face her, but you could already tell.

There was something in the way she was sitting, something that made your stomach tighten. She wasn't relaxed. She wasn't leaning back in that easy way she sometimes did, wasn't watching you like she already knew what she wanted from you.

Instead, she looked... uneasy.

Her hand twitched slightly before she brought it up to adjust the sleeve of her blazer, fingers brushing over the fabric like the motion would somehow steady her. Her lips pressed together, and then, finally, she lifted a hand—gesturing to the chair in front of her.

"Would you please sit down?"

Polite. Too polite.

The words landed in your stomach like a stone.

You hesitated, but only for a second—then, with a quick nod, you muttered, Yes, ma'am, before lowering yourself onto the chair.

She was watching you.

Or, at least, she had been.

As soon as you met her gaze, she looked away—eyes dropping down to the desk, hands shifting against the surface like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them.

Something about it sent a sharp, uneasy feeling through you.

Tara Carpenter didn't fidget. She didn't look away.

And yet, here she was—sitting in front of you, fingers pressed against her desk, avoiding your eyes like she couldn’t meet them.

Something was wrong.

You sat there, watching her, trying to piece together what this was.

It couldn't be anything serious.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Maybe it was just a minor issue with some paperwork you had sent in—something from last week, or maybe even three days ago. Maybe there had been an error somewhere, some formatting issue, something that had made its way up to her desk. It wouldn't be the first time. She might just be calling you in to correct it, to give you that sharp little look, to let you know in that dry, amused way of hers that she expected better.

Or maybe—maybe it was about this.

About you. About her.

Maybe she was going to say it had to stop.

Maybe she was going to tell you that she couldn't do this anymore, that she had been thinking about it for a while now and it was too risky, too complicated. Maybe she was going to sit there, all composed and professional, and tell you that this thing—this thing that had felt so effortless, so natural, so right—had to end.

Your throat felt tight.

But even that didn't explain the way she looked.

Tara Carpenter wasn't a nervous person.

You had seen her in meetings, handling high-stakes deals with nothing but a smirk and a raised brow. You had seen her walking the floor, speaking in that firm, confident tone that made people straighten up when she passed.

And beyond that—beyond the person she was in the office, beyond the way she commanded attention in a room—there was you.

You had seen her in ways no one else had.

You had seen her with her head thrown back, her lips parted, her hands fisting, You had seen her hair messy, tangled from fingers pulling through it. You had seen the smooth glide of her bra slipping from her shoulders, the slow reveal of bare skin beneath dim office lights.

You had seen her unravel.

So why, why, was she looking like this?

Like she was trying to hold herself together.

Like she was the vulnerable one.

Tara inhaled sharply.

She started to speak, then stopped—lips pressing together like the words weren't quite right.

Then, after another second, she tried again.

"It has been brought to my attention—"

But she cut herself off, exhaling through her nose, shaking her head slightly.

That wasn't it.

She tried again.

"I wanted to discuss—"

Another pause.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. She let out a short breath, dropped her gaze for a moment, then lifted it again.

You just sat there, waiting.

Feeling the weight of it, the heaviness in your chest growing stronger with every second she spent not saying it.

Tara let out a slow, unsteady breath.

You weren't sure you had ever seen her like this before.

She had always been so sure of herself—whether it was in the office or when she was pressing you against the door, her mouth on yours, her hands sliding beneath your clothes. There was never hesitation, never DOUBT. And yet now, sitting across from you at her desk, she looked...unsteady. Like she was losing her grip on something she had been trying so hard to hold onto.

She tried again.

She parted her lips, inhaled like she was about to speak, but no words came out.

Another pause. Another exhale, shakier this time.

You just sat there, silent, watching her.

Afraid to say anything. Afraid to move.

And then, finally, she spoke.

Her voice was measured, like she was trying too hard to keep it even.

"There have been—" She stopped, her jaw tightening. Then, after a beat, she continued, forcing the words out this time. "There have been concerns regarding—"

Another pause.

Her fingers twitched against the desk.

You could tell she was frustrated—frustrated with herself, frustrated with whatever this was, frustrated with how impossible it was for her to just say it.

And then she did.

Sort of.

She started talking—not stopping herself this time, not cutting herself off—but none of it made sense.

"I have to consider the overall professionalism of this workplace," she said, her hands fidgeting slightly, like she didn't know what to do with them. "And it has come to my attention that... certain dynamics could be viewed as compromising to that environment. As a leader, I have to ensure that all professional relationships remain, well, professional, and given the circumstances, it has been deemed necessary to take appropriate action in order to maintain the integrity of this organization and uphold the standards expected within a corporate setting."

The words kept coming, all strung together, tangled and stiff and unnatural.

Like she had put together a bunch of professional-sounding phrases and hoped they would add up to something real.

But they didn't.

Because none of it explained why she was looking at you like that.

Like she was barely keeping it together.

Like this wasn't just business to her.

But Tara kept going.

She kept talking, even as her voice wavered slightly, even as her fingers twitched against the surface of her desk, even as her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on you.

"I've had to take into account the... potential risks of certain workplace interactions and the possible implications of, um... interpersonal relationships that could—" She cut herself off, her jaw tightening, like she was annoyed with herself. Then, a quick inhale, a forced recalibration, and she tried again. "There are expectations that need to be upheld, and I can't allow—" Another pause. Another shift in posture. "It's important to set clear boundaries in order to ensure that the workplace remains an environment of—"

She was stringing together words that, on their own, might've sounded reasonable.

But put together like this?

Like a desperate attempt to say something that justified this?

It was ridiculous.

Your brow furrowed slightly as you just stared at her, struggling to follow along, struggling to even comprehend what the hell she was getting at.

And she wouldn't look at you.

Her fingers tapped against the desk. Her posture was tense, rigid. Her eyes flicked toward the papers in front of her, then the window, then the floor—anywhere but at you.

And then, finally, she finished it.

Her voice was quiet but firm, like she had to force herself to say it.

"...Which is why I've decided that I'm going to let you go."

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalled, like you had misheard her, like maybe she had just said it wrong, like maybe if she tried again it would make sense.

But she didn't.

She just sat there.

And all you could do was stare.

The second the words left her mouth, you saw it happen.

Something in her cracked.

Her expression wavered, that firm, professional look she had been trying so hard to maintain slipping away the moment she heard herself say it out loud. And for a second—just a second—her face was bare. No control, no composure. Just guilt.

It was in the way her fingers twitched against the desk, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the way she tried to get that same firm expression back, but it was already too late.

It was already slipping.

And she knew it.

You didn't react right away.

The words hit you like a slow-moving train—impacting in pieces, each one slamming into you harder than the last.

Your breath came out unsteady, like your body didn't quite know what to do with this.

She had just—

No.

She didn't just say that.

She didn’t.

"What?"

The word spat from your mouth before you could stop it, sharp and incredulous, like your body rejected the very sound of it.

Tara flinched just slightly—so slight you might've missed it if you weren't looking so closely. But you were.

And you saw how her eyes immediately dropped to her hands, suddenly fascinated with her own fingers, as if you weren't sitting right in front of her, burning holes into her skull.

She didn't respond.

She didn't say a single word.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs, a roaring sound filling your ears as you sat there, waiting. Waiting for her to say something, anything, to fix whatever the fuck this was supposed to be.

But she didn't.

And the silence only made your anger grow, burning through your veins, pressing hot against your chest.

Your chair scraped back just slightly as you leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

Still nothing.

She wouldn't even look at you.

She just kept staring down at her hands like she wanted to disappear into the desk, like she already regretted everything she had just said, everything she had done.

Your breath came out sharp, clipped. "So that's it?"

No reaction.

Nothing but the sound of the office clock ticking in the distance.

The bitterness came creeping up your throat before you could stop it, before you could even try to swallow it down.

"You called me in here just to sit there and ramble a bunch of shit that doesn't even make fucking sense—"

Your voice faltered, not because you doubted what you were saying, but because you didn’t doubt it.

You had been sitting here for minutes, minutes, trying to decipher whatever the hell she had been saying, and yet, none of it—not a single fucking thing—had led to this.

This wasn't a warning. This wasn't an adjustment.

This was you're fired.

This was get out.

And you didn't even get the decency of a real explanation.

Your voice came back stronger, rougher, laced with disbelief.

"—just to fucking fire me?"

You let the words hang there, hoping—daring—her to look at you again, to at least own what she was doing.

But she didn't.

She just sat there, barely moving, barely breathing, guilt written all over her face.

Her head hung low, her hands stiff on the desk, her shoulders tight with something that almost resembled shame.

She didn't have to look at you to know what she'd see. She heard the anger in your voice, felt it in the way the air shifted between you, thick with disbelief.

And for a second, she looked like she might say something—her lips parted slightly, like she was searching for the words, but then she hesitated.

Her mouth closed.

She figured it wouldn't do any good.

Your voice came next, clipped and sharp. "On what basis?"

Tara flinched at the formality, the sheer professionalism of your tone despite everything.

Unprofessionally enough, she still didn't answer.

She looked up at you briefly, just a fleeting glance—but regretted it immediately when she saw the way you were looking at her.

Like you knew.

Like you weren't fucking stupid.

Your voice cut through the silence.

"I didn't fuck you well enough, is that it?"

Tara's whole body went rigid.

Her breath caught in her throat, fingers twitching slightly against the desk, but she didn't move, didn't react, just sat there, stiff.

"Not hard enough?"

Her eyes flicked to the door as if she were checking—praying—that nobody was standing just outside.

But you weren't done.

"You chose somebody else to do my work instead?"

The meaning was clear.

Your tone was clear.

And Tara panicked.

Not outwardly, not obviously, but you saw the way her lips parted like she wanted to object, to say something, only for nothing to come out.

The way her hands clenched just slightly in her lap.

The way her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, barely, almost shaking her head—but it was so light, so small, it wasn't even convincing.

Then why was it?

Why was she doing this?

Your patience snapped.

"Then what is it, Tara?"

Her name came out like venom, spat from your lips like an insult, like it wasn’t supposed to be spoken by you at all.

And she felt it.

She felt the way it burned coming from you.

She felt the way it stripped away every ounce of authority she had left.

And for the first time since she started this—since she said those words—Tara felt small.

Tara still didn't answer.

Instead, she took a slow breath, trying to steady herself, before straightening her posture like it would somehow make her seem more in control. But the way she held herself was stiff, unnatural—like she had to FORCE herself to sit upright, to look like she was handling this professionally when she so clearly wasn't.

Then, without meeting your eyes, she started shifting through the papers on her desk, her fingers slightly unsteady as they flipped through each one. It was like she was buying herself time, like if she just focused on the paperwork, she could pretend this wasn't happening.

"I understand this might come as a shock," she said finally, her voice careful, like she had to pick each word as she went. "And I know it's short notice. But I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for this company."

Your stomach twisted.

The way she was talking, like she was trying to soften the blow without actually explaining anything, only made you feel worse.

Tara didn't acknowledge the fact that she was skipping over the real issue. She kept her eyes down, finally finding the paper she had been searching for and sliding it across the desk toward you.

Then, after the briefest hesitation, she reached for a pen and set it carefully on top.

"I just need your signature on this."

Her voice was quiet, hesitant.

It was the first time she had said something direct in the entire conversation, but even then, it wasn't an answer. It wasn't an explanation.

It was just a demand.

It was real.

This was real.

You were being fired.

And she wasn't even going to tell you why.

Your fingers twitched slightly as they rested against your thigh, the weight of the realization crashing over you like a slow, suffocating tide. All you had gotten was a mess of words strung together, words that barely made sense next to each other but had been forced into sentences anyway, as if saying something—even if it was nothing—would make this feel more justified.

You let your gaze drop to the paper in front of you, your eyes skimming over the fine print, the legal jargon meant to make this look official. Termination of employment. Effective immediately. Company policy compliance. You could barely process any of it. The words blurred together, shifting in and out of focus, and you weren't sure if it was because you weren't trying HARD enough to read them or if it was because your eyes were beginning to sting.

Tara was actually doing this.

You were actually losing your job.

A dull, empty ache settled in your chest, something worse than anger. Something heavier. Because now that the initial shock was starting to wear off, now that the confusion and disbelief had settled into something more solid, you felt... sad. Not just because of what was happening but because of who was doing it.

It didn't make sense. It didn't feel real. But it was.

You could feel Tara watching you, her eyes fixed on you like she was waiting for some kind of reaction—maybe bracing herself for it. And when you finally forced yourself to look up, meeting her gaze, you could tell immediately that she felt it.

She looked guilty.

Gut-wrenchingly guilty.

For the first time since this conversation started, she didn't immediately look away. Maybe it was because she saw the water in your eyes. Maybe it was because she realized what she was actually doing. Maybe it was because, deep down, she regretted it.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak.

Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

And you didn't care anymore.

Clearly, she had made up her mind. Begging wasn't going to change anything.

So you clenched your jaw and spat, "Fine."

Tara's face shifted, something flickering behind her eyes—something almost soft, almost surprised. Like she had expected you to fight harder. Like she had wanted you to give her some kind of reason to stop this, to take it back.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached for the pen, flipping it between your fingers once before pressing it to the paper, signing your name in sharp, deliberate strokes. You didn't bother reading any of it. You didn't care what it said. It didn't matter anymore.

The second you were done, you slid the paper back toward her side of the desk. Tara's eyes never left you, not for a single second, even as she reached for the document. She was gripping it too tightly, her fingers pressing into the paper like she was trying to keep them steady. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

She glanced down at your signature, lips parting like she wanted to say something else—something more. But instead, all she said was, "Thank you for your cooperation."

The words sounded hollow.

Your stomach twisted at how easily she said it.

A humorless laugh slipped past your lips, sharp with sarcasm as you leaned back in your chair, tilting your head slightly. "You're really good at this, huh?" you mused, voice laced with venom. "I'm guessing I'm not the first person to sit in this chair while you use words like compliance and company policy to make it sound like you actually know what you're doing."

Tara's expression faltered.

You could tell she knew you were lying, could tell she knew just as well as you did that she sucked at this.

But she didn't acknowledge it.

She straightened her posture, smoothing her hands over her desk before speaking again, voice carefully composed. "You'll be expected to vacate your position by the end of the day," she said, slipping right back into that stiff professionalism. "You'll have until tomorrow morning to collect any remaining personal belongings from your office space before your company access is revoked."

Her words meant to sound formal, meant to sound like she had control. But the slight shake in her voice, the way she hesitated before certain words, made it painfully obvious that she didn't.

You just stared at her.

And Tara swore she saw your eyes darken.

Then, suddenly, you stood, the legs of your chair scraping loudly against the floor as it nearly tipped over behind you.

Tara flinched slightly at the sudden movement, her fingers curling against her desk.

You met her gaze one last time, your expression unreadable.

And then, with a voice cold as steel, you spat, "Fuck you, Tara."

The words felt heavier than anything else you could have said.

And then you turned and walked out, leaving her sitting there, hands still gripping the desk, face still stuck in that tense, guilty expression—watching you go.

Tara didn't call after you.

She didn't try to stop you.

She just sat there, frozen in place, watching as you disappeared through the doorway like you had never been there to begin with.

The silence in the office was suffocating.

She let out a slow, shaky breath, fingers twitching as she reached for the document you had just signed. Your name stared back at her, bold and unforgiving, ink still fresh against the stark white paper. Her grip tightened around it, knuckles paling, and for a moment, she just stared.

You hadn't even looked at her before walking out. Hadn't hesitated. Hadn't faltered.

It was done.

And yet, as the echo of your footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving her completely, utterly alone—Tara had never felt less in control.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Anxious No More

Pairing: Poly 141 x Reader

Warnings: Anxiety, emotional overwhelm, comfort, soft poly relationship, lots of fluff, protective and affectionate 141.

Author’s Note: I use this GIF way too much-

Summary: Feeling overwhelmed has become a constant struggle, but your boys always notice when the weight of the world gets too heavy. Each of them has their own way of pulling you back to safety—reminding you that you’re not alone.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being constantly overwhelmed, like the world was pressing in too fast, too loud, too much. Every little thing felt like a weight on your shoulders, every decision another drop in the ocean of uncertainty threatening to drown you. The pressure sat heavy on your chest, coiling like an iron band around your ribs, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

But somehow, amidst all the noise, they became your refuge.

Johnny

Johnny was the first to notice.

"Yer thinking too much again, aren’t ya?" His voice was warm, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, watching you closely.

You were sitting in the common room, curled up on the couch, shoulders hunched forward, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until Johnny plopped down next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders with a casual ease that only he could manage.

"Hey, c’mon," he nudged you lightly with his shoulder. "Can’t have ya stressin’ yourself into an early grave. If ya do, who’s gonna listen to my awful jokes?"

You huffed, a weak smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Johnny grinned. "Ah, there it is. See? That’s better."

Instead of prying, he started rambling about something ridiculous—some past mission that involved Kyle getting chased by an angry old woman with a broom.

"Swear on me life, love, I’ve never seen the man run so fast. You’d think a whole army was after him, but nah—just an old granny screamin’ bloody murder."

It was impossible not to laugh. Johnny always had a way of pulling you out of your own head, grounding you in the moment.

When he felt you relax against him, he pressed a kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around you. "That’s my girl. No more thinkin’. Just stay here with me."

Kyle

Kyle was always the one to step in when things got really bad.

It had been a long day. A heavy day. By the time you made it back to your room, your chest was too tight, your thoughts racing too fast. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in.

Kyle found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. He didn’t say anything at first—just sat beside you, resting his hand on your back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

"Alright, love. We’re gonna do this together, yeah? Five things you can see."

You swallowed hard, blinking through the fog. "Uh… the window. The lamp. Your hands."

"Good. Keep going."

Four things you could touch. Three you could hear. Two you could smell. One you could taste.

By the time you finished, your breathing had evened out, the tightness in your chest easing. Kyle smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"See? You’re alright. I’ve got you."

Instead of leaving, he pulled you against him, letting you rest your head on his chest, his arms warm and steady around you.

"Whenever it gets bad, just find me, yeah? You don’t have to do this alone."

John

John didn’t need to say much—his presence alone was enough to make you feel safer.

"You're carrying too much, sweetheart," he murmured one evening, finding you staring out at the base through the window, lost in thought. His voice was low, rough but gentle. "You don’t have to do it alone."

Sometimes, he’d just sit with you, handing you a cup of tea without a word. Other times, he’d pull you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms, pressing slow kisses to your shoulder.

"You’re too hard on yourself," he murmured one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. "You give so much to everyone else—let us take care of you too, yeah?"

There was no arguing with him when he used that voice, and honestly, you didn’t want to.

Simon

Simon didn’t talk much, but he always knew when you needed him.

One night, the weight of the world pressed down too hard, and you broke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t quiet. You hadn’t meant for anyone to see, but Simon found you, your back pressed against the cold concrete wall of the hallway, your breaths coming too fast.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you there like he could shield you from everything.

"Breathe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve got you."

No judgment. No questions. Just his steady heartbeat against your ear, his warmth anchoring you back to reality. His gloved hand slid up and down your back, slow and firm, and after a few moments, he pressed his masked face against the top of your head, exhaling quietly.

"You’re not alone."

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, wrapped in his arms, but by the time you pulled away, your breathing had evened out, and the worst of the storm had passed.

Simon didn’t say anything else. He just gave your hand a final squeeze before leading you back to your shared quarters, where the others were waiting.

---

Together, They Were Home

Later that night, you found yourself curled up in the middle of the bed, a tangle of limbs and warmth surrounding you.

Johnny was wrapped around your back, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. Kyle was on your other side, his fingers laced with yours, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

John was at the foot of the bed, propped up on his elbow, watching over all of you with quiet protectiveness.

And Simon? Simon was behind you, his large, steady hand resting against your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath as if making sure you were still there, still safe.

"Y’alright, love?" Kyle murmured sleepily, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, a soft warmth settling in your chest.

"Yeah."

Johnny nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. "That’s my girl."

John chuckled, his hand resting on your ankle. "Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ve got you."

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being safe.

But with them?

You weren’t drowning anymore.

You were finally learning how to breathe.

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

[melodyofyou]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ i look to you to see the truth

nat scatorccio x fem reader

↣ some headcannons about antler queen!nat in a relationship cus she's going through soso much this season i can't help but want to comfort her :(

*+:｡.｡ warnings / season three spoilers, slight travis diss sorry, angst

𝄞 fade into you - mazzy star

+ asking you for reassurance after a meeting, knowing you'll always tell her the truth because she trusts your words and choices over her own.

+ nat wanting you to keep the relationship a secret, worried about how the girls would react. she doesn't want anyone turning against you or treating you differently because you're with their queen.

+ noticing nat staring at you while you do your chores. you make sure to look back and study her expression just in case she needs you for something.

+ sneaking into her hut late at night when you can't sleep, quietly laying down beside her (she doesn't fall asleep until she feels you holding her).

+ nat sneaking into your hut while you and everyone else are busy doing their chores, feeling the most comfortable in a place that reminds her of you.

+ defending her when the girls gang up on her, always re-stating that she's trying her best as antler queen and shutting down any negative conversations about her if you hear them.

+ she loves forehead kisses. she never directly told you she loves them, but every time you kiss her forehead she can't help but smile at you.

+ noticing travis giving you the occasional weird look, wondering if he knows something. you shrug it off, knowing nat wouldn't want you worrying about it.

+ you rarely saw nat cry but after she became the antler queen, it became more frequent. she'd come to your hut with tears in her eyes, sitting down beside you as she rests her head on your shoulder. the only noise you'd hear was a quiet sniffle or a gentle sob.

+ the first time you kissed, you were lying beside her after you snuck into her hut, this time facing her. you studied nat's face, wondering what she was thinking. you felt her breath on your face, watching her eyes close as you slowly leaned in. you hesitated until you felt her lips press a little harder against yours, a gentle hand finding its way to your waist.

+ on the days where you had little to no chores, you would both sneak away and walk around the woods for a little while. getting even a slight bit of privacy was rare but you cherished it nonetheless.

+ never outwardly saying 'i love you' to one another, preferring to show each other through little things like linking pinkies, giving her berries you find when scavenging, holding her during the night, listening to her ramble about how much she hates being the antler queen.

+ any time nat is upset you distract her by talking about all the things you could do once you get rescued, easing her mind almost immediately.

+ being the only one, other than nat, who knew where coach ben was. she trusted you enough to tell you the truth and you swore to take it to the grave.

+ often times the other girls will notice you sharing clothes with nat. they don't think much of it because, after all, everyone shares a few items of clothing anyway.

+ letting her draw little patterns on your hands with her fingers, knowing it soothes her after a particularly hard day.

+ loves slow, gentle kisses, especially the ones where you're both smiling against eachothers lips. it reminds her how truly loved she is by you.

[pineconepie]

oooo how about vincent with reader and one of his parties gone wrong? maybe reader gets hurt or almost dies?

Here you go!! <3

TW: Near-death experience (for Reader), mentions of murder, attempted murder, poisoned Reader, hospitals

"Stay close by me," Vincent reminds you once again, squeezing your hand tighter in his own gloved one. "You don't have permission to talk to strangers or leave my sight."

You almost scoff. As if you ever have permission.

Its been at least three months since you've started living with him. Despite being constantly monitored, you don't necessarily hate living with him. After getting used to his treatment of you, it's pretty comforting.

Being able to depend on somebody and not worry about things is nice. Other than a few rules, you can basically do whatever you want as long as it doesn't involve running away, hurting anyone or yourself, or disrespecting Vincent.

Overall, it could be way worse.

Vincent looks at you for confirmation.

"I know," you mumble. "No going near strangers or leaving your sight. I'm not stupid."

The blond chuckles softly, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. "No, you're certainly not dumb, pumpkin, but sometimes it takes more than smarts to keep safe. Remember what we said? The world is dangerous." He ruffles your hair gently. "And hey, if you don't wanna stay for long, we don't have to. Just need to make appearances, all that good stuff."

You nod. "Okay."

Honestly, if you had a choice, you wouldn't attend this gala whatsoever. It was a meeting between members of Cryo, but not like their usual monthly one.

Instead, this was actual an annual thing hosted in order to show off Cryo's successes over the year and hopefully find prospective members.

Vincent was reluctant when you told him you wanted to go, since apparently these galas were usually rather boring and weren't suited for "babies" like you (in Vincent's words). Plus, there'd be plenty of alcohol, gambling, and lots of "grown-up conversations."

But you managed to convince him with your puppy dog eyes and pleading. He's weak for those, you've noticed. Always wants to please you.

He had gotten you the nicest dress/suit, even though you already had at least five ones to choose from. He donned a black suit with a purple tie and matching slacks. His gloves were also black and leather, as well as his belt and shoes. He finished the look off with cufflinks shaped like golden bullets and a matching broach on his suit.

"You nervous, kiddo?" he asks in concern, squeezing your hand tighter.

"A little bit," you admit. "Just want people to like me."

Vincent frowns at you. "Well, if they're mean to you, they'll end up six feet under, so no need to worry about that."

"I don't want people to die either," you grumble. "Especially just because of me."

Vincent pinches your cheeks. "They can either be respectful to you, or dead. Their choices, doesn't seem like a hard one, either."

You swat at his hand, and he laughs. Soon enough, the two of you reach a large, extravagant looking building, lit up brightly despite the late night.

He guides you towards the entrance, and you enter into a massive hall filled with hundreds of people, most likely part of Cryo. Its quite loud inside. There's music playing somewhere nearby as well.

Everyone seems dressed formally. Suits and dresses abound. Several waiters walk by holding trays piled high with hors d'oeuvres and wine glasses.

Vincent continues to guide you towards a specific spot—where the guests are gathering to greet one another. As soon as he shows up, everyone greets him. Some of them eye you suspiciously or curiously, but they seem to know better than to outright approach you.

And you notice they only acknowledge your existence briefly before turning away and continuing their conversations with him or each other.

He notices you staring. "(Y/n), want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, patting your back.

You shake your head, and instead hide yourself behind him.

"Sorry, folks, my kid is a bit shy right now," Vincent laughs. "How bout we save introductions for later when they're in a better mood?"

The people shrug and agree, seeming content with that answer.

So that's how things continue. Vincent occasionally lets go of your hand to perform a handshake with somebody new, or wrap an arm around your shoulders, but never once truly leaves your side.

Occasionally, he offers to grab you food and drinks, making sure to only feed you things he knows are safe. Knowing the crowd here, for once you don't blame him for being extra vigilant.

A lot of small talk goes on. You zone out a bit as you hear talks about trade deals, weapons manufacturing, smuggling operations, assassinations... The typical mob business. You already know most of the details thanks to Vincent's constant chatter anyways.

Once it seems like the two of you have met every single person attending, he brings you to a quieter part of the gala, where they seem to have an open bar.

A couple people are milling around the area. A few seated on barstools and chatting with bartenders, others standing nearby watching. Vincent guides you to one of the seats, helping you onto the stool before sitting next to you.

"Want some juice, kiddo? We've got lemonade, grape juice, orange juice..." Vincent says. "I personally get a root beer float most of the time."

"Don't you drink?" you ask. Now that you think about it, you've never seen him drink in your presence.

"Not as often anymore. Not when I got someone young and innocent depending on me! Gotta be sober to watch you properly," Vincent says. "Besides, I'd never live it down if I became a bad influence for you."

You almost laugh. Funny he out of all people is saying that. "I guess I'll have what you're having, then."

Vincent grins and flags down one of the nearby servers.

"What can I get you, Mr. Brewer?"

"Two root beer floats for us, please."

She nods and rushes away.

While waiting, the two of you idly chat and watch everyone else. You notice a tall man with short brown hair and brown eyes approach, eyes fixed on Vincent. Something about his wide smile throws you off. He looks friendly, yes, but also a bit too enthusiastic, even more so than others who met you earlier.

He seems different than the other people here, and not in a good way.

"Hey, Boss," the man greets. His voice is slightly on the higher-pitched side. "Haven't seen you since your trip to Budapest. I heard you adopted a kid." He smiles at you.

"Yep," Vincent confirms, though he sounds a bit annoyed. "If you attended more meetings, that wouldn't have become a problem. Phoenix tried to contact you several times, we all thought you were dead."

The guy scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Sorry... Things got busy on my end..."

Vincent looks angry, but holds himself back from yelling. For your sake, that much is obvious. You see his fingers twitching subtly. "You should make an effort to stay available whenever possible. You have a job, Sullivan. This isn't some side-gig you can just show up to when you want. If your uncle weren't contributing so much to Cryo, you'd be out of here in a heartbeat. I can still make that happen."

Sullivan sighs. "Yeah. I'll try to do better next time. Sorry again, really." He sits next to Vincent, eyeing both of your root beer floats, both in fancy wine glasses. "So, uh, (Y/n), was it? Nice to meet you."

"Yeah... nice to meet you too," you say politely, sipping your drink.

Vincent's eye twitches. He shifts his chair so it's angled closer to you protectively. Almost like a shield separating you and Sullivan apart. "Is there something else you needed?" Vincent questions, clearly getting impatient. He puts his drink down, right next to yours.

"Nah, just wanted to see you and apologize for being such trouble recently." Sullivan wedges himself between you two, arms outstretched on both of your shoulders, and both of you looking at him in confusion. Vincent's confused look turns into a sour one. "What? Just wanted to be affectionate, sorry. You're awfully grumpy today."

"Are you drunk?" Vincent sneers.

"Just a little!" Sullivan snorts and pulls away.

You're a little fearful for the guy's life, judging by the way Vincent is staring him down. You grab your drink and take a sip from it, not noticing Sullivan's brief look of panic.

"Uh, well, gotta go! I'm sure Trent's gonna wanna catch up with me," Sullivan nervously says, walking away quicker than Vincent has ever seen him go.

The blond only scoffs. "If I see him again tonight, I'll shoot him in the head myself," he grumbles.

"What happened to wanting to be a good influence?" you laugh.

Vincent flicks your nose. "Hey, if someone were bothering you who you wanted to shoot, I'd fully support it. I think the world would be a much better place if we got rid of all the people who were bothering my beloved kiddo." He ruffles your hair. "And hey, did you take my root beer float? Mine had the purple straw! Brat." His tone is playful, of course.

You pull back to look at the nearly fully-consumed drink, seeing the green straw. "Oops, must've mixed 'em up... too late, it's mine now."

He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "My kiddo... so mean. But it's fine, because yours had more in it, anyway! So ha-ha." As if proving a point, he begins loudly slurping yours. You laugh at the silliness. If only everyone knew that Vincent was a fool.

"That guy was kind of weird," you murmur, changing the subject onto Sullivan. "Have you known him for long?"

"Unfortunately," Vincent mutters. "Ever since his uncle joined Cryo, he felt entitled enough to get a job from us. Honestly, I'd much rather fire him, but since he's family with a high ranking member, I'd rather not cause any unnecessary conflict. Don't really trust him, though."

"Sounds like you really hate him," you chuckle.

"Me? Hate someone? Pfft, never. I'm a saint." Vincent nudges your shoulder with his own. "Yeah, I'm kidding. I kinda hate him. And I especially hate anyone who makes you uncomfortable, which I can tell he was doing. If not for his uncle..." He doesn't need to finish that sentence.

You finish your root beer float, and put the empty glass to the side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders while he pulls out his phone.

You see it's Quinn, and that he's telling her to keep an eye on him. You continue reading what he's texting, but then it gets harder to, the words growing blurrier and blurrier.

That's when you realize everything is getting blurry. Even the man next to you.

"Dad," you mutter. Your tongue feels like lead.

"Not now. Give Dad one sec." He keeps typing on his phone.

"Dad." More urgently.

"Be patient, kiddo. Quinn can barely type properly as is."

"I feel really bad," you rasp. "Dizzy."

Vincent looks up from his phone quickly. "(Y/n)?" His eyes widen as he sees your pained expression and sweat dripping down your face.

He drops his phone immediately as he catches you right before you fall off the stool. He runs a hand across your forehead. "(Y/n)? Hey, baby, shh, calm down. What hurts?" Panic seeps through his tone, yanking off one of his gloves with his teeth to feel your pulse, putting two fingers to your neck. Its rapid-fire.

"E-everything," you whimper. It's hard to even form words anymore. Your vision is getting darker and darker, and you can no longer breathe.

You begin to cough, holding onto his shirt for comfort as you feel the edges of your conscious slipping. Your throat feels blocked up. Every attempt to speak results in a strained wheeze and a coughing fit.

Vincent lets out a rare, strangled noise. The fear of losing you is the one thing keeping him grounded.

He lifts you up easily, bridal-style, into his arms, resting your head against his chest. He maneuvers past the crowds, calling for someone to get a stretcher for you.

You can't tell what he's saying anymore, only that he's yelling. Is he mad? Upset?

Or terrified, maybe. Maybe that's why his voice is shaky and cracked.

"Baby, come on, just breathe for Dad, alright? Just focus on my voice, sweetie," he begs, rubbing circles in your chest, as if he can coax air into your lungs. "Breathe with me. Please."

Your breath stutters and comes out shallowly. There's nothing you can do.

No way to obey him. You can't breathe. Why can't you breathe? You're trying so hard, just like he asked you to, but it's like your lungs refuse to expand, refusing to cooperate.

Vincent tries his best to coach you into breathing right, talking in soothing tones and soft coos, encouraging you to calm down and copy him.

Even if everything didn't sound muffled, you couldn't understand him anyway from the way he's speaking, on the verge of hyperventilating. He's trying so hard to act okay for you.

Everything starts to become dim. Blackness creeps into the corners of your vision, slowly overtaking your sight entirely. No matter how hard you struggle, fighting to stay awake and alive, your body gives into the poison and shuts down, leaving you limp in his arms.

The last thing you hear before darkness consumes your consciousness is Vincent screaming louder than you've ever heard him before.

...

Vincent paces back and forth as he waits in the hospital hallway outside of the ER.

"Vincent," Trenton greets sympathetically. It's rare he ever refers to his boss with his first name, but it's not something Vincent minds usually, especially not now. His mind is too preoccupied. "We found the perpetrator—"

"Sullivan," Vincent snarls, finishing for him. "I already figured."

"R-right," Trenton sighs. "We caught him attempting to run. He was already prepared for flight. Uh, it seems like the strychnine was meant for you, but either mixed them up or you got your drinks mixed up."

Vincent nods. "That damn traitor... you have him in custody, right?" Trenton nods. "Good. Keep him alive. I want to kill him myself."

"Understood. Do you want us to torture him first?" Trent asks. He's usually not this brutal, but he loves you like a sibling, after all.

"No. I'm saving that pleasure for myself." The door opens and a doctor steps out. Vincent's most trusted doctor, Dr. Fredericks. "(Y/n)! Let me see them now!" He doesn't even bother asking if you're alive; he simply refuses to even consider that outcome. That's the only thing that's been stopping him from absolutely losing it.

"Okay, but they're very much out of it," she tells him, leading him down the hallway into your room.

She's right.

You're on a hospital bed with the covers pulled over your chest. An oxygen mask is secured over your mouth and nose, and several monitors hooked to various machines beep quietly, tracking your vitals. There's an IV drip attached to your wrist.

As promised, you are awake, but clearly unable to do anything beyond that. Your eyes are drooping and you're blinking slowly, struggling to stay alert.

"(Y/n)," Vincent breathes, rushing over and grabbing your hand. He crouches beside the bed so that he's level with you. "Sweetie? Can you hear me?" He kisses your temple gently. He brushes your hair away from your forehead, pressing his cheek against yours.

You try to move your hand weakly towards his voice.

The blond nods quickly. "Hi, baby. Yeah, its Dad. I'm here. Everything is gonna be okay now." He presses kisses all over your face—anywhere he can reach without disturbing the oxygen mask.

"Poisoned," you manage to rasp.

"I know, lovebug. But it'll be okay." Tears threaten to spill down Vincent's cheeks.

"Scary," you say next.

"I know," Vincent whispers again, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching closely enough. Shouldn't have let him anywhere near us. I won't make that same mistake again, I promise." Not after he turns that bastard to dust. Slowly.

"Not y'r fault," you slur.

"It is. I should've protected you. That's my job, sweetie." He kisses your hand repeatedly. "Don't speak anymore, okay? I just want you to rest. At least until this comes off." He taps the clear oxygen mask. "And then we'll talk aaaall you want. Doesn't that sound nice?"

You shift positions as much as the wires will allow, and you pat the small space on the mattress, motioning for him to join you.

He chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "Aww, buddy. I don't wanna crush you."

When you continue to persistently slap the bed sheets, he finally concedes. He slips his shoes off and climbs onto the bed with you, helping you lay on top of his chest.

He makes sure all wires are in place as they were moments ago. "Comfy?" You hum in confirmation. Vincent plays with your hair. "Get some sleep, honey. Dad's not going anywhere."

Your eyelids flutter shut as you listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat, grounding you and lulling you to a peaceful, safe sleep.

Normally Vincent would be awake, hyper-vigilant as ever, but the exhaustion from running around in a frenzy and pure terror takes its toll on him too. His eyes close and sleep follows soon after.

[the-dragon-hearted]

Currently thinking about how the death of Polites fractured the dynamic of the crew which led to quite literally the rest of the Odyssey in EPIC the musical. The entire crew relied on this man and NO, I am not exaggerating.

Polites served as the temperance of Ody; the diplomatic and optimistic council who was a liaison between the captain and his crew. Why? Well, Polites is never acknowledged to hold any power in the crew (we're talking EPIC canon here) but is clearly respected and valued by the captain. This combination is familiar; the crew is comfortable approaching Polites because he's their equal and Polites is comfortable approaching Odysseus with their problems because they're friends. That is his role.

Now I have my own issues with Eurylochus but I do think he's written well. And I also do not think he is fully in the wrong. HOT TAKE I KNOW, but hear me out: Eury was Ody's right hand. Odysseus is clever but he's also pretty humble (excluding the whole "I am the infamous Odysseus" but Bro had a right to crash out there). Odysseus does not surround himself with "yes-men", he surrounds himself with friends who are willing to challenge him. Case and point; Eurylochus and Polites.

Polites challenges his morals and instincts - Polites is always trying to ensure that Odysseus is doing what is best for himself. "You can relax my friend" is not something you tell your leader to do casually. It's what you tell your friend to do when they're working themselves too damn hard. "Greet the world with open arms" is not what you tell your commanding officer who you're trusting to get you home.

Eurylochus challenges his decisions. Always does, in every scene and NO that is not a flaw. He serves as a point of resistance so that Odysseus is forced to consider every option carefully. He makes sure Ody has considered the worst-case scenario and is fully prepared to back him up when that happens. Bro was ready to burn the Lotus island down if his friends didn't come back. Eury is the guy who's willing to strike first and make the difficult decisions, much like Ody is. He is a good second in command.

The point is: the two filled massively different roles in the crew. Eury is supposed to challenge Odysseus and question his decisions - that is his job; to make sure that his captain is making the best decisions for the crew. Polites is supposed to support Ody; he is a friend, a confident, and a source of trust and camaraderie.

What makes them such a well-oiled machine is that they all have specific roles and they are good at them. Ody makes the plans and decides what battles to fight, Eurylochus takes initiative and counterbalances Polites optimism, Polites offers ethical and moral support while counterbalancing Eury's cynicism. That is why the crew works so well.

Odysseus has someone to rely on and someone to challenge him. The crew has someone to confide in and a second in command to consider their needs. They have a captain who listens to both. Eurylochus and Polites have each other to balance out and a captain who values their opinions.

It works. It's balanced. It's a powerful type of leadership.

Then Polites dies, and so does that balance.

Eurylochus finds himself having to fill two roles. He has to question his captain and calm the crew. He has to place complete trust in Odysseus as Polites did, but he can't. His and Ody's relationship has always been based on challenging one another to ensure that they're considering every angle. He has spent his entire life being critical of Odysseus' plans because he knows that's what he's supposed to do. He doesn't have blind faith, he's a realist - optimism and trust were Polites forte.

Odysseus finds himself without that support and line of connection to Polites. He grows disconnected from the crew because of it and flounders when it comes to dealing with Eurylochus.

This is seen clearly in the song: Luck Runs Out

Eury was not in the wrong for pointing out how fucking crazy it is to casually ask the Wind God for some help. Sure let's go knock on a god's door and ask for loose change; HELLO!? There are so many ways it could've gone wrong and it has always been Eury's job to point such flaws out. It's what he's always done - probably what he's done for Ody throughout the war.

But Odysseus? He just lost his best friend and his mentor. His entire support system is crumbling, so being challenged by the one person who he needs to have his back pushes him into a dangerous space as a leader.

On the one hand, he cannot afford to have Eury question his every move, especially since Polites isn't there to challenge him for Odysseus. Especially now that he doesn't have Polites instilling trust in the crew - he can't afford Eury's challenges to eroding what trust remains in his disheartened crew.

On the other, pushing Eurylochus away and demanding staunch obedience from him is so out of character for their relationship that all trust between Captain and SOC is suddenly up in the air.

That is why Eurylochus opens the windbag. Not because he wanted "treasure", but because the captain who demanded he "be devout" is not the captain he's followed all this time. The captain who sits awake for four days, eyes following every crewmember with a glimmer of distrust is not the Odysseus Eurylochus knows.

Eury knows Odysseus with Polites. If Polites had been alive, he would've been able to quell the crew's distrust because he would have had full trust in their captain. Odysseus would've been able to trust his crew because he could trust Polites. He cannot trust Eurylochus to have that same blind faith, because Eury doesn't have it; and the crew knows it.

Everything's changed since Polites

It's not a throwaway line; it's what the crew whispers to Eurylochus. He's different. He's changed. Odysseus is not the same. Maybe it is treasure. Maybe he's lying to us. How do we know? How do you know?

And Eurylochus doesn't know. He isn't certain. Odysseus is his friend and his captain; that's a difficult power dynamic to balance.

So Eury opens the windbag, because he doesn't trust Odysseus. It's a different sort of mistrust though - not one of constructive criticism from a friend, but earnest dangerous mistrust of your superior.

Eurylochus leads the mutiny, because that was always his role as Ody's right hand; to question and stand against what he felt was wrong. To speak for the crew as another leader.

But Eurylochus never wanted to be captain. He never wanted to betray his friend. He felt he had to - Yes, he was willing to leave crewmates behind in Circe's lair because he has always been willing to make those hard calls.

Odysseus? He so rarely does what Eurylochus wants to do because they are not the same person. Eury doesn't want Ody to be him (Eury has flaws, but ambition is not one of them. He recognizes he isn't a good leader hence he immediately falls back on Ody's judgment after the holy cow bit) - he wants Ody to listen to him and consider his insights. So for Odysseus to sacrifice six of their crewmates without a word to his friend - without consulting anyone - without leaving space for his right-hand man to question him... that is when Eurylochus loses faith in Odysseus. Because that is not his captain. He doesn't know who it is. But his captain would never.

Hypocritical? Yes. But also rather insightful.

And Odysseus? He loses the last pillar of support he has in the crew, not because Eurylochus changes - not even because he changes. He loses it all because it is doomed to fall apart without Polites. It was all doomed to fall apart when they lost their counterbalance.

It is not Ody's mercy or ruthlessness that kills them. It is not Eury's distrust. Both of those existed far before it all went to shit. It was Polites dying. It was the fact that the three of them were so well suited for leadership as long as it was the three of them.

It had to be the three of them.

[batboysanonymous]

Not in Love (Except I Am)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: It wasn’t love. It was convenience. It was comfort. It was stolen shirts and shared beds and the way his gaze lingered when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Y/n had convinced herself of that, until the night Azriel stopped believing her.

Based on the song: No I'm not in love by Tate McRae

Swear I'm only sleeping at your house six times in one week, 'cause it's convenient.

Y/n wasn’t in love with Azriel. At least, that’s what she told herself. Every single night she spent tangled in his sheets. Every morning she woke up wrapped in his shadows, with his scent clinging to her skin long after she left his townhouse.

She wasn’t in love with him. She couldn’t be.

Only kinda dressing like you now, 'cause your clothes, they fit me — and that's good reason, oh yeah.

She wore his shirts because they were soft, oversized, smelled like cedar and clean air and a little bit like his laugh, rare, warm, and private.

She crashed at his house because it was closer, and she didn’t feel like flying home, and maybe because his bed felt safer than her own. She learned all the lyrics to the songs he hummed under his breath because they were catchy.

Not because they reminded her of him.

Not because every little piece of him had embedded itself so deep in her bones that she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began.

I told you one, two, three times, don't you read into us. Every friend of mine, I told them the same: No, I am not in love. I am not thinkin' 'bout you.

She told Gwyn. She told Emerie. She told herself.

I’m not in love with him.

And every time Azriel’s hazel eyes met hers with that soft, patient, knowing look, the one he only ever gave her, she repeated it in her head like a prayer.

The sun's not gonna come up, and I don't hate every girl your eyes go to.

She didn’t flinch when he flirted with someone at Rita’s. She didn’t notice when other females looked at him with longing. She didn’t care. Except… she did.

I am not in love. Sky has never been blue.

She never let herself wonder what it would be like if he kissed her. What it would feel like to press her mouth to the words she could never say out loud.

What it would be like to wake up next to him and not have to leave before dawn, pretending nothing happened.

Until the night everything unraveled.

It was late. A bottle of wine half-empty between them, his shadows curling lazily around their intertwined legs. Her head rested on his shoulder, his breath stirring the hair near her temple.

"Cassian tried to convince Nesta to spar without warming up," she murmured. Azriel chuckled, low and rough. "He’s either brave or stupid." "Definitely stupid." She tilted her face up, close enough to count the freckles across his nose. Her heart ached.

Only singing to your songs like, 'Uh' — we got the same taste, that ain't my fault.

"You’re tired," he murmured. "So are you." He didn’t argue.

They went upstairs without speaking. She slipped into his shirt — the gray one that was soft from too many washes, that smelled the most like him — and crawled into his bed. He joined her, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm finding her waist as naturally as breathing.

If I slip and I somehow say it, you should know in advance I'm wasted.

She lay awake long after his breathing deepened, staring at the ceiling. Not in love. Not in love.

But the words didn’t stick anymore.

Morning came too soon. His body was pressed against hers, his face buried in her hair. She slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen, needing space, air, anything but the crushing weight of the truth she couldn’t admit.

She didn’t hear him come in until his hand brushed her shoulder. "Y/n?" His voice was sleep-rough. She didn’t turn. "Go back to bed, Az."

He stepped closer. "What’s going on?" Her hands clenched the countertop. "I couldn’t sleep." A lie. He knew it. "You’ve been quiet lately. Distant." "I’ve been busy." Another lie.

He exhaled slowly. "You don’t have to do that with me. You know that, right?" She swallowed. "There’s nothing to talk about." "There’s everything to talk about."

She turned then, her chest tight. His eyes searched hers. Gentle. Devastating. "Y/n…what are we doing?" he whispered.

She broke. "We’re friends, Azriel. We’re friends who…who sometimes blur the lines. But that’s all." His jaw clenched. "Is that what you want?" "It’s what it has to be." "Why?" Because if I fall for you and you don’t catch me, I will never survive it.

He stepped forward, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn’t noticed falling. "I think you’re lying."

Her breath hitched. "I’m not." "Y/n." His voice cracked. "Stop pretending. Stop hiding. Just…tell me the truth."

She shook her head violently. "I can’t." He rested his forehead against hers. "I love you," he whispered. She sobbed. "Az…" "I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long, I don’t remember what it feels like not to be."

Her heart shattered. "Why didn’t you say anything?" He laughed bitterly. "Because every time I looked at you, you were wearing my shirt, sleeping in my bed, but telling me we were just friends. I didn’t want to lose you. Not even to honesty."

I am not in love, I am not thinkin' 'bout you. The sun's not gonna come up, and I don't hate every girl your eyes go to.

She trembled in his arms. "I thought if I said it out loud, I’d ruin everything." He tilted her chin up. "You could never ruin anything. Not with me."

I am not in love. Sky has never been blue.

She choked out a laugh. "The sky has never been bluer than it is right now." And then he kissed her. Soft at first. Reverent. Like she was something precious. Then deeper. Fierce. Desperate. Years of longing, of buried feelings, all spilling out at once.

They broke apart only when air became necessary. "Az," she whispered. He rested his forehead against hers, breath ragged. "Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll let you go. I swear it. But if you do…don’t lie to me. Please."

She closed her eyes, the words tearing free from where they’d been trapped for far too long. "I love you. I think I’ve always loved you."

His breath shuddered out of him, and then he was kissing her again, spinning her in his arms, both of them laughing through their tears.

No, I'm not in love, not, not. Why would you think that? Why would you think that?

She pressed her forehead to his. "We’re idiots, you know." He grinned. "The biggest ones in Prythian."

She kissed him again, slow and soft, like a promise. "I’m not going anywhere, Az." "Good. Because I plan on loving you for a very, very long time."

I am not in love, not, not. I am not in love, love, love. Why would you think that? Why would you think that?

And for the first time, they both admitted what they’d known all along.

They’d never stood a chance.

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468

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[ademonsscreams]

you reek of my scent, yet also anger for it ... (pt. 1)

︻デ═一 synopsis . ❝ ..and when you managed to fight off our bond like the enemies you encounter on missions, when you managed to make me feel nothing, i bounce back, seething and lusting over your blood being shed by my own hands—the very same hands who felt how cold you were, who felt your warmth soon enough, and the very same hands who explored your own with love. ❞

︻デ═一 pairings . simon ghost riley x gn ! reader

︻デ═一 contents . angst , reader was left to die , this fic explores the feeling of grief , swearing , reader gets manipulated into hating the 141 , part 1

“they’re gone, simon, we need to leave!” the captain’s voice is harsh as he pulls the masked man by his tactical vest that was dirtied by the usual sight of blood. “gaz, cover me, we need to get him out of here,” price groans, working with soap to pull simon out of there. stray bullets were flying everywhere, and there were way too many opponents for kyle to hold off. “we need to go, captain!” kyle hisses, his finger practically abusing the trigger.

simon was in his own world—and not a very pleasing one. his partner, his companion, his lover, wasted away on a mission. “this is what the military life is like, simon,” will never be engraved into his stubborn little mind enough to stop caring. because he is human, after all—a human who both loves, and a human who doesn’t hesitate to slit another’s throat. he’s not heartless enough (like everyone thinks) to not know the simple yet complex feeling of love and grief. but maybe, he is. he can’t emphasize with people like others can—is he truly human?

“goodbye,” he muttered—mostly to himself, before walking off with the 141 to somewhere safe. looking back, his eyes darting to the building who was now silent despite the deafening sounds of guns firing just a few minutes earlier, he thinks about what could have possibly happened to you—though he knows the answer all too well.

‘ hey si, happy birthday ! sorry, i can’t come to yours today, captain price called me for a mission ! ’

your handwriting on the pretty, pink notepad attached onto the present makes his expression soften. today was his day off since it was his birthday, but unfortunately, the same can’t be said for you. it’s one of the few birthdays he’d had that had him celebrating alone at day, and celebrating with you at night. some of his friends from the 141 greeted him a happy birthday as usual, but yours just feel better. taking the present inside, he opens it to find a cake—possibly, just maybe, you baked it yourself. surely, you did. simon knows how seriously you take his birthdays, even though he tells you not to—you make sure to make himself a cake you baked yourself with your own sense of love etched onto the flavors.

all he wants to say to you when you come back is “i love you too,” just to remind you how much he loves you, even if it’s his birthday.

but now, he can’t do that, can he?

it has been a few weeks since his birthday has long gone, and the incident happened just 3 days ago. ever since that night, the 141 can’t spot him humming little songs while stirring his cup of coffee in the morning anymore, nor do they see him content while cleaning a rifle—he’s completely devastated, to put it simply.

simon doesn’t seem to be laughing along with johnny’s little jokes anymore, nor does he ever spend time outside of his barracks.

“let the man rest, soap,” price would huff, leaning back against the couch as he eyes simon’s room from here. “he.. he lost them,” he mutters, before continuing, “we lost them.” the room is silent with kyle and johnny processing the depth of his words.

simon isn’t used to waking up without your comforting voice there to wake him, to tell him “it’s time to wake up.” it’s not a very major thing, but now that there’s an emptiness due to its lack, simon can see every damn thing that isn’t here. your lips against his forehead, your hand running over his hair—fuck, he always needed them to wake up properly.

simon also isn’t used to eating anything other than your food—the food you made with your very own hands, destined and guaranteed to have that special hint of love you always had in the flavors. perfectly cooked, as if melting into his tongue. maybe it’s his bias, but he couldn’t care less; he’d prefer your cooking more than gordon ramsay’s. it’s not because of the taste, but rather, watching the love of his life cook his food.

simon is definitely not used to living without you. he has grown too attached—too comfortable with you, and now he has to face the consequences.

the consequences of loving you.

the consequences of love.

consequences he knew all too well.

however, what does simon not know?

that you’re still alive, held captive by the enemies to answer questions—and you felt.. angry.

“awh, poor bunny, you got left by your team, fool,” one of them would speak up.

rage and despise coursed through your very veins as you replay the scene over and over—they left you to die. your shoulder (which was injured by a bullet) was fixed by them, something your own team couldn’t even do.

but you wanted to say no, to say that they didn’t know. they loved you, especially simon, they wouldn’t just leave you.

but they didn’t even bother to check if you were still alive. just.. left. but where are they now? now that you need them?

manipulated by the constant nagging and remarks the enemies made, you made up your mind—you’d show them one day, someday. that they shouldn’t have left you to die.

a/n . thank you for reading part 1 🫶🏻

[marifilue]

Aftermath

Wordcount: 1.1k

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Tags: Angst, comfort, griefs, situationship

Oneshot: Finding Matt the morning after foggy incident (Daredevil Born Again episode 1)

A/N: This man broooo, I just want to hold him and pampered him whilst whispering everything will be okay. He been trough too much they gotta stop this menace.

Matt Murdock is a very complicated man, the kind of complicated that makes your conscience tell you to stay away for your own good. But the way your body rejects distancing from him weighs much heavier.

You’ve been on a few dates with him—more than what would usually be labeled as casual. But by mutual agreement, you never put a label on anything. Not when you first found him, half-dead in a trash dump. Not when the hospital buzzed with stories of a patient who kept showing up battered, rumored to have been beaten by a man in black. Or when frightened women admitted that same man had saved them. It was him—the legend himself.

You wanted to believe in what he does—you’ve seen the innocent faces he’s saved and the justice he’s delivered. You’re not against it, not at all. But being involved with him romantically was a pain you never knew existed. You’ve healed nasty wounds throughout your medical career, but the one Matt left open in your heart? That one feels beyond repair.

It was a slow morning, like usual. You were making coffee in your Chelsea apartment, savoring the quiet before stepping into the never-ending chaos of your workplace. With your mug in hand, you turned on the TV, expecting the usual New York news—violence, crime, and a glimpse of what might be waiting in the emergency room.

"Two vigilantes clashed in a Hell’s Kitchen bar last night. Daredevil was seen fighting against another masked figure in blue. Many civilians were injured, and two confirmed dead. One of the victims was Franklin Nelson, former defense attorney at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz, and now part of Nelson, Murdock & Page."

"The suspect, Benjamin Poindexter—a former FBI agent—was severely injured during the altercation. He is currently under heavy NYPD surveillance at the hospital."

You had to sit down. Your knees suddenly felt weak. Foggy? This couldn’t be right. The TV’s noise faded into the background as you struggled to take a deep breath.

Matt. Is he okay?

The coffee in your hands had gone cold, but you barely noticed. Your fingers tightened around the mug, trying to ground yourself, to stop the rising panic clawing its way up your throat. Foggy is gone. The words felt unreal, like a cruel mistake, something that would be corrected in the next news update. But the screen kept playing, the anchors moving on as if they hadn’t just ripped a hole in the world.

Your phone was within reach. You could call Matt. Should call Matt. But what if he didn’t answer? What if he did? You weren’t sure which option scared you more.

Instead, you grabbed your coat and keys, moving on autopilot. You needed to see him, to know he was alive, to—God, you didn’t even know. Be there? Hold him?

The hospital was a blur. You barely registered the familiar hallways, the worried glances of your coworkers. The ER was busy, but your mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t hard to find him.

Matt was in one of the dimly lit waiting rooms, sitting alone. His hoodie was rumpled, streaked with dried blood. His knuckles were raw, split open in places, but he hadn’t bothered to clean them. His face bruised and there's a small cut in his lips, shoulders were curled in, rigid, like he was trying to make himself smaller.

You had seen him battered before. Bruised, stitched up, barely holding himself together. But this was different. This wasn’t Daredevil after a fight. This was Matt Murdock drowning in it.

He must have heard you enter, but he didn’t move. His body tensed, just slightly, like he was bracing for something.

You swallowed, your voice quieter than you intended. “Matt…”

For a moment, nothing. Just silence. He looked up at you for a brief second. Without his glasses, you could see the way his eyes were glazed over before he quickly dropped his head again, fingers reaching up to wipe at his eyes. Not a single proper word left his mouth.

Your knees felt weak as you sink into the chair beside him. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. A tremor ran through his fingers, almost unnoticeable, but you saw it. Felt it.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Matt didn’t react, didn’t even breathe for a second. His head was slightly bowed, you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed against the weight of it all.

“He's gone.. He didn’t deserve this,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but you could hear it—the cracks beneath, the guilt gnawing at the edges.

You shook your head. “Matt, don’t—” You raised a hand to his shoulder, feeling the tension knotted beneath your palm as you gently tried to ease it.

“I put him in this.” His fingers tightened, nails digging into his palms. “I killed him as surely as if I’d done it myself.”

“Stop,” you said, firmer this time. “This isn’t your fault.”

Matt let out a breath—shaky, bitter, like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t find the strength.

"Doesn’t matter," he muttered. "It won’t bring him back."

The weight of it settled into his bones, pressing him down. His breathing was shallow, his body stiff, like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.

You hesitated for only a second before reaching out, prying his hands apart. They were ice cold. When you laced your fingers through his, he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze back either. Not at first.

Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.

"Have you eaten anything?" you asked softly.

He exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, not quite anything. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He didn’t answer, which meant no. Not that you expected anything different.

"I can get you something," you offered. "Just wait here, I'll—"

His fingers tightened around yours. It wasn’t a desperate grip, but it was enough to make you pause.

"Just stay," he muttered.

Your chest ached at how quiet he sounded.

"Okay," you whispered, shifting closer. "I’ll stay."

For the first time since you’d arrived, Matt exhaled—a deep, shaky breath, like he had been holding it in for hours. Then, slowly, he leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your hand didn’t loosen, as if letting go would shatter the fragile moment.

You turned slightly, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The scent of blood clung to him, but beneath it was something familiar—something undeniably Matt. You gave his hand a small, steady squeeze, grounding him in the only way you could.

You didn’t know what came next. You didn’t know if Matt would let himself grieve, or if he’d bury it beneath guilt and anger until it tore him apart.

But for now, he held onto you. And maybe, that was enough.

[meichenxi]

affirmations to put on your wall:

don't ask, don't get. unfortunately this is often true and even more unfortunately, this is not actually bad

being hypervigilant and constantly looking for stress and tiny ways to make other people 'better' instead of letting them deal with their problems is not morally superior

being passive aggressive instead of aggressive is also not morally superior

no-one can read your mind

this is a good thing actually

you must accept that uncomfortable things only get comfortable with practice

therefore, practice stating your wants and wishes, and recognise that whilst doing so it will be uncomfortable

whilst you are doing so, you must extend compassion to yourself: if you did not 'have' any wants and needs growing up, identifying them can take some time!

start small. tell your friends, 'I'd like to go to this cafe'. think about whether you'd prefer the chocolate or the strawberry. are you just buying the cheapest thing? if you have the money to not do that - why?

do you like red? or green? or blue? exercise these muscles by window shopping in shops you will never buy from. look online at clothes. if you're not a man - what would you buy, if you were? if you like to dress skimpily - what would wear if you had to dress modestly? if you suddenly had a holiday to norway? the bahamas? if you had to go to a ball? if you had a million pounds, what would you buy?

remember your dreams. why the treehouse? why not the castle? what is it in YOU that likes the tree? find it. look at it. hold it.

the more you do this within yourself, the easier identifying your wants and needs may be

the more you can identify them, the easier communicating them will be (though it will still be scary)

recognise that you may have had love withheld for having wants and needs. recognise whether this is true now. if it is, consider whether you want to be in that kind of relationship/friendship.

consider whether it's maybe also your own fault

I don't mean this in a shame way. but only YOU can change how you show up in relationships. only YOU can change the people you choose

but that's not easy. not easy, but it's possible

if your partner/friends do love you in the way you want to be loved: be gentle with yourself, but recognise that you must take responsibility for this change

it's not their job to read your mind

from the other side of things: being constantly watched and examined often makes the other person feel like they can't express their emotions

they often feel stifled

they often feel avoidant, or want to pull away

they want to be in a relationship with another person. not a mirror of themselves.

you are not being kind to them, adult to adult, by being hypervigilant

you are not being kind to them, adult to adult, by suppressing your frustrations and wants because 'they should just know'

this in itself can be traumatising to THEM. it may bring up past memories. you may be, inadvertently, acting just like a parent or parent-figure

no, they don't just know. no, they can't just tell. does this make THEM worse? a bad person?

be nice. don't put them in that position. don't make them feel awful for not being able to read your mind

be kind to them

be kind to yourself

gentle discipline. that's the only way forward. loving discipline, and loving choices made every day to respect yourself, and them. this means discomfort.

it will hurt

but discomfort means growth. new life. new beginnings.

and this way the sun lies

[munv]

𝗜𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡 𝗘𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗦𝗬

• In which, you had died and reincarnated into Blue Lock as the Itoshi Siblings elder sibling, How will your journey in this new life treat you? What goals will it lead you to?

• P10

• please @ me or dm me if you want to be on a taglist for the series!!

It was only a couple of years since the birth of your little brother Rin, he was a fussy little boy but it’s not like much could be done. He was a baby afterall. You find it a bit odd though. For the past few days ever since Rin has been added to your family circle, Sae has been hibernating in your room. Which just so happened to be your current predicament.

"nee-san, where's the charger?" he was on the beanbag near your window with a iPad in his hand.

"to your left." you muttered without sparing him a second glance. You questioned him earlier as to why he decided to set camp inside your room. But he just said that he wanted an "escape". Whatever that meant.

You doubt he's going through his emo phase so early.

Ever since your parents have been busy with the baby Sae took it upon himself to sleep in your room. You get that he's not the most social, and took hella time for him to warm up to you despite being his older sister. But what harm could a baby possibly cause to him?

"[n/n] dear! come downstairs please!" Your mothers voice called out. You let out a sigh before making your way downstairs. Closing the door behind you, since you've come to learn that Sae gets pissed off and berates you for not closing the door.

Downstairs, you came face to face with your mother who was dressed up. "are you going somewhere?" You questioned. “Ah, there you are! And sae aswell!”

Oh God, him?

Behind was the little boy peeking from the top of the staircase. Turning your attention back to your mother, the baby was your fathers hands. "We need to go out since you know your aunt needs help with certain things!" she smiled.

No doubt it was family drama again, you sweatdropped. Arms crossed, "are you implying.." Your father gave you an apologetic smile, bouncing Rin slightly. "we know how you don't really like being disturbed in your alone time, but we'll be counting on you, our little [n/n]!" Usually, if they were to leave you alone with Sae, they would imply that they would just be back soon , surely they were shitting you though. I mean, they wouldn't leave you alone with the both of them.. It wasn't long of much more advice and explaining with a bit of tears (props to your mother crying about her "babies" being left all alone with no one to protect them) 

"Alright dear! oh, and dont forge-!" you door was shut before she could get another word in. You could slightly hear complaints and loud laughter beyond the door before the sound of a car starting vibrated against your ears. Letting out a sigh you let your head rest against the door before turning around to face the impending doom that was laid down for you. 

"alright..we're going to have some rules" you say to the two tealed boys looking back at you. 

Rin giggled happily, clapping his hands while Sae blankly stared at you, "what a bother.." he rolled his eyes 

At first when you had to take care of your two younger brothers, you considered the fact that maybe, just maybe you would get that slim chance that they wouldnt go crazy like they were one von dread strong. Holy shit were you wrong, and the worst part? They took less than an hour to prove you wrong. That was the biggest ego bruise so far.

You only began to realize you were the farthest cry from right when Sae and Rin went silent for way too long for comfort. You were set up in your room relaxing, no headphones in this time, just for the sake of being responsible and being there when you need to be. Just you, the sound of pen meeting paper, and occasional typing. But maybe it was a tad too quiet. 

It's not like you welcome the noise or anything. Just concerned that there isnt as much as you thought there'd be. The sun was still out since your parents opted to leave pretty early this morning. The open window allowed sun the shine through onto the work stretched out before you. 

With a stretch you raised your arms above your head with a content sigh. "maybe I should go check on them..by grace they would be asleep by now." chair scraping against the wooden floor, you rose from your corner with ease. "alright! I'll go see how they're doin-...." 

BAM

It was quick, but a precise execution. The soccer ball whirled in through your open window and straight into the room. If only you had been quick enough to evade it, one millisecond even couldve saved you. If only..

Holy shit, its getting darker? Did you sit up too fast? Is this an assault? No, it was your damn soccer ball. You could tell. 

Just then, pattering rang out throughout the house and loud screams "NEE-SAN!!" "oh damn, it really connected"

"NEE-SAN DON'T DIE PLEASE!" one voice cried out "Is she dead," another paused before continuing "yet?" 

"NII-SAN!" the higher one cried out "what? it's a honest question..oh. Its blood. She might be dying Rin." "NOOOOOOOO!!" he wailed

'what a brat' was the last thought before you drifted off to sleep. 

                            ITOSHI OMAKE                                                                 

"[name], dear, can you sit up? I cant have you lying down with such a nosebleed" currently your mother was aiding you on the living room couch with a towel, benadryl, and some water. "Okaasan?" "yes, dear?" 

"I'm going to smite your eldest son." a dark aura surrounded your body as you stared at your little brother with malice. He had some nerve drinking kombucha right about now as he stared right at something he caused. "and then nii-san went whoosh and bam!!". Rin explained to his dad with what seemed to be imitations of sae's prior showcase. He was holding miko in his hands as she purred at the affections. "it seems we have a bunch of soccer geniuses" your father chuckled. 

sae gave you a blank look before continuing, "will you finally stop being shallow and play soccer with me now?" he asked, taking another sip. 

"oh it is SO ON you little brat"

"If I knew hitting you square in the face with a soccer ball was all it took, I wouldve done it earlier, nee-san" he mocked

"[n/n]! please stay still, you're bleeding again!" your mother gasped "You.Me.Outside.Now. I'm not taking insults from the underdeveloped"

"would that make you old?" 

Was this brat taunting you into playing with him? He's lucky its working. 

"Outside." you glared, standing up from your supposed death bed on the family couch. 

"Ok" he seemed pleased, a little too please. He offered a small smug smirk before quickly going blank once again. "I saw that." 

"saw what my ever so beloved elder sister?" 

"I'm going to punch you" 

"Ohh! Fight!" Rin encouraged with a bright smile. Your father sweated at the sparks flying between you and sae. "Rin, where did you learn that?" 

"from you!"

[oddberryshortcake]

So I wrote a fic based on this image, pls enjoy 💕

Tw: Workplace microaggressions

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It was Nyoka’s first time working with a Shaftlands magazine. He had been scouted by Félicité Cosmetics for their new line of lipstick colors, branching out to market to a wider audience. He guessed he was just the Beastman they saw most fit for it. 

His parents encouraged him, any kind of work was good so long as their clan got good publicity. 

When he enrolled in NRC, he was already leaving his comfort zone. He thought being around so many different people would prepare him to interact in the public world. He was paired with a fellow classmate and loyal Félicité partner, Vil Schoenheit, so it wasn’t like he was completely in the dark. 

Except, in came the little details that he noticed set him apart from his peers. The comments. 

“You both look absolutely beautiful. Mr. Wadjet, I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to work with us. We’ve never had a Cobra Beastman model before.” The producer elatedly told them, holding out his hand to shake. 

Nyoka almost shook with his tail and then he remembered; humans don’t shake with their tails they shake with their hands. He did what he thought was most socially acceptable and the producer smiled widely at his correct response. Thank the seven he was becoming more prepared for interactions like this. 

“Alright, you two, by the backdrop. Mr. Schoenheit, please hold the lipstick we gave you to Mr. Wadjet’s face, and Mr. Wadjet, please place your hand on Mr. Schoenheit’s right shoulder,” the director requested, and watched as they got into their poses, “Right, that’s good, look at the camera.” 

So far, so good. It wasn’t so different after all compared to everything he had done in Sunset Savanna and Scalding Sands, except for what the director requested next. 

“Mr. Wadjet, can we see your fangs?” 

He felt his stomach twist into a knot, “What?” He asked, hoping he heard them wrong. 

“We want your fangs visible in this photo. Open your mouth for us and look this way.” The director repeated, motioning for him to turn his head further, mouth open. 

Was this why he was brought here? Back at his home, Cobra Beastmen very rarely barred their fangs unless they were in some serious danger and needed to show them as a warning or actually defend themselves. To do so without reason was seen as disrespectful by other Cobra Beastmen. 

To expose one of his fangs like this for all of Twisted Wonderland to see, what would they think of him? What would they think of Cobra Beastmen and Reptile Beastman as a whole? They are already looked at with an air of distrust. What if people think he’s too scary? 

“…I would rather not,” he admits, a bit stilted. He can’t seem to find the right words to say ‘no’ without coming across as difficult. 

“These were the directions that were decided upon.” The director retorted, also trying not to sound rude but coming off that way. 

Vil’s face twists into an expression of anger and he places his hand on top of the one Nyoka has on his shoulder, grabbing it firmly, a sign that he was going to take over in his place.

“He said no.” Vil said, far louder and more commanding than Nyoka could muster, “This is a promotional ad for lipstick, not teeth. If you can’t respect his decision, then we’re both dropping the project.” 

The director didn’t like the hear that, and the producer ran back in from behind the camera crew and scrambled for a response. 

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Schoenheit, we can do the shoot without fangs!” He exclaimed, notably leaving Nyoka out of his apology. Not that it mattered, he was saved by someone who had the strength to speak up for him, something he couldn’t do for himself. 

It was shameful, always being stepped on one way or another. He had heard tales of even the greatest cobra, a close confidant to the King of Beasts, was not spared from having the world trample over him. Maybe that was the fate of someone who didn’t want conflict but still found it anyway. 

They did the shoot as usual and after the crew were editing the photos together, Nyoka was just about ready to leave before they made the final call on what they were going to publish, but Vil had pulled him aside in private. 

“I just wanted to let you know that after this, I am never working with this director ever again and the higher-ups are going to hear about this. Anyone who doesn’t respect their crew and cast shouldn’t be allowed to lead projects.” Vil told him. 

“Thank you for speaking up, and…” Nyoka replied quietly, “If you could, please don’t mention I said anything. I don’t want anyone to know I was difficult to work with.”

“You aren’t difficult to work with. You’re professional, far more than others I know. You had a boundary that was crossed, there’s nothing wrong with putting your foot down on people who aren’t respectful.” Vil encouraged. 

Like him, he knew many who would say that Vil was far too intimidating, too serious, too outspoken. But to him, at this moment, that was the Vil he needed the most. Maybe how he comes off to others isn’t so bad after all.

i was wondering since Nyoka also a mode does he and Vil pose together time to time?

I would support a sponsored collab.

[deadhands69]

Hi jade,

I’m wondering if you had any thoughts about fantasy au bkg and the nsfw “one bed” trope? 👀👀👀

It’s one of my favorite combinations and there are so many fun scenarios! I’m thinking like legend of zelda world or dungeons and dragons. Fantasy is truly the best au!!!

Yes! Fantasy AUs are so fun, I haven't written a lot but definitely read some!

As a side note, the random thoughts went over 500 wc hence the taglist. So yes, lots of thoughts!

Raw/unedited thoughts:

✴︎ You show up to an inn in the middle of the night at the same time, there's only one room left but that's fine. You both need somewhere to sleep, there's nowhere else to go, and you can easily share it. nbd. The inskeep is surprised, but who is she to say no to happy customers?

✴︎ When you get to the room, there's only one bed. Of course.

✴︎ He would be grouchy about it but absolutely try to take the high road and offer to sleep on a couch or something. That is, until you realize there’s not one. (this is fantasy land and you're not royalty, who just has one of those lying around??)

✴︎ Realizing this, he’d absolutely try to be respectful and draw an imaginary line through the middle or something but that won’t last. That bed is wayyyy too small.

✴︎ Getting ready for bed would be interesting too. Like, if he has armor, he’s taking forever peeling that off and sleeping in practically nothing because there’s no way the padding underneath would be comfortable to sleep in.

✴︎ Even if he’s not, I still can’t imagine him sleeping in much because he seems like someone who’d run hot regardless.

✴︎ Now, for the bed part. If this is DnD, roll a 20 and you slip, fall, and land directly on his dick no questions asked.

✴︎ Roll a 1 and you find yourself knocked out on the floor where you will be sleeping tonight because he just crashed the moment his head hit the pillow and didn’t notice to help you into bed.

✴︎ But more likely, you’ll end up somewhere in the middle and here’s what’ll happen:

✴︎ You both climb into the singular bed in the room, bumping arms and legs because there's not much room. Eventually you settle in, getting comfortable but you're still touching

✴︎ Suddenly,you both realize how attractive the other is to you and find yourself laying there thinking about it while also trying not to think too much of it.

✴︎ I like AUs that have at least parallel life occurrences to canon that lead to the same character development, so I would imagine Bakugo in any universe having been through some shit. Which means, sometime in the middle of the night he wakes up from a nightmare. Initially, he's worried he thrashed around too much but let's you comfort him while he calms down.

✴︎ One thing leads to another, having not felt this calm in years as he does within minutes of being in your arms, he does the only thing his brain can think to do and kisses you.

✴︎ Having been on quests, neither of you've gotten laid in a while. Thus.. Leading to some uncontrollable horniness.

✴︎ The moment you put your hands on him, you can't peel them away. Feeling everything. Muscles, scars, softer skin.

✴︎ He can't pull away from you either. No matter how hard he tries to be chivalrous, wanting to touch you combined with knowing you want him is way too much to overcome.

✴︎ It's been a while, so he's a bit awkward but gets used to being with you quickly. He also probably cums really fast the first time but makes up for it on round two. And three.

✴︎ You're up alllll night together. You don't mean to be, it just happens. Once you both accepted it was happening, the flood gates opened and you can't stop. This is unfortunate for whoever has to share a wall with you too - the bed in the room is pretty rickety and in your excitement you're not exactly going slow here.

taglist: @cccandynecklaces @harryzcherry @mynicknameisgasoline @darhinadadragon @ch3rryjampi3

✴︎ You leave the next morning together, looking exhausted. The inskeep knows exactly what happened jusy by the looks of you.

✴︎ optional: here's where we find out she set you up on purpose or something.

@moonstonejpg @kalulakunundrum @katthekat1234 @touyaeater @kennedyonce

@softknj @minksworldy @gold24fish @nickibunny23 @nyceroni

@chaOskinq @vikizzy @kitkat13001 @kennys-partner @amira-44820

@its-evee16

[lovemomhatepolice]

between your thighs - jj maybank

navigation taglist requests

pairing: jj maybank x fem! reader

warnings: established relationship, simp!jj, pet names, cursing, fingering, oral sex (fem! receiving), munch!jj, overstimulation, English is my second language!

type: pure smut

word count: 900

belonging: NO NUT NOVEMBER

summary: jj maybank has only one favourite place in the world…

more content: outer banks masterlist, jj maybank masterlist

a/n: I KNOW IT'S MARCH, I HAD TO GET RID OF DRAFTS FORGIVE ME

The summer air was thick and warm inside the dimly lit walls of the Chateau. The sound of crickets filled the night outside, a soft melody accompanying the occasional creak of the house as it settled into its age. JJ Maybank sat lazily against the old couch, his golden hair disheveled, a telltale smirk tugging at his lips. His shirt hung loosely over his toned frame, unbuttoned, exposing his sun-kissed skin, while his girlfriend, [Y/N], lounged just within arm’s reach.

She was perched on the edge of the coffee table, her legs crossed teasingly, wearing a light summer dress that did little to hide the curve of her thighs. JJ’s blue eyes were glued to her, his pupils blown wide as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Do you even realize what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly as he shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers played absentmindedly with a loose thread on his jeans, but his focus never wavered.

[Y/N] tilted her head, feigning innocence as she leaned forward, her smile sweet but her tone playful. “Do what to you?”

JJ groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You drive me insane, babe. Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you.”

He pushed himself to his feet and took a step closer, his gaze trailing down her body like he was memorizing every inch.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching as he knelt before her, his hands finding their way to her knees. Gently, he eased her legs apart, his touch reverent, like she was something to be worshipped.

“JJ,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the pounding of her heart.

His lips quirked up in a cocky grin. “Yeah, darlin’?”

Before she could respond, he dipped his head, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along the inside of her thigh. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his lips, and the faintest hint of salt from the summer heat lingered. JJ’s hands gripped her thighs firmly, his thumbs caressing soothing patterns as he worked his way higher, savoring every second.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he admitted between kisses, his voice muffled against her skin. “How much I wanna be right here. How much I love… you.”

[Y/N] let out a soft moan, her fingers threading through his hair as she leaned back, giving him full access. JJ’s kisses grew bolder, more purposeful, until he reached the hem of her dress. He paused, looking up at her with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Can I?” he asked, his tone uncharacteristically tender, a sign of how much he cared for her comfort and pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe as he ran his thumbs along the edges of the lace, teasing her.

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her hip, then another, trailing a path toward the place he truly wanted to be. His lips were soft, his breath hot against her skin, and the anticipation made her stomach twist with need.

“JJ,” she breathed, her tone shaky but desperate, her hips subtly tilting toward him.

He smirked against her skin. “So impatient, baby,” he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

But there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes as he hooked his fingers around her panties, pulling them down slowly. The way his gaze stayed locked on hers as he worked had her heart racing, her chest rising and falling with every uneven breath. When she was finally bare before him, JJ took a moment to simply look at her, his lips parting as though he couldn’t believe she was real.

“Gonna make you feel so good, darlin’. Promise.”

Then he leaned in, his mouth meeting her with a gentleness that made her toes curl. His tongue traced over her folds with deliberate slowness, savoring her like she was his favorite thing in the world—and honestly, she was. The moment he found her most sensitive spot, he applied the perfect amount of pressure, pulling a gasp from her lips.

Her hands tightened in his hair, guiding him closer as a soft moan escaped her. JJ groaned in response, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. He loved this—loved the way she fell apart for him, loved knowing that he was the one making her feel this way.

“You taste so sweet,” he mumbled against her, his voice muffled but dripping with adoration. “Could stay here forever, baby. Right here between your legs.”

His tongue worked her with expert precision, alternating between teasing flicks and firm pressure, driving her closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Every little sound she made—every moan, every sharp intake of breath—spurred him on, making him even more determined to make her fall apart completely.

“JJ, I—” Her words caught in her throat, her body tightening as the heat building inside her reached its peak.

“That’s it, baby,” JJ encouraged, his voice rough and full of need. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

With one final flick of his tongue, she shattered, her body arching off the table as waves of pleasure crashed over her. JJ held her through it, his lips and tongue continuing their work, drawing out every last bit of her release until she was a trembling mess beneath him.

A/N:

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)