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marcyvamp1re-blog · 3 months ago

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Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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gutsby · 3 months ago

Text

Stupid Prizes

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Before you head back to college, your dad wants to go on one last family outing: the county fair. The only problem? Your secret fuckbuddy, Joel, is there.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky, unprotected p-in-v. Joel pining for you while your dad is beside him, oblivious for now. Semi-public sex (on a ferris wheel—don’t ever do that). Gross misuse of a candy apple. Age gap. Jealous Joel. Teasing. Angst(!) Mentions of infidelity/abandonment.

Word count: 10.0k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The gingham dress was your best idea yet.

For Joel, nothing could’ve been worse.

He’d cum down your throat no more than ten minutes ago, and with just a glimpse of your new getup bounding down the stairs—you’d had to change after he painted your last one white—Joel almost inhaled his Heineken.

He coughed and sputtered and hacked the beer back up while you strolled past the sofa and grinned at your dad.

“Ready to go, old man?”

It was just a short red frock with a sweetheart neckline.

The fabric cinched at the waist and flowed with every step you would take. Turning slightly to toy with the hem, and teasing the only eyes on you, you corrected yourself:

“Sorry…old men, I mean.”

Something like amusement flashed in Joel’s eyes.

Didn’t seem to mind this old man’s cock down your—

“I was born ready, kid,” your dad answered, still messing with something on his key ring, “How ‘bout you, Miller?”

“Yessir.” Joel stood.

He recalled you saying something similar before opening your mouth in the guest bathroom just fifteen minutes earlier. Joel’s cock twitched in his jeans at the memory, and his cheeks might’ve tinged a little, remembering how fast he’d cum. You’d only smiled and sucked your thumb, getting a taste of the residue that had missed your chest.

“Quite a mess you made there, Joel.”

And you repeated those words, at length, with only you and him to know what it had meant to you both before.

You gestured to the smattering of crushed potato chips on his shirt, and your grin got bigger. Joel grew redder.

“Yeah…” he mumbled, brushing the crumbs off his front. He wasn’t nearly as fast with the comebacks as he was with other kinds of comings and goings, and he knew it. He set the bag of Lays aside and seemed ready to leave.

But when he’d licked the salt off his lips and caught you staring—when he saw his friend go back to the kitchen:

“I had to be quick,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You know better’n anyone what a messy eater I am.”

Of course you knew that. Joel winked at you, and you winked back, mostly making fun of the boomer move. He reached for you—the edge of your skirt scarcely hanging a fraction of the way down your thighs—and he opened his mouth to speak again, when there was the sound of heavy boots at the threshold of the room. Joel leaned past your body and snagged the bag of chips instead.

“Food for the road?” He turned to his friend.

“All you,” your dad replied, smiling and waving the chips off as he went for the front door, “I swear your stomach’s a bottomless pit, man. Eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Joel looked at you when your dad was past you both.

House and home ain’t the only thing I’m gonna—

“Let’s go,” you chirped, fast, “I call shotgun!”

This would be a long, long day, no doubt.

The county fair had been his friend’s idea. One last day of ‘family fun’ before his little girl went back to school out East, and Joel hadn’t seen Bellville in years, so he’d asked him if he wanted to join. After a shared, brief stint in abstinence camp, the answer should’ve been clear:

‘NO.’

But Joel hadn’t learned very much from the Fireflies in the less than 72 hours he’d spent living—and also fucking you—there, so he’d nodded and said ‘Okay.’

Now you were twenty minutes out from the fairgrounds with a near-depleted tank of gas in the truck, obliged to make a quick pit stop at a Texaco. It was the first time he’d been alone with you since you’d set off from Austin. The second his friend was gone and headed inside to buy a pack of smokes, he heard a seatbelt come undone.

Earlier, he had raced you and beat you to the car to lay claim on the passenger seat, so you’d been in the back this whole time. He barely saw you before he felt you, climbing over the center console and then into his lap.

Straddling him while the Eagles played faintly overhead.

“Feel fucking insane not being able to touch you right now,” you huffed against his lips, kissing him hungrily.

Joel groaned. Felt your lower half grind into his. Almost rutted his hips up and yearned to have you seated on something other than just his denim-clad crotch when he sucked in a breath and remembered where he was. He nudged your hips and fisted the fabric in his hand.

“You in this dress ain’t helpin’ me either,” he growled.

You grinned against him, then hiked the red-and-white material up your legs a little more. Joel felt something like a shockwave when he saw what was underneath it.

Or, rather, what wasn’t there at all: your panties.

“Bathroom quickie?” you said, already breathless, “I’ll tell my dad I got cramps. I’ve been so wet this whole ti—”

“Darlin’.”

Joel’s eyes had drifted down to the place where your body and his were touching—rubbing—now. Even from this limited vantage point, he could see a glistening patch sticking from your bare seam to his jeans, and it was pooling on the fabric. Practically oozing out of your cunt while you rocked your hips and begged him please.

“Please, just one. I’ll be good the rest of the day, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Joel hissed.

His pupils were wide, and his mind was seriously considering it. Stupidly so, he reckoned; your dad was bound to be back any second, and surely you couldn’t both be gone for more than five minutes without raising suspicions. It was a reckless endeavor, he already knew.

And when he saw his old friend strolling out the front doors of the Texaco, his decision was made for him.

He watched you scramble off his lap and back to your seat, body quick and lithe and giggling the whole way.

“Gonna get me murdered, girl,” Joel panted, gruff.

Your own smile didn’t waver; you just settled back into the middle seat and let your gaze trail out the window, trying to fix your eyes on something to calm you down.

You already had the sense that nothing would. Your teeth bit your bottom lip between them to forestall the threat of another laugh while your dad approached the vehicle.

From the radio, ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ kept playing.

As old as they were, Joel Miller and your dad had a funny way of acting more like kids than you ever had, at any age. As your trio approached the wide, gleaming gates of the Austin County Fair, you saw your dad nudge Joel, and Joel shoved him back, and somewhere in the midst of all the ribbing, you heard your dad say, clear as day:

“If I’m takin’ a whole day off work, I’m gettin’ hammered.”

You knew by that tone this would an interesting afternoon, to say the least. You held your ticket tighter.

And for a moment, you wished you’d worn underwear. It’d been a split-second decision to peel them off before skipping downstairs, and it had worked well enough—Joel walking with a limp all throughout the parking lot and trying to shield the tent in his jeans—but now you were the one in greater danger still. Seeing your secret family-friend-with-benefits in his tight, light, heather grey shirt and jeans, hips adorned with a hefty belt and moving deliciously with each new step he took, you were transfixed. Left to watch him and gawk and grow wetter between the legs with every passing second, there was nothing you could do about it now. Likely sensing this, Joel raked a hand through his grey-flecked hair and hummed to himself. His bicep bulged through the sleeve.

“Nice little view, ain’t it?” he asked, nodding to the outline of a dozen shining rides and attractions ahead.

Go fuck yourself, Joel.

“Can’t wait to ride that.” You pointed to the ferris wheel, though the finger in your mind was aimed closer to him.

“Funnel cake,” your dad beamed, eyeing a nearby stand.

The three of you weren’t walking for much longer before he insisted on buying one. Joel had had a hankering for lemonade himself, so he’d fallen in line behind you and your dad. When it was your turn to order, you paused.

Then, pointing again:

“Can you get me one of those?”

You’d had to stand on tiptoes to see it inside the display, but from Joel’s own height, he was certain to have seen what you meant. While your dad shilled out the cash, not batting an eye, the man behind him clenched his jaw.

Candy apple, hon? Real fuckin’ mature.

Your eyes met his as soon as you’d turned, treat in hand.

I thought you liked seeing big things in my mouth, Joel.

He would’ve scowled if he wasn’t next in line—and your dad wasn’t walking so close behind, sniffing his food.

Joel ordered his drink, drank it fast, and found his thirst no better quenched than when he’d started. You’d sat across from him at the table and made sure of that.

You dragged your tongue up the sugar-coated apple just like you’d done to his shaft that morning and blinked, savoring the taste. Feigning innocence as he looked on.

And what else could he do? If not watch you, then peer at your father, furtively, and make sure he wasn’t able to see so much as a second of this little show you were putting on now. Joel glanced around you, too. No one else seemed to notice what was going on, even when your lips left a soft, sweet suction near the top of the apple, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard you moan.

It was just in his head. He was remembering how you’d done it that morning, mouth sinking down his length and whimpering when you’d reached the base. The way your eyes had watered, your free hand had reached between your legs, and your lips had welcomed him in; it was all burned in his memory, and not retreating any time soon.

Neither was the blood rushing to his dick, he reckoned.

You didn’t seem to care. Even when a bright pink river of spit and sugar trickled out of your mouth, you didn’t flinch. You let it slide down to your chin. Right before it reached the end of your face, and you were certain Joel’s gaze was glued to the spot, you licked a little bit of it off. You didn’t get it all in one go, so you shifted your snack to the other hand and then swiped your thumb under your lips. You brought it up to your mouth and sucked it, just like you’d done with Joel’s cum on it earlier that day.

Joel chucked his cup in the trash. Your dad took another bite of his deep-fried pastry and, talking between chews:

“That was fast.”

“Need’a stretch my legs,” Joel announced, abrupt.

He turned to you, and your thumb came out of your mouth. The frown on his face was unmistakable, though your father probably thought it was just from having to squint against the sun. Not because he was incensed.

Out for revenge.

“Ready to get wrecked, kiddo?” he asked you.

Your eyes widened, and your tongue quit licking.

What?

Then you saw him nod to some spot over your shoulder. You didn’t have the nerve to follow his gaze as he did.

Faintly, you could make out a smirk crossing his lips.

“Arcade’s over there. Unless you’re too scared.”

Your dad raised a dumbass, not a quitter.

You’d accepted Joel’s proposal without a second thought, and your father seemed pleased to have the chance to peruse the food stands and beer carts to his heart’s content. You’d set off quickly. Your candy apple was still in your hand when you saw your friend lean over.

Joel opened his mouth, and he took a big, angry bite.

“You’re insane,” he said after, words muffled by fruit.

You took your first steps inside the dark, cool building littered with machines and fun activities of every kind, and deep down, you were happy you’d had that treat. You took a bite yourself, then discreetly patted his ass through his jeans and told him, ‘Only for you, Miller.’

You weren’t sure why you’d said it. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you regretted it, no matter how stupid and playful the message was meant to be read. But then Joel nudged you back—actually wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

His mouth was close to you, and you could feel the smile:

“Just how I like it.”

Your cheeks heated a little. You weren’t so fond of the intimate move—in public like this, even as dark as the arcade happened to be—but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach. You swallowed the rest of your apple, and with it, any shred of emotion, or so you were hoping. You nudged Joel off of you under the guise of trying to point to something new, and his eyes followed.

“C’mon. At least pick something you’ve got half a shot of winning,” he said, swiftly. Sounding smug as he spoke.

You plodded on anyway, not hesitating at all.

“I’ve got more than half a shot,” you assured him, tone arguably twice as conceited, “Now if you’re scared—”

“You can’t use my own lingo against me, little girl.”

“Then nut up or shut up, old man.”

Joel scoffed. You chewed. The two of you approached the Skee-Ball machines with near identical looks of ambition and zeal, and sensing this tension wouldn’t dissipate with any more shit-talking, you got to work.

The first game was close. You beat him by less than ten points, and you guessed that that had been due in part to Joel’s own will. You saw him make more than two pitches so outrageously bad that you’d had to have guessed he was going easy on you. As soon as you felt that, you’d scowled. Pointed angrily at the scoreboard.

“You can’t just let me win, Miller!” you said, shrill.

Joel’s hands went up, and you knew he’d deny it all.

“No need to gloat, now, honey—”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, all while fighting back a smile, “Gimme your A game or don’t bother playing, honey.”

And he did.

The next game left you destroyed, roughly 900 to 320. You stepped back from the machine, feeling a frown start to form on your lips but knowing you’d asked for this, and just as Joel was about to lean in to offer a conciliatory hug, he had to stop. Both of you turned.

Somewhere behind you, you’d heard a voice.

It was young, male, and audibly amused.

“He really whooped your ass, huh?”

Your eyebrows raised as soon as you saw the source. Your scowl morphed into a smile, and your eyes were bright—too bright, almost. You ran over to hug the boy.

He was a boy, after all. Likely no more than half Joel’s weight soaking wet and wearing the biggest, dumbest grin that could only belong to a guy your age. He hugged you back, and his arms tightened around you. Comfily.

“Wade!” you gushed, squeezing him hard. You stepped back and looked him over, as if in shock, “It’s been…”

“Forever,” Too-comfy-cozy Wade finished for you.

Joel frowned.

“And here I thought you were gone away for good!” you laughed, “Went off to get that fancy Stanford degree—”

“—and you, in Boston—” the boy chimed in.

Before the reminiscing could go on much further, you remembered yourself and turned back to Joel. Still beaming as bright as you’d been when you first saw the kid, you gestured indistinctly, tongue-tied for a second.

“This— Joel, this is Wade Pritchett, one of my friends from high school,” you introduced him. Letting the two men—or, rather, mustached boy and muscled man—shake hands. Evidently, you were too stoked to notice.

“He moved out to Sacramento our senior year, and none of us thought— well, we— we figured we’d probably never see him again. Fuckin’ west coast hot shot he is.”

You smirked as you nudged his ribs, and something in Joel turned to month-old milk: sour, rancid, and heavy. His stomach turned inside him, and he hardly knew why. All he noticed was that he didn’t like the eyes you were making at him, and he hated the face Wade had for you.

Joel was just looking out for you, really.

You could do so much better than this douche.

“This is my friend,” you said to Wade, motioning back. Then, reconsidering just a second, “My dad’s friend.”

Joel didn’t like that.

Wade gave him a brief once-over and hardly seemed to see him at all. In that millisecond of a look, Joel saw it:

‘Old family friend. No worries there.’

Foolishly, Joel wished the chump could’ve seen what you’d been doing the night before—impaled on his cock and riding him as hard as your knees would allow you:

‘Daddy, please, daddy, daddy, daddy.’

“Joel?” Your voice cut in his mind like a knife.

Joel blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Okay if Wade joins?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Not that it mattered now. Royal pain-in-the-ass Pritchett was already getting the machine next to yours set up.

Joel eyed him once more and tried to swallow his pride.

Somewhere along the way, it got stuck in his throat.

Three rounds was all he could take.

You on Wade, Wade on you—goading each other on in the most sly, flirtatious ways. Or maybe it was just Joel imagining that. Regardless, the man didn’t feel guilty at all when, at the conclusion of the third game, he’d tried to feign a casual tone and told you your dad would be expecting you back any minute, better wrap things up.

“He texted me like twenty minutes ago saying he’d be neck-deep in craft beer for an hour. I think we’re good,” you replied, and the indifference in yours didn’t have to be faked. You grinned at Wade, and Wade grinned back.

“Well, he texted me a second ago that he was holding a spot for us in line at the ferris wheel, so let’s roll, kid.”

That was a lie.

Joel didn’t like himself for doing it. But, again, he didn’t like Wade Pritchett even more, and he reasoned that he was doing you a favor, anyway. He searched for the exit.

“It’s alright, my mom’s probably looking for me, too.”

We get it, Pritchett. You’re a mama’s boy.

“Ah, okay.” You almost sounded sad.

Don’t be, baby. You’re daddy’s girl, remember?

Wade pulled you in for a hug; Joel wanted to deck him.

“I’ll be in town all week if you wanna—”

“I wish. My flight leaves tomorrow,” you cut in. Now your tone was really despondent. Your mouth was pouting.

It was just Joel’s eyes. He was seeing things. He was thinking you cared for this guy more than you probably ever did, and he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He clenched one hand into a fist by his side and waited for the anger to subside. Sadly, it was slow to go.

“Maybe we could…go out for drinks later or something?”

That suggestion didn’t make things any easier on Joel.

“I’d love to.”

Your reply didn’t exactly set his mind at ease, either.

At last, he decided he’d had enough. Turning on his heels, he bid a terse goodbye to shithead Pritchett and walked out of the arcade. He didn’t stop until he’d hit one of the bar carts your dad had been raving about outside.

He contemplated buying a drink. Maybe two. In fact, he’d just been eyeing three cans of Coors Light and was fishing for his wallet when he heard your voice again.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped.

If you felt it, you didn’t show it.

“Are we riding the ferris wheel or not?”

He probably should’ve given a verbal answer in the affirmative. Instead, he’d just nodded his head and started off the other way, expecting you to follow.

The walk was short. You’d had to weave through a sea of fairgoers, including schoolkids, college-aged drunks, and more than a fair share of loved-up couples, but that wasn’t too bad. Joel just ignored each one and didn’t stop until you’d reached the line for the ferris wheel.

Or what was left of the line, anyway.

Unlike what Joel had told you, there was no wraparound queue for you to join. Your father wasn’t there. Once you’d passed a look over the dozen-odd people waiting patiently for it to be their turn on the ride, you felt your stomach turn. Joel had never texted your dad at all.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Dispensing with the obvious.

Joel still wouldn’t look your way. He’d just sidled up behind the last people in line—a group of older folks who all seemed eager to get on the ferris wheel. You scoffed when you saw Joel’s expression harden, and you planned to turn away. Then the people up front started to move. For a moment, you were torn between telling him off and leaving him there. At length, you settled on saying, low:

“You lied.”

Joel followed the moving line, and a few more people started to trickle in behind you. Before you could even think to speak again, you were nudged ahead by the force of that crowd, and had only to keep glaring.

“Hey—” you hissed, only five steps away from the platform now. The ride attendant was scanning the line, appearing to count the people approaching the gate, and when his eyes landed on you, you made out a little grin.

“Aww, your daughter scared’a heights or somethin’?”

He’d said it to Joel, sounding cheeky. His teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred different neon bulbs, and you had to avert your face to keep from revealing its disgust.

So everyone else still thinks he’s my dad. That’s nice.

You couldn’t see Joel’s expression, but you imagined it looked the same. You shuffled ahead, reluctantly, and heard a lady behind you laugh; the sound had a tipsy lilt.

“My kid’s the same way—you’ll be fine, hon,” she slurred.

Heights aren’t the issue here, you’d wanted to snap back, for no other reason than your own disdain for Joel and the present situation. He walked in front of you, still refusing to meet your gaze, and soon you were perched on the platform, sandwiched between two semi-rowdy throngs of fairgoers with no clear means of escape. You crossed your arms and stared up at the back of his head. The look you gave him probably could’ve burned holes in his skull if irritation had been the means of achieving it.

You were seated on the ride in minutes. The compartment was surprisingly large, and its walls high, with glass on every side. Under a waning afternoon sun, the views you expected to see were bound to be pretty. All that was left to detract from its splendor was Joel— hunkered down opposite you and manspreading. Wide.

Sitting in total silence with his denim-covered legs split in a ‘V’. Watching you and rubbing one thigh, absently.

“You’ve got some nerv—” you started in.

“Yeah, no. No. That kid was gettin’ on my nerves—”

It amazed you how fast Joel was to return your words with a hostile quip of his own, anger flashing in his eyes.

“What’d he even do?! He’s my friend— my best friend—”

Fury flitted to something like discomfort, momentarily.

“Oh yeah? Just friends?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?”

In your own expression, rage flared unchecked. You didn’t particularly care what Joel thought now if he was immature enough to act like this, and the walls of the compartment were thick enough to prevent anyone else’s hearing a word of it. The ride continued to rumble along, letting on new passengers with each new stop.

Joel might’ve paused. Could’ve stared out the window for all you knew—everything but the wheel itself seemed to be moving at lightning speed, and time was sliding.

“Because I— I— I give a shit, kid. I care.”

“And that makes lying to me alright?”

“I was just worried for your—”

“Bullshit. What would you need to be so worried about? Me playing Skee-Ball with an old friend and maybe getting drinks? You can fuck right off with that.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the ride suddenly jolted to a stop. It sputtered. Then, after a long, tense moment, it slowly ascended again. You took this lull in speech as your own chance to re-intervene:

“That’s not ‘care.’ Or ‘worry,’” you continued, words dripping with condescension, “That’s controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Joel Miller always did.

“It’s not—”

“It is—”

“Protecting you from assholes like him—”

“—he’s not—and I never asked you to do that!”

“So I just sit by and watch him touch what’s mine—”

“I’m not yours, Joel!”

Your last words echoed through the car like a shotgun’s report. You’d said it with such force—so emphatic for him not to be mistaken in what this was, or whose you were—when you hardly even knew how you felt yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that Joel knew only too well. The last time you two fucked, he’d begged the same: ‘Say you’re mine,’ and no matter how close you’d been to release at the time, you simply couldn’t say it. Now, clear-headed and mostly clothed, you still despised those words. Emotions. Uniquely juxtaposed with Joel’s jealousy over Wade, you’d never wanted to say it louder:

“I’m not yours, and I never will be. So just stop.”

More cruel.

“Are we clear?”

The car came to a halt near the top. When Joel still hadn’t deigned to answer, you leaned in closer.

“I said, are we fucking clear, Miller?”

Then you didn’t have to wait.

“I hear you.”

Of course he heard. His face was hard. His eyes were like two brown stones in the sockets, and the line of his mouth was tight. Whatever use you might’ve had in trying to decipher that look was ignored for the time being; you were still too angry. And, perhaps owing to this state—with a white-hot look fixed on him and your head full of blinding, bitter thoughts—you were more than susceptible to surprise. You jumped when you felt it.

Felt him with a hand moving from his leg to yours.

It went quick but was almost too ridiculous to fathom—how swift Joel was in reaching for you, hoisting you into his lap, letting your limbs straddle his hips with all the ease of old, welcome habits. It might’ve worked just as well, were it not for the tension in your legs. The short, sharp, ‘Joel’ and a look flitting out to either side of you.

“What?” he grunted.

You heard a fly unzip.

“We’re on a—”

Before you could finish, and as if to furnish the answer for you, the ride shuddered back to life. Its descent was slow, but any movement now made your stomach churn. It didn’t matter that most of the cabin was encased in metal, the rest semi-tinted plexiglass, or that your space was almost entirely shielded from the view of other cars—it was too much of a risk, as was everything with him.

Joel remained blind to it all. Your cabin came to a stop, still high in the sky, and then you felt him grip something between you. In one swift motion, he had the head of his cock rubbing your seam. You sighed; his eyes were cold.

“C’mon then…show me what ain’t mine,” he murmured.

His voice was low. You hated those words. This was more than just that. Your cunt slid and accepted him anyway.

For a second, your gaze was level with his. Your hips hadn’t stirred, and he was crawling inch-by-inch inside you, pulling you down. The act could’ve been intimate, had the words that passed before not been so harsh—and the place not been a fucking amusement park.

When the ride resumed its slow, rumbling circuit, he didn’t make your bodies part, but instead flipped you around. Your back was flush with his front, and by all appearances, you were innocently perched on his lap.

What the tens, or dozens, or hundreds of strangers ambling around down below couldn’t see was that a cock was nestled inside you, too. That with every gentle bump of the wheel, a man several decades your senior was filling you to the hilt, sending waves of pleasure through your body and his while he stuffed you tight. What your dad didn’t know was that this was his friend. That the nose nudging the skin between your sleeve and your neck belonged to Joel, and his breaths were short.

Trying to calm the flutter of his pulse and the pull of his lungs, he flattened his hands on either one of your thighs. He rubbed his palms back and forth, and you glanced down to find the insides of your legs extra shiny.

Slick, pretty, and full of him. He tilted your chin back up.

“Nice and quiet for daddy—nice and still. No squirmin’.”

He nudged your hips forward, and his cock brushed a wet, spongy ridge inside you. You had to purse your lips to swallow a noise. You felt your cunt drool even more.

The car swung low, in the line of sight of far too many eyes, and then it stopped again. You weren’t at liberty to move at all, and still, the feel of Joel inside you was raw.

Grating, almost.

It made the prospect of conversation seem the tiniest bit easier, though—forced to face away from each other and act civil now. Right before the ride started up again, you gripped the armrest and anchored your feet to his boots.

“Feels…good,” you whimpered.

“That so?” Joel murmured back.

“So—oh.”

Your words fell apart at the next brush of his hand, sliding down to your heat and taking his index and middle fingers to the precious, pulsing bud in between.

Soon the car was up at a comfortable height. You sighed.

Your legs pressed together over Joel’s, and you felt him rub the tips of his fingers even harder, circles tighter.

“I know,” he said, sensing your words before they came, “I know it feels nice, baby. Keep that chin up for daddy.”

Don’t let them know I’m inside you. Stay quiet.

But his girth was so much. The tug of his smooth, throbbing manhood between your walls was almost more than you could take. You laced the fingers of your free hand with his over your thigh, and you held them tight as your hips wriggled back. You couldn’t help it, feeling a welt of pleasure start to blossom in your belly.

“Joel—” you started.

“Don’t talk,” Joel grumbled, stern, “It’ll draw attention.”

You sensed there was more to it than that. Your fingers threaded even deeper through his, and he squeezed them back. Between your bodies, there rose a soft, gentle tap, tap, tap with the thrusts Joel was able to deliver now that you were back up high and out of sight. If there was any time to speak, this was your window.

Joel probably wished you hadn’t, but you tried, anyway.

“You know it’s been years since—”

“Since?”

Now you didn’t want to say it. But you knew you had to.

“Wade’s been my friend since—”

Another influx of something soft and tender inside you. Joel holding your hand, pushing himself deeper, and trying not to groan when you clenched around him. Hating that he had to hear that name, most likely.

You despised the words even more before you said them:

“—since my mom left.”

It was an awful time to be bringing this up, admittedly. Both of you on the brink of release with Joel’s cock buried as far inside you as it would go, his fingers entwined with yours, and the ride drifting lower.

And lower, lower, lower still. Joel’s breaths picked up.

The car shuddered to a halt almost halfway down. You didn’t have to see his face to picture it a little more rigid than it’d been before. He’d known your dad long enough to remember the time his wife had walked out on him.

“When we were, like, thirteen—” You continued, as if you needed to remind him of any of the particulars. Joel hardly knew you back then, though, “—he was my friend. Wade’s been one of my— my closest— he was there—”

You couldn’t be sure if it was the subject of discussion or simply how close you were to cumming that kept your tongue from forming a coherent string of words, but here you were. Joel’s grip on your hand had loosened, and the movements of his hips had slowed considerably. You hoped he’d be too lost in his own pleasure to care.

“I remember,” he returned quietly.

That was all he said for a moment. Out of habit, your legs parted more for his touch, and you whimpered, feebly, as the fingers kept circling your clit. The ride started again.

“You don’t have to—” And again, his voice was low.

“I’m not saying that as an— as an excuse or anything.”

You didn’t know why you were saying it at all. You just wanted Joel to know he didn’t need to be jealous. That Wade had been a friend through a dark and bleak season of your life, and that was all it had ever, or would ever, be.

While the car was still suspended in air, and the sights below all relatively small, you got the sense you’d have to deal with this budding bliss inside you a bit quicker than anticipated. Joel was all wordless encouragement. You almost wished you could’ve seen his face as he urged you to come undone, keep making yourself feel good, that’s it, cum for me, but frankly, it was probably for the best you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. Beyond just needing release, you wanted him to see you in a more vulnerable light than you’d ever been—facing away seemed the least painful position to have that happen.

With your fingers and his still interlaced and your hips moving a little more quickly, Joel could feel your pleasure soaking his jeans, and he pulled you down closer to him.

He nudged the back of your neck with his nose. He panted against it gently, tenderly. Then he kissed it.

“Don’t need’a say anything else, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Under any other circumstances, an apology from a man would have been the last thing to send you over the edge, but today, you couldn’t help it. Just as the car started up again, you hit your peak with Joel still stuffed inside you, and you gripped his hand as hard as you could. You fought to keep the moans contained behind your lips, but it was hard—and Joel’s constant, tender caresses with his lips and fingers made it that much worse. He trailed kisses down your neck and shoulder and told you gently, ‘That’s it, good girl, that’s my girl.’

My girl.

Again.

You almost didn’t mind it being said this time around.

Almost.

In truth, you didn’t have half a mind to think much of anything in that moment. You just curled your toes and pressed your back into Joel while the warm, euphoric waves coursed through you, and you let yourself be content with what he’d said. Whatever he meant by it.

In the minute that followed, you sensed he was perilously close to finishing, too. So, as soon as you’d made it down from your high—and the ride, too, was circling back and making its way through the final cycles—you crawled off of Joel. You got on your knees. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you locked eyes with him; your mouth moved lower still. You’d barely latched your lips onto the head of his cock before he was shooting off rope after rope after rope of his cum. Warmth splattered down your tongue and throat, and you swallowed it all obediently.

You didn’t need to be told when the ride was over. You heard a buzz, felt it jolt, and, unfortunately for you and Joel, your car was one of the first to be let off. You had to hurry off your knees and back into your seat, across from your panting, silver-haired friend, just seconds before the door to your left swung open. You began to stand.

Joel followed you out. His spend was still stuck to your throat in some places, the scent of his skin and his stubble and his extra heavy load all fresh to your senses. You wiped one corner of your mouth and kept walking.

And it was in this state you remained another second or two. You were just about to take your first steps off the platform, mind floating over somewhere tranquil and warm, when your thoughts were presently interrupted.

Your steps, too, were cut short. Joel had stopped you.

Then he grabbed your face, and he kissed you.

Your world froze a moment. You didn’t have time to think, or react, or even kiss him back, so you just stood there and let him hold you to him. It was over in a blink.

And one glance over Joel’s shoulder after he did it, to the ride attendant and nearly every last person in line, said they were just as stunned. Some sick, by the looks of it.

‘He’s NOT my dad!’ you wanted to yell, out of habit.

Seeing the eyes Joel had fixed on you—the smile that followed—their suspicions didn’t matter to him at all.

You walked off together, still considering those words:

My girl.

A month wouldn’t be so bad. Two was tolerable, even.

The next few hours spent with Joel made it seem like you could go a year or longer without seeing his face, and nothing between you would change too much.

He was a friend. A good friend. Not just your dad’s old companion, but your own. Whatever else was left beyond that could be explored down the road, but for now, you were content to just let him hold your hand in places you weren’t likely to be seen, and kiss you in those he hoped your dad wouldn’t be. Maybe fuck you on a ferris wheel.

At the thought of going back to college tomorrow, not seeing him again until Thanksgiving or Christmas at the earliest, you didn’t feel too sad. You did get an extra burst of yearning when Joel’s hands would find your hips and push you off to some shaded, semi-discreet area and he’d tell you, softly, ‘I don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, kid’ before kissing you with a hunger all over again. That made you think you might miss him a little.

You’d warned him not to lie to you again. He promised he wouldn’t. You believed him, at least as far as your general mistrust of men would allow, and you had left it at that.

Now the tips of his fingers were brushing your own, and his mouth was grinning—coated in all sorts of sauces from the barbecue you two had been devouring. It was approaching six o’clock. He held the last Carolina-style pulled pork slider up to you, and you shook your head.

“I’m stuffed,” you said, pained.

Really, you were. You and Joel had decided to join in on the fair’s 25th annual BBQ and Chili Cook-off an hour ago, and now your stomachs were suffering immensely.

You made a face in disgust when he tried to push it closer, ‘Joel, I’ll projectile vomit if you don’t— don’t—’

You squealed when he leaned in, thinking he was planning to smush the patty in your face—you’d done that to him with some coleslaw not too long ago—but instead, he dropped the burger. He pressed what non-sticky parts of his hands he could get on your face and, cupping your cheeks between his palms, he kissed you.

Then he kissed you again, and again, and again.

This time, it felt more like an attack. Not an attempt at being affectionate, which he’d shown himself amply capable of all day, but really just a way to smear your lips and chin with sauce and get you extra pissed off at him.

It worked. You bit his lower lip at the last kiss.

And, instead of wincing in pain or biting you back, Joel surprised you by groaning a little bit against your mouth. His grip loosened from your face, and he leaned back.

‘Behave’ was all he said. Smirking.

If any one of Joel Miller’s quasi-fatherly lectures had ever met with success before, this would not be one of them. You only rolled your eyes and were about to reply with some variant of ‘Make me’ when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to see the new notification.

Nothing more than a reminder to check in for your flight. But that sight also roused some awareness in you that it was just then starting to get late, and you hadn’t heard a word from your father in hours. You and Joel had been extraordinarily fortunate that day in hearing that your dad happened to run into some friends at the livestock show, and had been occupied—plastered, most likely—ever since. You hadn’t thought to question it before, just happy to have your dad out of your hair for the afternoon, but now that it was late and all the shows were long since over, you had to wonder if it wasn’t time to shoot him that text. Bring your last happy, fun-filled night with Joel for the next two months to an end, and head home.

You started to send him a message. Joel peered over your shoulder, absently wiping his hands on a napkin.

“He said he was headed over to a concert last time we talked. Some band he likes,” he hummed, “Wanna go?”

You weren’t too keen on seeing the likes of any Creed-adjacent artist your dad so loved to listen to himself, but if it gave you an excuse to stretch your time with him and Joel, you didn’t mind. You nodded, then deposited your phone back into your pocket. You were just about to stand when Joel held you back. He’d snagged your hand.

“Hang on, ya got a little—” he said, soft. Then he lifted his napkin and started wiping at the sides of your mouth. His motions had all the crude, brute force of a man who’d never wiped a person’s face before—he seemed more concerned getting the vinegar-based glaze off your cheeks than impressing you with how tender he could be—but the gesture was received well enough. For once, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and just smiled.

“You’re taking me to the airport tomorrow, right?”

“Long as it’s alright with your dad.”

“You could spend the night, too.”

Joel paused. He flitted a look from your lips to your eyes, then, finding a sly playfulness in both, only hummed. Stopped wiping long enough to kiss you on the cheek.

“We’ll see—”

“I’ll be real good—”

“Oh, I bet you won’t.”

But by the end of it, Joel was grinning too. He didn’t protest when your lips returned the favor from his, and they left an equally sweet and clean kiss on his cheek.

He didn’t bat an eye when your hand slid up his leg either. He just squeezed yours back and helped you up.

“Gonna get me murdered, I’m tellin’ you,” he murmured in your ear as you stood, just like he’d said to you earlier.

You figured if he’d had his pick of ways to risk his life, sneaking into your room tonight wouldn’t be the worst possible option. You threw your trash away and started off for the entertainment pavilion, following the music.

It was almost like you could feel Joel contemplating whether to sling his arm over your shoulder while you walked. Not once, but twice did his fingers twitch beside him, and he looked around you both from side to side. He decided against it, at length, and contented himself instead to just nudge your elbow and tell you that he liked that dress a lot—he hoped you would wear it again.

Come up for a football game, and you might see it then, you’d urged him back. The red of your dress wasn’t quite the perfect match for your school’s hundred-year-old crimson and black color scheme, but that was alright. You’d bend the rules for him. The two of you were just approaching the outskirts of a big, noisy crowd when Joel was about to respond. Your eyes glazed over a sea of people, surprised by its size, when you cut back in:

“We’re never gonna find him in here.”

Joel assessed the crowd. Checked his phone. Heard the wail of a guitar from somewhere up at the front and instantly surmised this was a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band—and that your dad wouldn’t leave until he’d heard every song. Silently, he kicked himself for suggesting coming to look at all. He could’ve taken you on a few more rides, filled your overstuffed belly with a little more cotton candy, popcorn, or ice cream, if you’d been up for it, but instead, you were obliged to find your old man. It wouldn’t have been awful if it wasn’t so hot and—

“Hey,” Joel broke in, before he could think.

His eyes had landed on a person—a pair—in the crowd that you hadn’t seen, and his heart clenched in his chest.

You’d barely tilted your head to him, “Yeah?”

“We should go,” he told you. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so rushed, or strained, but it was.

He couldn’t help it, especially when your gaze had shifted fully to him. Your eyes searched his, curious.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I…” Joel trailed off, looking around. Scrambling to procure an excuse of some kind, “I gotta…go piss.”

“Then piss. I’ll wait here,” you replied.

You didn’t get it. Really, there was no way you could. You hadn’t yet seen the short-sleeve, turquoise-colored PFG shirt at the back of the crowd, the beaming face Joel spotted above it. You hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man’s profile, much less the full, wide smile on his face, the beer in his hand, or the woman by his side. She was either laughing, or singing, or nudging his hip. They looked happy. And yet, you shouldn’t see it.

Joel would kiss you—that was it. It would be the riskiest thing he’d done, but at least it’d save you from seeing.

So he tried. Joel leaned in and ventured to press his lips to yours, gripping your face, but the second he did, you pushed him away. Your eyes were wide. Cheeks heating.

“What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, “Dad could be—”

Your gaze darted to the side, and then you stopped.

The eyes grew wider. Your lips stayed the course, as if to keep going, but no sound came out, and all that was left of your mouth was a round, stunned ‘o.’ You blinked, like you couldn’t believe it: the two people were kissing now.

Joel reached for your arm, but you were far too fast. You shot off to get away, toward them, and didn’t stop until you’d made it to the edge of the crowd where they stood. The music was loud, the audience was rowdy, but still, even at a distance, Joel could hear you as clear as day:

“Dad?!”

The man and the woman split as quickly as they could.

You were standing there, watching them watch you in utter shock for a second or two. Joel wasn’t counting, but he did find himself next to you before he could blink. He was reaching for your arm again, then stopping. Looking to his friend, whose gaze was plastered on his daughter with all the markings of awe. Embarrassment.

“Honey—” he started.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bad question. Terrible timing. Joel knew what it was—clearly his friend knew it too, but you weren’t supposed to find this out yourself for at least another month or two. That was what he’d told Joel back then, anyway.

“Sweetheart, this is my—this is Helen.”

You looked like you wanted to be sick.

“I know who she is!” you spat. You waved an angry, inarticulate hand in Helen’s direction. Helen looked away.

“Why don’t we go someplace quieter?” That was Joel, cutting in over the thumping bass and the strain in the air like he might’ve been a father to you himself. Wanting to shield you from what was coming next if he could help it.

Once more he reached for you, and still inflamed, you shoved him off. Your eyes were too hurt to turn away.

“What? This is y—your—” you started back, stammering.

“We were going to tell you, honey, I swear.”

In all the years he’d known him, Joel had never seen his friend look so contrite—or fucking moronic. The man had ditched his beer, was wringing his hands trying to pace a little more carefully your way while he spoke, but you weren’t having it. Or anything, really. When Joel brushed his touch against your elbow the slightest bit, about to murmur words low in your ear, like, ‘We’ll talk. C’mon,’ you’d jerked your arm away from him entirely.

He didn’t need to see your face to hear the pain in:

“Fucking stop, Joel!”

That caught your father off-guard. He didn’t hesitate before he cut back in, looking more pointedly at you.

“Hey. You don’t talk to your Uncle Joel that way,” he said, sharp. Joel winced. He went on, “I’m the one who told him not to say anything, okay? Now just calm down—”

And whatever effect his friend had intended to produce created just the opposite in you. Instead of focusing on your dad, your eyes shot to Joel, and in an instant, your body was turning. Your face was half-hatred as you did.

“You knew?!”

“Honey, I told him—” your dad tried saying.

But your look was too enraged. Your jaw was too tight. Your mouth could barely form the words you wanted to say, and your eyes were like two bloodied daggers. Joel was amazed you could speak a syllable at all, but when he heard it, he got a sense for why that was. He had to.

“You knew?”

You were hurt.

When you left, he followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d bothered saying to your father as he did, but it sounded like an excuse—‘It’s fine. I’ve got her.’ He didn’t, though. You were gone quicker than he could turn around, and by the time he’d made it far enough away from the crowd to yell your name, you were too removed to hear it. He saw the top of your head through a whole new cluster of strangers, and he yelled it again. You kept walking.

Joel was fast, but you were adept, all things considered. You slipped through the crowd with ease and gained more and more distance than he could attain in twice the time. Joel bit the inside of his cheek and kept going. He didn’t reach you until you were approaching the front gates, when he called out for you again, out of breath.

You probably wouldn’t have turned if you’d had a choice. But as it was, you were up against a bottleneck effect of more people trying to leave than the exit could fairly handle at once, and everyone at the back was at a standstill. Your jaw tightened when he said your name.

“Darlin’— hey— baby, just let me—” Joel had weaved his way around your neighbors, but the area was cramped.

You didn’t move. Your gaze was trained elsewhere.

“—explain. Let me explain, and I promise, I didn’t—”

The line shifted forward, and you moved with it. Your body was turned; while you kept walking, shuffling, Joel earned a few uneasy looks from the people around him.

“I didn’t mean—” he forged on.

But as soon as he reached for you, he knew he’d overstepped. Confirming every onlooker’s suspicion that you didn’t want to be disturbed, you snatched your arm away, and your eyes flared with anger. You faced him.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could reply:

“Leave me the hell alone, Joel.”

And, while the words were still fresh on your tongue and no one else tried stepping in themselves, you walked off.

You left him again—for what other place, Joel wasn’t sure. You just made off the other way, breezing past carts and stands and now-shuttered booths and more faces than either one of you could count. You kept walking until you found an open space a tolerable distance away from all the noise, then went further.

Your face was fixed in a hard, immutable stare when Joel approached you again. The look behind your eyes was worse; he could tell in a second you were about to cry.

“Darlin’—”

“You knew this whole time,” you said. Seething.

“I didn’t—”

“My dad’s been dating the woman he cheated on my mom with and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?!”

“I thought—”

“Not ONCE?! Huh?” you screamed it this time, “Known you my whole goddamn life and you hide that from me?”

Joel winced. He knew the tears were coming before they even filled your eyes, but the sight still made him hurt. You wouldn’t let him near you, either. You just shook your head and swallowed a lump and blinked hard, and he felt stupid. Whatever favor he’d thought he was doing your father—and you—seemed infinitely small to him now.

That knot you’d tried pushing down in your throat kept you silent for a minute. Joel opened his mouth to insert a word or two himself, but then you looked keen to keep hold of the conversation, no matter how much it hurt, and you were starting again. Blinking harder. Hating it.

“She’s the reason mama left,” you said, hoarse, “Helen was her best friend, and then she went and— and— and— fucked my dad, and because of that, I didn’t have a family for half my fucking adolescence. You knew that.”

Another beat. Joel’s own throat constricted considerably as he considered his next words, but there was no need.

“You saw how much I hated my father, and her, and myself for years, thinking there was something just…wrong with me not being enough to make her stay. And you knew all that, and you still kept it a secret from m—”

“I know, baby. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I know.”

He’d also known your dad was in the wrong. That hadn’t stopped Joel from trying to rationalize his friend’s actions while they happened: it was a one-time hookup with Helen, then a casual, no-strings deal that the man only indulged when he was feeling extra lonely, then a thing, a relationship of two, three, six months now. Joel had known all along what kind of profound ramifications these decisions would have if you were to ever find out. But his friend wasn’t so easily swayed from old habits, and Joel couldn’t stomach having to break it to you.

Then the roadtrip from Boston happened.

You seemed to be remembering the same.

“Was fucking me a way to make yourself feel better?”

Your words had never struck Joel with more deliberateness or force. He croaked ‘No’ in a moment. You took a step back, and there came the look again—more spiteful than before and repulsed to its core.

“Is that why you offered me a ride back in the first place? Just felt guilty for all the stuff you knew my dad was—”

“No. No, no, honey, I would never, ever—”

“Then why hide it?! Why all this? Why bother?”

You gestured between his body and yours; you didn’t seem to know what you meant. Your cheeks were wet with tears. You had to scrape your palms down your face, sniffling and struggling to clear your own vision, but the efforts appeared to be in vain. You couldn’t stop crying.

“For you,” Joel said, and he hated the way his own voice was splintered. He didn’t know how to make it better, “You were off at school when it started, then— then Boston. Just thought it’d be safer…for you…for us—”

Somewhere in his brain, he’d meant to say that he didn’t want the news of your father to hurt you, or else jeopardize a shred of something Joel had had with you.

It was stupid. Your instantaneous reaction said as much.

“Us?!”

Joel blinked. The eyes across from his were alight.

“Us, Joel?! Are you fucking kidding me? There is no us.”

Their brilliance wasn’t appreciative by any means. If anything, the words made the flow of your tears even worse. You pressed your hands to your face, rubbing your cheeks and trying to shield your eyes, and saying again, ‘There is no ‘us,’ Joel, that’s not an excuse—you knew!’

With his insides in knots, Joel wanted to hold you again. You were still in pain, and your scowl wouldn’t move, and when he tried to touch you, you stepped back in disgust.

He knew better than to think he could reach you now.

“Whole thing was a mistake,” you spat, unfeeling.

“Baby—”

“You and me. Dad and Helen.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Anything you need to keep a secret probably isn’t worth keeping at all, right?” And when you said it, he could tell you’d meant it to hurt him. As if the tears and the time and the sheer resignation in your eyes didn’t say enough.

Now Joel felt an ache in his bones, worse than it’d ever been, and he still couldn’t touch you. Where the heart demanded comfort of a kind you couldn’t give, the head knew better than to ask, and his hands fell limply at his sides. He saw you cry and had only himself to blame.

You turned back to the fairgrounds’ exit. The crowd was as big as it had ever been, but anywhere away from him seemed to be as welcome as anything else, Joel guessed

He’d try something stupid. Again. Even more desperate.

Never in his life had he said the words to someone else, and he sensed it wouldn’t do a thing to change your mind right now, but he’d say it anyway. If not to extricate himself, to let you know what he felt beyond every thing that had taken place tonight. He reached for you again.

“Darlin’, I lov—”

But before the words could register with you, the simple act of pressing his fingers to yours made you blanch. You hadn’t heard him at all, and seemed only concerned with jerking yours away as fast as you could, then shrieking:

“I HATE YOU, JOEL!”

Then you choked back a sob, trained your glossy gaze on him in one last pitiless look, and left him. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to. Sights and sounds and the ground underneath him seemed apt to swallow him whole, and still, he couldn’t move an inch. Somewhere ahead of him—too serendipitous, really—he heard you call a name.

Of course, it wasn’t his. You weren’t running to him.

It wasn’t Joel in the crowd making its way out the gates. It wasn’t him standing a little ways off to the side, eyes wide and confused as he watched you rush over. Almost stumble over yourself falling into his arms and hugging him, burying your face in his chest. Joel watched it all with a raw and hollow heart and wished it were him.

But it was Wade.

Wade hugged you back and held you close, and the look on his face was too bewildered and distraught for Joel to blame him. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you. Joel had.

He watched you leave.

There was nothing more to say.

#HAHAHAHAHAHAHAi’mgonnashitmyselfHAHAHA #dbf!joel you will always have a special place in my heart #and my *****#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel tlou

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starstruckmiraclekitty · 1 year ago

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Simon hadn’t been this nervous since his baby girl was born nearly two years ago now. His palms were sweating as he glanced over at his daughter, who was waiting with excitement by the window.

“Are you okay, Si?” You asked, flashing your husband a warm smile, before wiping down the kitchen table for the fifth time that afternoon. “You seem nervous.”

“Think we both are.” Simon gave you a half smile, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of his precious family. “Just nervous for the boys to finally meet my girls.”

You walked over to him, and were about to press a reassuring kiss to his lips before the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of your guests.

Your daughter squealed with excitement, and ran to open the door, her little arms barely able to reach the handle. “Daddy! They’re here!”

The door swung open revealing the 141 boys, each of them wearing matching smiles. Your daughter beamed up at them, and each of the men noted how similar she looked to her father.

The boys filed in, and it took all of a few seconds before your daughter was chatting away, clearly very excited to be meeting her daddy’s friends.

She had Johnny and Kyle’s full attention, showing them her newest collection of toys her daddy bought her, while John made his way over to you.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Riley.” John smiled, politely pressing a kiss to your cheek. He extended his hands to you, revealing a bouquet of flowers. “I would’ve insisted on meeting you sooner, but your husband has done an impeccable job of keeping you and the little one a secret from us.”

Simon wore a proud smile as he watched the encounter, suddenly very much liking you being referred to as “Mrs. Riley”. “For good reason, didn’t want to put them at risk.”

“Nonsense, Simon. I’m so happy to meet all of you. It’s about time I’ve met the men who my husband trusts with his life.” You waived away your husband’s concerns, prompting John to chuckle. “I’m glad you all could make it tonight. These flowers are beautiful by the way, thank you!”

Johnny and Kyle eventually made their way over, each of them greeting you with bone crushing hugs.

“Daddy! Uncle Johnny said that he’d babysit me one day!” Your daughter exclaimed, moving to hang onto Johnnys leg tightly.

“Did he now?” Simon asked, quirking a brow as he looked in Johnnys direction. “Uncle Johnny, eh?”

“Thought it was fitting, no?” Johnny laughed, petting your daughter’s head playfully. “Gotta say, L.T, she’s a spitting image of you.”

Simon felt a flush rise to his cheeks, the sentiment causing a warmth to spread through his bones. “I’d say she’s got her mother’s looks.”

When dinner rolled around, your daughter insisted on sitting in between her uncle Johnny and Kyle, relishing in all the stories they could tell her about her daddy.

You took note of the permanent smile etched onto Simon’s lips- though he was relatively quiet you could tell that he was enjoying himself. You only wished you had done this sooner.

As he looked around the room, Simon felt his heart flutter as laughter filled the air. Any nervousness he had felt before was gone, and Simon felt undeniably happy. He had everybody he loved and cared about, finally under one roof.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: not super happy with this one- so planning on doing another version shortly☺️❤️ (ideas are welcome!!)

#simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #ghost mw2

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dee-the-red-witch · 6 months ago

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How to ACTUALLY date a trans girl

(This column was originally submitted to Autostraddle as a reply to their "A Trans Guy’s Guide to Picking Up a Trans Girl" but since they've apparently passed on it, it gets to be posted up free everywhere else instead.) Picture this- you’re a trans woman who’s been in transition for three years now. Your dating life has gone from abysmal to amazing in alternate fits and spurts and you’ve found not just one, but three awesome partners despite the many, MANY pitfalls you’ve experienced along the way. And then one day, your social media feeds ping up with screencaps of a guide to picking up girls like yourself. Needing a good laugh, you click through. And read. And proceed to smack your forehead with your own palm in frustration a few times and giggle and some other lines on the first readthrough. But things feel off, so you read again. And begin to seethe. And then start opening up the Word document and start typing frenziedly into it. Because honestly? At the end of the day, as a trans lesbian who dates all sorts of people on non-male parts of the amorphous spectral mass that is Gender, I feel like I’m obligated to. I wanted to go into that first reading and find a column that actually got things right, and this was so far off the mark in the worst ways, so I feel like I have to set some things down on paper. Because this guide reads, in so many ways, like everything my cisfem friends have complained about in the straight dating scene for years. Reading through it that second time, I felt almost the exact same sense of of sheer grease and sleaze that I’ve felt reading incel pickup guides. I felt like I was being seen as a pretty object at best and a disposable sex toy at worst. I wasn’t treated as human. At best it was a bunch of stereotypes, none of which applied to me. But under it all, I saw other bits- the tricks an abuser used to lure me in. The lies my rapist fed me. The excuses made by folks online for why I should be treated like a monster or thing because of my identity. You know, the specific blend of misogyny that singles out transfem identities in general- transmisogyny. And since we’re addressing the elephant in the room, I want to address a few particular points from Gabe’s article before I give you some real idea of how to go about this. And I want to emphasize here- this is after editing out a page of swearing, going over Gabe’s own past history of transmisogynistic writing, and just cutting it down to the actual points where the original article really went wrong, and also pick up a few points at the end that’ll actually work well for trans guys or anyone else who might be interested in a relationship with a trans girl. First off, if you’re trans as well? Stop playing the ‘we’re both trans’ card. ESPECIALLY if you’re coming at it from a ‘Why yes, I used to be a woman’ angle. For one, you’re telling us at the same time that you see us as former men, which is usually very much not the transfem experience (Personally, I always felt like I was putting on a ‘man’ act. All the time. Badly.) and for another, you’re being transphobic to yourself and your own identity. If we’re there to date you, it’s as the man you are- be that guy.

Secondly, just because the trans woman experience shares similarities with the experience you had trying to be a woman up until you came out and transitioned, it also has staggering fundamental differences, and your attempts to relate are going to highlight those differences in ways that aren’t going to work in your favor. We didn’t get to go shopping in public, or if we did, it was fraught with fear at being caught out in the early stages of transition, followed by massive frustrations with both trying to figure out where we fit into women’s sizing. And then discovering that absolutely nothing available in local stores, including thrift shops, would fit right, especially not that cute choker we’d always been drooling over. That nothing smelled right for lotion or perfume because we were dealing with a body chemistry that was going through a slow shift on HRT. And we don’t need or want to be reminded of just how much we stand out from the other girls in those kind of regards.

Also, maybe, just maybe, don’t do things that would get seen as completely misogynistic and creepy if you pulled them on a cisgender woman. Don’t go digging into her socials- stalkers and chasers pull that crap and it’s beyond tiresome. Don’t try to deduce what her pretransition life was like, that’s for her to share, if she chooses to. Don’t see her as a stereotype- some of us never played New Vegas, owned cat ears, or like thigh-highs. On that first date if you ever get there, don’t bring her flowers, lovebomb her like mad, constantly find little ways to touch her, any of that- if she has any experience, she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop in response, because she’s had this treatment before and it ended oh so badly. Just be yourself. And get it through your head that the bear is still definitely a choice regardless of everything- after all, we have examples like Gabe to prove that transmisogyny certainly isn’t limited to cis folks.

What should you do? Treat her like any other woman. Treat her like a human being, because we get so little of that, even from the rest of the LGBTQIA+ community. Yes, you’ll more than likely have to take initiative, because we’re used to seeing our attractions, needs, and desires as being perceived as aggressive or predatory by others. When you touch her, do it with assertion and intent- none of the little brushes and stalker moves- ask if you can hold her hand, or put an arm around her, so she knows you actually want to be here and want contact with her. Listen to her, and pay attention- let her be open and honest about her experiences and interests, and remember what she tells you, because she’s going to need to know that she’s wanted and valued for who she is and what she’s into, and it will be part of how she connects to you. And finally? Common sense and communication- every last one of us is different in a lot of ways, and asking or making room to talk about things from physical contact and sex to social activity or group outings or anything else can save a lot of blunders from ever happening. All in all you can and should date trans women! Please! A lot of the best relationships I’ve ever had were with other trans girls and I don’t regret any of those. But you have to put down the pickup guides, stop seeing us as fetish dispensers and sexy lampshades, and actually deal with us as people, first.

#A Trans Guy's guide to picking up a trans girl #Autostraddle #Trans #Transgender #transmisogyny #dating

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maxwellatoms · 7 months ago

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In one of your last answers, you said “series reboots are usually pretty gross and sad”, and I was wondering if you could expand on that? Assuming “reboot” covers any kind of continuation of a currently cancelled or finished show (and maybe that’s the wrong assumption!), from the outside looking in it feels like a pretty mixed bag. On one hand, if I love XYZ Show, it’s cool that I get more stories with these characters and another chance to support XYZ Show and its creators. On the other, it definitely feels like a lot of ideas can only get funding if they’re tied to something already, meaning creatives are having to now tie whatever cool idea they have to some reboot/relaunch/retread, which can feel pretty disheartening if you don’t want to do a reboot/relaunch/retread. Is that a similar feeling from your side of the industry?

Thank you so much for all your answers and insight!

Usually reboots and spin-offs are just cash grabs. It happens a lot in animation. In fact, I would argue that the entire industry is just one big cash grab now. In the 80s, everyone complained that cartoons were just half-hour commercials for toys. And they were right. And we're right back there, but now that you can't legally push toys all day, it's just general "IP". Mugs, posters, more spinoffs, whatever.

I was offered three show running gigs over the pandemic. All reboots that I would consider unwise to pursue because they were "of a different time" and didn't (in my opinion) have anything more to say. Two of them were properties created by notorious sex pests, so there's also that. The animation industry loves to prop up its sex pests.

I turned all of them down, partially because I didn't respect the original creators but also because none of them had anything going for them except just being "more of the same".

I don't think any of those projects survived the intervening years, so in retrospect I maybe should've taken the job. I'd probably feel a bit gross, but at least I'd have floors in my house.

The entertainment industry is in a bad spot. The whole thing. I've had I don't know how many pitch meetings in the last few years, and they all start the same way:

"Hey! Before we start, we just want to let you know that we're not actively producing anything right now. We think maybe soon, but we won't be picking anything up today..."

And then later:

"The little we are doing is IP, so if you have a new take on our IP or a new IP you're connected to that you can bring in, that'd be great."

I always wanted to make original stuff. There came a time when I'd had my fill of Billy & Mandy and wanted to do something else new and original. That never manifested, and I was constantly being offered IP to produce. I turned too many of those down, maybe, before deciding that it was probably better that I run the IPs that mean something to me rather than having some hack do it.

But now those jobs have all gone to celebrities and fallen live-action writers, who are also slowly being eaten by the system. WB was hot for Scooby stuff a few years back, so I pitched some ideas. A few of them were turned down for being "off-brand" in a variety of ways. WB has now made (I think) all of those off-brand shows (or something close) with celebrity show runners.

I was going through a whole Midlife Impostor Syndrome thing recently where I was wondering if maybe I don't just suck. Like, it's weird that for a couple of decades I'd have people calling me trying to get me to run shows, and now nobody will call me back about the possibility of a design job.

Talking to some friends and realizing that they were in a similar situation helped me feel like I wasn't alone. That was nice. Talking to some of the most talented colleagues in my industry made me made me realize that those people weren't getting jobs either. That was unnerving. Talking to complete strangers in other parts of the entertainment industry now has me thinking that the whole house of cards is coming down. That's real concerning, yo.

It's hard not to think it's purposeful, when deranged billionaires own the entirety of our media and want to shape a society where they can't be criticized. We're letting wealthy tech bros firebomb the very heart of our culture, and it's weird that no one is talking about it. Because (for now) we still have that capability.

#maxwell atoms #entertainment industry #animation #intellectual property #turds

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nanamiscocksleeve · 2 months ago

Text

A Tight Spot

Warnings: MDNI, pegging, piv sex, voyeurism, slightly subby Sylus A/n: I know in my rules I said I don't write butt stuff, but (no pun intended) I'm coming around to the idea of prostate massage for men.

Sylus was not in the habit of hiding things from you. However, he had his own secrets, things that he felt made him vulnerable, or he wasn’t sure you’d understand.

One of those things was his ultimate, private kink; pegging. He’d tried it once by himself after reading about prostate massage but the unbelievable pleasure it had brought him blew his mind. The intensity, the absolute delight of getting an orgasm from a prostate massage had opened up new realms for him. Of course, Sylus was kinky and he loved having sex with you, but this particular bit of information embarrassed him, and he’d never dared bring it up for fear that you might judge him.

Which is why he only indulges in this pleasure when he is alone. The mansion was empty, having sent all his henchmen home for the day, and you were heading back to Linkon City. Sylus lays on his bed, naked, remembering the way your body felt against his, the flushed heat and soft sway of your tits as you rode him, the sound of your sweet moans in his ear. His back still carried the lines scratched by your nails as you’d held onto him in the throes of ecstasy. He missed having you in his bed. Sylus firmly grips his cock, pumping his hard flesh, gritting his teeth, little growls leaving his throat as he pleasured himself.

He imagines you kneeling in between his legs, your face looking so innocent before you opened that wicked mouth and slurped him in, your tongue dipping right into his slit, making him pathetically dribble copious amounts of precum that you licked off with enthusiasm. The memory of your small hand as you squeezed his base, followed by the wet noises of his skin being suctioned by your lips was enough to almost drive him to the edge.

Sylus stops, panting, his eyes wild, blood rushing through his veins as he tries to regain control of his breathing. He knew what would take this fantasy from amazing to out-of-this-world. His tip was weeping, and he thumbs at the milky beads forming on the tip before going on all fours. His hand creeps behind his balls and he knuckles down on his perineum, feeling the faint vestiges of pressure on the little gland hidden away under his skin. He lets out a moan, flexing his buttocks, clenching and unclenching his asshole. He feels his body starting to tingle with need, the kind that builds up when you’ve been teasing yourself for too long.

He reaches into his nightstand, digging through the various toys that had been used over this weekend, and finds a slim, black, silicone dildo, the one he’d personally tested amongst many for his backdoor pleasure. A similar one but in red rested in the drawer as well; he was careful to never mix these two up. The red one was yours, and he’d never risk your health by selfishly using the dildo meant for your pussy for himself. He trickles a generous amount of lube on his dildo, before sticking the suction cup base to his headboard and gently backing onto it. He breathes in and out slowly, allowing the muscles to relax, then teases his tight, puckered hole with the tip, groaning as it passes through his tight ring of muscles, filling him up so deliciously.

Sylus wonders if this is how your pussy feels during penetrative sex and the thought has him clenching, drawing the soft silicone deeper inside of him. He hopes it felt as good for you as this was for him. His cock stands proudly erect, the sensitive head brushing against the sheets as he continues backing onto the toy until he feels it press against a sensitive patch of elastic muscle and he lets out a pathetic moan. His hips arch, angling the tip of the toy until he’s able to glide comfortably, feeling the slick dildo massaging his inner walls, stimulating him beyond belief.

His eyes close as he sets up his rhythm, each exquisite push against his prostate bringing pops of color behind his closed lids. Sweat slickens his skin as he builds up the pleasurable tension, grounding his hands and knees into the soft mattress to keep up his speed and arousal. Taking a deep breath, he pushes back further and feels like his eyes might roll into the back of his head as the toy bottoms out inside his hole, sitting right against the pulsing gland that threatened to shoot his load out. It never failed to amaze him how quickly his orgasm could form with this particular act, and the tantalizing dance of keeping himself on the edge was an intoxicating rush.

A low, gravelly, purr leaves his throat as he thrusts shallowly, letting himself be massaged so intimately at that sweet spot that he’d been oblivious to for so many years. He wondered how long he’d last this time; he had a reasonable period to himself now that no one was home, and he intended to tease himself into a mess, just to test how much his willpower could be stretched.

He rides the dildo slowly, his hips rolling smoothly, feeling his back muscles coordinate and his ass grip the dildo in sweet ecstasy. As Sylus’s pace picks up, lewd squelching noises fill the room as he gives in to his urges. He can feel the tension building in his balls, in his belly, his hard abs quivering as the heat starts to gather in his gut. Sweat forms on his forehead, his cock twitching as he humps leaking precum all over the sheets. He can see the stains and bites his lip, feeling the way the sensation grows and ripples through him.

The next second is a blur of motion. As he’s in the blissful throes of his own passion, he hears his bedroom door opening and his name being called. His eyes fly open and he splutters in shock as you enter, losing his rhythm and almost slamming the dildo in haste. Your eyes widen in shock at the sight before you. Your big, intimidating, boyfriend, bared on all fours, with a dildo in his ass was not something you were expecting to see. Sylus scrambles off the toy, his breathing heavy and unsteady, his face burning red as he tries to cover himself.

He’d never been caught in such a compromising situation, the feeling of being vulnerable alien to him, feeling shame burn through him. He can’t bring himself to look you in the eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. “What-what are you doing here?” He manages to ask after a long moment of silence.

You don’t move from your position near the door and Sylus keeps his eyes downcast. After a gap, you start to speak. “Luke and Kieran almost got me to the border but there was a really bad sandstorm. It could have taken hours for it to die down. So they brought me back here.”

“Luke and Kieran?” Sylus’s head whips up in alarm, ruby eyes widening in panic and you quickly approach him on the bed.

“They dropped me off here and went back to their place. It’s ok. It’s just me.”

Relief floods his features only to be immediately drowned by embarrassment and he averts his gaze. You see the tension in his shoulders and how fidgety and nervous he is, making you feel strange. This wasn’t your boyfriend, the confident and ruthless leader of the N109 zone that you had gotten to know. Unsure how to proceed, you gently cup his cheek. His glances briefly at you and you realize he’s waiting for you to pass judgment. Your heart squeezes to see him like this.

“Sylus. Do you mind telling me what you were doing?” Your voice is soft and you kneel on the bed so that you can thread your fingers through his hair. Your touch soothes his racing heart but he’s still anxious. His voice is low as he starts to admit his actions.

“I like being pegged.” His voice sounds ashamed.

“Isn’t that a kink?” You haven’t moved, staying close to his quivering body.

“It’s not one that I think most men would admit to having.” You gnaw at your lip, trying to remember something, anything, that would ease his tension.

“But…isn’t pegging the only way to stimulate the prostate? That’s a thing right? Prostate massage?” You slowly draw him closer to you so that you can rest your head on his shoulder. Your hands dip down from his hair to stroke his back and you feel him shiver.

“Yeah. It is.”

“And…it feels good right?” You probe further, trying to get him to talk.

Sylus takes a deep breath before answering. “Yeah. It does.”

“Well, if it’s not hurting anyone and you like it, why are you so scared right now?” Sylus feels some of the discomfort in his chest release as your words wash over him. After a beat, you ask him a question.

“Why haven’t you shared this with me?” There’s no blame in your voice, just a general curiosity.

Sylus swallows, then rests his cheek on top of your hair, drawing comfort from you. “I don’t know. It’s not a norm. It’s frowned upon. Joked about. I just didn’t know how you’d react to it.”

You huff then grasp his chin and make him look at you. “Sylus, do you know how ironic it is that you made me share all the kinks that I’ve fantasized about and you’ve done them all only to hide this from me?”

“So you-you don’t find this weird?”

“I think it’s hot when you’re being pleasured. Isn’t that that a good enough answer?”

Sylus processes what’s been said to him and you take advantage of his distraction to push him down on the mattress, his large frame falling on it with a thump before you lay down next to him. You reassuringly cuddle his body, pressing into him and nuzzling his neck.

“You looked like you were on the edge of a pretty good orgasm there. Before I came in that is.”

Sylus clears his throat, traces of a blush lingering on his cheeks and ears. “Yeah, I was.” You trace your fingers down his chest.

“Would you be comfortable to do that again? With me in the room?” You ask the question carefully trying not to crowd him. Sylus finally looks at you in the face. His expression still looked guarded with a tinge of disbelief.

“You-you want to watch me?” Even as he says the words, he feels a surge of arousal. It was touching, almost intimate that you wanted to be a part of this.

You bite your lip. “You looked really sexy there for a minute. All hot and moaning. I liked it.”

Sylus huffs, trying to regain his composure but your reaction to the whole situation was calming him down. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Your hands busy themselves on his thighs, squeezing and hard sinew, and you see his eyes softening as he realizes he can trust you with this. It pulls at you and you raise your head to kiss him, enjoying their warmth.

His hands are working deftly to pull off your clothes, his cock hardening again at the prospect of what was to come. You, watching him, pleasuring himself, and it turned you on. There was no mistaking that little lip nibble you had done. The knowledge that he could share this vulnerability was filling him with a different kind of pleasure.

Once he’s freed you from your clothes, he palms your breasts, groaning as your hands find his cock, pumping him enticingly. After his interrupted orgasm, the whole organ pulses, heat and sexual need filling him. He doesn’t hold back with his bites, leaving bruises on your soft skin as he touches you fervently.

Soft sighs leave your lips as you play with his cock, and you’re eager to see his demonstration on the dildo, needed to hear him make those noises of ecstasy again. “What do you need me to do?” You ask, still pumping his hard flesh.

Sylus’s eyes are half closed, clearly enjoying your ministrations. He hesitates but asks, “Do you mind squeezing my cheeks?”

Understanding, your hands sensually leave his cock and instead, start to massage the soft rounded flesh of his rear, and he hums at your touch. You feel the muscles contracting and relaxing under your fingers and Sylus was syncing his breaths to the action. He glances over at his headboard, and you can see the dildo is still there, held in place by the broad suction cup base.

“Needs more lube,” he observes, and you squeeze his ass once more before reaching over to grab the bottle from the nightstand and hand it to him. You take note of how much he applies to the toy for future use and he begins to back himself up against it. He looks at you again, unsure.

“What is it?” You lean up to cup his face, peppering kisses all over it.

“I’ve…always fantasized about…someone holding me open as I…get penetrated.” He admits shyly and you feel flattered that he had opened up and asked. You move towards his legs and with care, part his cheeks, seeing his opening fluttering, similar to how your pussy would when it needed to be filled.

You watch in fascination as Sylus continues to back onto the dildo and your heart leaps as he makes contact, and watch, wide-eyed, as it starts to disappear into his hole. There’s a rush of arousal, at how hot the sight was, but you remain quiet, the room filling with Sylus’s contained moans as he pushes himself onto the toy.

“Oh Sylus…the view is so sexy.” You encourage him as he pauses in his penetration, panting.

“Yeah?” He looks at you over his shoulder, and you nod. Your hands slowly release his cheeks which jiggle slightly as they fall back into place. Then he starts to move.

The noises that leave him drive you wild. You’ve heard him while having good sex but nothing compared to this; the way his hips started to buck in abandon, the husky, desperate way he moans as he fucks himself. Not wanting to miss a second, you quickly scramble back to his face, his expression sending a spear of pure lust straight into your core.

His ruby eyes are wide with delight, mouth hanging open in an O as he rides to climax. His gaze fixates on you and you see the flush that stains his skin and know he’s just as turned on by you, by the fact that you’re watching him so admiringly. You squeeze your breasts, teasing your nipples as you try to stimulate yourself with him, rubbing your clit in time to his thrusts, watching the way his weeping cock drags along the sheets with each thrust.

It wasn’t enough and driven by primal instinct, you quickly slide under his muscled body, surprising him. He pauses in his motions. “Kitten?” he breathes questioningly, gazing at you beneath him.

“Sylus, I can’t. I need to experience you like this.” He lets out a guttural moan as you spread your legs and begin to guide his neglected cock into your hot wetness, the dual sensation too much for him to handle. His hole clenches, feeling the dildo snugly against his prostate while his cock was being nestled into your pussy. He lets out a deep, sultry whine.

“Fuck, sweetie. You’re going to kill me.” You stroke every inch of his body you can reach and Sylus begins to build up his rhythm, going as slowly as possible to stave off his orgasm but he feels like he’s a lost cause.

Your pussy grips his cock, spasming with each thrust. Every time he moved forward, he’s gliding through your eager cunt, and every time he moves back, the dildo massages his aching prostate and he feels like a loser, knowing he won’t last too long this way.

You see the struggle in his eyes and talk him through it. “It’s ok Sy. You’ve held on for so long. It’s ok to cum. You don’t have to prove anything to me. Let yourself cum.” you murmur reassuringly to him and he lets out a keening groan, his hips going into overdrive as he pushes himself over the edge.

His vision blurs at the edges as an intense orgasm grips him, his hands gripping the sheets as he tries not to collapse on you. His body shakes, creamy jets of cum filling your pussy as his hole spasms rhythmically, prolonging his state of euphoria as he empties himself into you.

Sylus carefully crawls off the dildo, then lays over you. Sweat covers each inch of his body as you lovingly stroke his hair.

“I don’t know why you’d hide something so hot from me.”

“What’s a relationship without a little mystery?”

“Well mystery solved. Next time, we should use a vibrating dildo.”

Your eyes flicker with mischief and Sylus chuckles at your enthusiasm.

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jinkiezzsstuff · 9 months ago

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Hi! I know you just wrote a cockwarming fic with Alastor, but I was just wondering if you would be able to do one with Lucifer? I’m drooling just thinking about it. Thank you!

absolutely i don’t mind doing the same shtick but with other characters! i took a similar approach kinkwise but obviously it’s still different, hope you enjoy <3

warnings: cockwarming, lucifer is kinda a sub but not entirely, exhibitionism, not caught this time, creampie, gn reader i think in terms of body, lucifer calls you birdy, kinky reader and kinky luci, also not proofread, swearing and some dirty talk lmk if i missed any!!

word count: 1.4K

You sat on Lucifers lap, toying with his hair that peeked out of his hat. Lucifer insisted he had company to one of his all important long of hell meetings, however things went left when Mammon urged the king to come to one of his performances, that was definitely for the kings benefit and not just so Mammon could leech off his fame. So there you two sat, up in your own custom web which Lucifer was very much against but Mammon was pushy persuasive. So far things had been a bore, you sat on Lucifers lap paying more attention to the intricacies on his suit rather than the clowns on stage. Lucifer also seemed pretty bored, huffing and puffing occasionally, while muttering into your ear about how this was a scam or how he’d done this act a thousand times, needless to say you both be better off back at his home.

Eyeing up his bored face you casually traced your fingers along his jaw. “Hey Luce,” You whispered to him softly, his eyes casting down to you. “Wanna have a lil fun?” You grinned cheekily wiggling your hips against his, immediately he sucked in a breath, eyes closing. Lucifer wasn’t really good at hiding the need he had for you, often he would crumble under your hands, rarely he decided to be big and domineering, he much preferred when you had the power over him. Felt nice giving up power to someone after all the rest of his eternal life in hell there was no other choice but to stay in power.

“Whatever you want, birdy.” He cooed, eyes casted toward the stage acting as though he was indifferent to you. You unzipped the zipper on his white slacks, and reached your hand inside to palm his soft member. He wasn’t really insecure about being soft around you he was quite prideful in his body no matter the state, occasionally he’d feel not good enough but that typically had nothing to do with his looks, which you admit to being quite jealous of. You palmed him through his briefs, head rested on his shoulder you were annoyed at how the collar of his coat got in the way of his neck, prohibiting you from leaving pretty bruise marks on him. The king twitched, and coughed out fakely to cover the groans he wanted to make, he couldn’t help how sensitive he was when it came to you, it was like you had this spell on him.

Wiggling yourself closer to him you whispered to him, lips dragging sinfully across his ear. “What if somebody sees you like this Luci?” You purr mockingly, you knew he probably wouldn’t give a fuck, he’s been through too much as a king and a fallen angel to care about such things, nonetheless, hearing your scrutinizing tone furthered his arousal. He wasn’t, however, proud of the noise he made when your hand came up to tug at his hair at the base of his neck. “Ohhh golly,” Lucifer groaned beginning in a moan, he quickly fixed his mouth to act as though he was reacting to the show. “You want them to see us, don’t you?” You urged, feeling him grown and stiffen beneath you, it made your thighs clench with need, and suddenly you were onto more devious ideas. Lifting your garments, you pulled your underwear to the side as discreetly as you could. Lucifers eyes fixed on you, brown raised in confusion. “Cmon, let’s relax hm?” You asked, pulling his semi from the restraints of his briefs, pecking his lips as you did so. His eyes closed immediately, mouth chasing your lips as you pulled away, and who were you to deny such a good boy?

Leaning back in you hummed into him, his lips warm and soft, you could feel his lashes flutter against your face as your faces tilted, allowing eachother better access. You sneakily slipped onto him, wincing at the pain that you felt, however Lucifers arms came around to your thighs, helping you slow your pace. You felt every inch of him against your walls, it was hard to not whimper at the feeling of him slotted in you.

As your tongues sloppily danced together, the clown music played in the background, Glitz and Glam came up to perform, and the crowd cheered on. Beside your web was the greed king himself Mammon, who was too observed in the show to notice the fact you and Lucifer were swallowing each other whole. While the two of you sloppily kissed, saliva smearing across each others lips, your body naturally relaxed into his effectively sinking yourself down and bottoming out on his full erect cock.

Sighing against him in revelled in the feeling of him fully inside you, while also enjoying the way he trembled beneath you, not feeling the need to hide any of his desire from you. You pulled away abruptly leaving Lucifer whining, and starry eyed. Jerking up into you Lucifer smiled smuggly at the way you gasped, air entirely escaping your lungs. “How mean Luci,” You chide playfully lovelingly cupping his cheek. Leaning into your warmth the devil melted against your touch practically purring at you. “What can i say birdy, i’m eager to hear you. My favourite sound.” You could tell by the dreamy way he spoke he was already fucked out, and you’ve not even fucked yet.

Pecking his cheek you swatted his chest when he tried once again to grind into you. “No moving, whoever cums first has to call and talk on the phone while the other fucks em silly.” You grin wildly gripping his shoulders, you loved a good frisky game of fun, especially with Lucifer, you found it easy to participate in these types of games. Groaning lowly the devil rolled his neck, hands wrapping around your waist tightly. “Alright, but i'm totally gonna win.” Lucifer stated confidently, his red eyes flipping between you and the show. Glitz and Glam gone, there was some unnamed clown you’d never seen now entertaining the crowd, they seemed to like him.

You wiggled your hips subtly, trying to turn your body around a bit more toward the stage. Part of you wanted the distraction, part of you wanted to tease, either way it was purposeful. “Ohhohoo- you are- really playing dirty,” The king stressed, his tone jumping around anxiously as his claws tug into your thighs, undoubtedly drawing some blood. You hummed out an ‘mhm’ swirling hips round in a manner that could appear as innocent shifting to the outside eye looked casual. Lucifer moaned, curling into the back of your shoulder to bite down. You could feel him twitching almost like a throb, you weren’t helping with your involuntary contractions around his cock. “Alright sweetie calm down!” The king urged his voice breathy and panicked as he tried to stall your movements by clenching his arms around you. Unfortunately all that did was drag you nearer, feeling the entire length of him inside you grazing the delicate areas that made you tick.

You choked on your spit surprised by the abrupt sensation, your back arching away from him as you attempted to gain a little friction. “Lucifer please don’t,” You whined clutching his forarms that were flexed tightly around your torso. You could feel him nuzzling into your back, his heart beating wildly in his chest, then suddenly without any word, he was cumming. He moaned into your shoulder blades, bucking what he could up into you, rocking both your bodies, anything to get you to milk him. He continued to wiggle around recklessly, you clenched and whimpered at the feeling of him filling you, he always had so much in him. Finally after a moment his movement ceased, and like the devil he is, he snaked his hands around to play with you. You moaned as he whispered dirty things in your ear, “Who’s all needy now huh?,” “Cmon i need you raining off this web before we go,” things like that as he brought you to your orgasm.

You saw stars as you came, his dick still snuggly inside you as you clenched and came undone around him, head thrown back in bliss. After a moment of catching your breath you peered around, humility coming back into you, you spun around speedily, burying your face in Lucifers neck, who looked just as fucked out as you were. “Guess we gotta do this again over the phone?” Lucifer asked breathlessly, you huffed out a laugh at that. “Yep, loser.” You teased already thinking up all the naughty things you could put him through while he’s on call.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oneshots #hazbin hotel smut #lucifer magne x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x you #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer x you #hazbin lucifer #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader smut #lucifer morningstar smut #lucifer smut

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auroralwriting · 4 months ago

Note

hi! here’s a little fic idea or something to maybe toy around with: spencer with a blair waldorf-esque partner (maybe just a similar upbringing?? idk) but yeah, maybe like the insecurity that comes from growing up like that. or like the softness in finally opening yourself up to love where you had to make yourself cold before. idk.

fashion!

spencer reid x fem!reader

an exposing gala finally reveals your hidden wealth to your team, and to spencer

word count: 2.4k / warnings: pure fluff, negative self thoughts, spencer is a sweetie and rossi is supportive dad, no use of y/n, bombshell/rich girl reader

The luxurious life you lived was one you kept hush-hush, private, and behind closed doors for all who wanted to peek in. You knew it was obvious that you came from some money. You went to Yale and got your masters from Harvard. Sometimes, you wore more expensive clothing, like classic Louboutin heels or Dior sweaters.

You kept all of your money and lifestyle private for the simple fact that you didn't want to be treated differently at work. Your teammates, friends, were your favorite people. They were all very humble, sometimes minus Rossi, and so incredibly kind. You didn't want them to assume that Mommy and Daddy bought you this job. That you didn't deserve your position in the FBI.

However, when Rossi invited the team to an expensive gala where you knew people would recognize you, you realized you were absolutely doomed.

"I have no clue what to wear to things like these!" Penelope cried out in faux agony. You and the rest of the girls were shopping in the mall, not a fashion mall, but a regular one, for clothes to wear to the gala. "I don't dress up fancily ever!"

JJ smiled calmingly, "Pen, you'll look gorgeous in anything you wear."

Your brain began to work overtime, fashion knowledge bustling in your brain at a million miles an hour. "Pink," You said. Your voice was always on the cool side, your demeanor stoic like Hotch. You were the fun one, though, and knew how and when to let loose. You liked to think of yourself as highly mature and collected. "A blush pink, not rose. Rose will wash you out."

Penelope blinked in surprise, "Really?"

"Absolutely." You nodded in confirmation.

"Ooh," Emily clasped her hands together, "Do me!"

It took you no less than a second to reply. "Dark red, burgundy, maroon. You suit a darker feminine look." You turned to JJ, raising an eyebrow. "Have you ever considered emerald green?"

JJ paused for a moment, "No, I haven't."

"You should. It would bring out your eyes." You replied with the smallest hint of a smile.

"How do you know all this?" Penelope asked, highly intrigued. "Are you some fashion goddess?"

You felt yourself fully smile, a small chuckle escaping your lips. "I've just always been really good with color-analysis, I guess." It wasn't a lie, color analysis went into profiling, and it came with growing up rich as fu-

"What are you going to wear?" Emily curiously asked, setting her hand in her head.

"I have a few ideas." You nonchalantly replied. "I think I have some dresses at home that will work."

Leading up to the gala, you found yourself feeling anxious anytime someone brought it up, which was all the time. Yes, you knew it was excitement, but it made you nervous to rationalize whether your friends would hate your or not after this. You tried to play it cool, nodding along to the conversations, but one comment really bothered you.

"God, I cannot wait to eye all those rich girls," Derek dreamily sighed, thinking about how much flirting he was going to participate in. "I hear the aristocrat-girls know how to push your buttons."

You knew Derek didn't mean it to be insulting, he was just joking, but it caused you feel a pang in your heart.

As the others continued to talk, you felt eyes boring holes into your body. It was Spencer, probably your closest friend on the team, and the guy you were hopelessly in love with. You'd never admitted it to anyone, the fear of rejection buried deep in your bones. You didn't want to lose him as a friend above anything else.

"Hey," Spencer softly whispered, taking in the look that had settled on your face. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Spence." You nodded, allowing yourself to give him a sweet smile, the one that he knew was reserved for him and him only.

Spencer gave you a suspicious look. "You know Derek didn't mean it like that," He offered, reaching out to squeeze your arm.

"I know," you nodded. "Really, Spence. I'm okay."

The loss of your usual glimmer in your eyes had vanished before Spencer's eyes. He knew you better than that. Something was definitely up.

Even if he was your best friend, he found it hard to gather a good read on you sometimes. No one had ever been to your apartment, knew where you lived, met any of your family, absolutely nothing personal. You went to everyone else's places, met their families, it made Spencer's brain wrap around itself trying to figure you out. You were so open with him, yet so closed off at the same time. It was like you were hiding some deep, dark secret that you didn't want to hurt him. Nonetheless, he trusted your judgement, never prying too hard. He was too in love with you to even consider hurting you.

The night of the gala finally approached. You sat in front of your vanity, finishing up your hair and makeup. Reluctantly, you gave Rossi your address to come get you. He had hired out a limo to take the team to the gala.

As you walked outside, the cool chill of the air was a huge contrast to the heat inside, reminding you of how brutal Virginia autumn's could be. As you opened the door, you let out a sigh of relief when you saw it was just Rossi.

"I had a feeling you didn't want anyone to know where you lived," He remarked, a knowing look on his face. "From one to another, I know when someone has expensive taste. You, my dear, struck me as an aristocrat from day one."

"Does anyone else know?" You asked softly, biting your lip.

Rossi let out a huff of air, "Of course not. But you should tell them, preferably tonight."

"What if they think differently of me?" Your voice felt small, and you noticed the way Rossi looked at you with comfort. It was obvious that this was an unusual way to see you, but deep down, you were a sensitive, caring soul who played the part of the cold, badass agent too well.

"I can assure you, they won't." Rossi squeezed your hand for a moment, allowing you to buckle yourself in.

One by one, the team began arriving. They all looked amazing, of course, but the one that stuck out to you was Spencer in his classic black and white tux. Of course, his eyes couldn’t leave you, either. Mentally, you made a note of this eye-checking out, or eye-fucking, as Derek so gracefully called it.

Penelope was the last to arrive, and she gasped when she saw you. “That’s Prada!” She pointed, her mouth agape.

“My mom gifted it to me on my twenty-first birthday,” You explained, feeling relief when the team played it off as a very generous gift.

The gala was gorgeous, white, gold, and black filling your eyes. Of course, you’d definitely seen better, but it was your first gala in a few years. It was refreshing to see. The team, on the other hand, looked amazed at it all.

“This is the most amazingly spectacular thing I’ll ever witness in my life.” Penelope gaped.

“It really is gorgeous,” JJ nodded in agreement.

Even Hotch was staring wide eyed at the hall. “Hey,” Derek asked. “Why do you not look at all surprised or even any other feeling besides neutral at this? That cold?” Derek teased, unknowing of your true feelings.

Before you could answer, you heard a gasp from behind you. Your name was emphasized. You turned around to see a woman, her early forties, and the worst fucking haircut— Maggie Lowdry.

“My dear! It’s been far too long since you’ve been to a gala. Had us all worried sick you’d vanished, or far worse.” Maggie gave you an elegant hug that you reciprocated.

“I’ve been very busy with work,” You replied with a wide smile. “Maggie, this is my team. My team also includes Agent David Rossi.”

Maggie went wide eyed, “David Rossi! What are the odds Miss Heiress and my favorite author know each other, let alone are co-workers!”

You cringed at her words, sucking in a breath. Rossi chuckled, responding for you. “Not that low, for the area. Please, let me grab you a refreshment.”

Rossi gave you a knowing look, guiding Maggie away. Closing your eyes, you slowly turned around. “Look-”

“You’re rich?” Emily asked, interrupting you.

“Yes, but-”

“For how long?” Derek interjected.

“My whole life, I guess. It’s-”

“What do your parents do?” JJ inquired.

“They both own their own finance companies. This isn’t-”

Spencer’s words cut the deepest, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Covering your mouth, you shook your head, refusing to let tears well to the surface. The look on your face surprised the team. They hadn’t expected you to be so touchy about this.

“I’m sorry, I need air.” You quickly walked away and back outside to catch your breath.

“She’s sensitive,” Hotch began to profile you meticulously. “She puts on a cold front to trick us into thinking she’s someone completely different. In reality, we know she isn’t cold from how often she jokes or laughs and smiles. We know she’s hiding something, maybe a bad past. If we looked closer, we would have realized that this is why she never let us come over, or hardly went shopping with the girls.” Hotch paused for a moment, “She’s scared we’ll treat her differently.”

Emily frowns at his words, "We would never treat her differently because of her background."

"Or because she's rich," JJ added.

Hotch shook his head, "We're all lower-to-middle class. Maybe she thought we would resent her, or potentially believe we assume her parents bought her everything."

"A common stereotype for children of aristocrats is imposter syndrome," Spencer began. "Is that what.. is.."

"Reid, maybe you should go check on her." Derek insisted. "You're her favorite, anyway."

Biting his tongue at Derek's words, Spencer silently agreed as he followed in your previous footsteps. When he exited the building, he saw you sitting on the stone steps, staring into the city.

Spencer softly spoke your name, causing you to look up at him. No matter how hard you tried, Spencer noticed the redness in your eyes. "Can I sit?" Spencer softly asked, gesturing beside you. When you didn't respond, Spencer took that as an opening. He slowly sat next to you, his eyes never once leaving you. "We aren't mad at you."

"Do you think any differently of me?" Your voice was softer than Spencer ever thought he'd heard it before. You'd been with the buero for eight months, twenty six days, and thirteen hours. Even if he knew you well enough, he knew you'd done a damn good job of keeping your own secret.

"Yes," Spencer honestly answered, causing you to look at him wide-eyed as he continued. "I think you're much more sensitive and sweet than you let on to be. Sometimes, we could see the real you if we looked hard enough." You felt your heart beat die down at his words. "I think you're scared that we won't like you anymore because, what, you're rich?"

Your brows furrowed, "Is that not it?"

"Of course not," Spencer chuckled, grabbing your soft, manicured hands. "It doesn't matter if you're the President or anything less than,"

"I thought you guys would hate me," You chuckled at yourself, taking in Spencer's words. You'd been silly this whole time.

Spencer gave you a sympathetic look, "How could we ever hate you?" His thumbs rubbed the top of your hands, just in front of your knuckles. "Plus, I think we all already thought you came from a little money, that or you had incredible debt."

You laughed at his words, causing Spencer to smile brightly. "Maybe some things gave it away."

"Maybe," Spencer warmly agreed, the smile on your face making his heart soar. "Honestly, I know I only feel much better about you,"

"Yeah?" You breathed out.

"Yeah," Spencer confirmed with a nod. "I feel like I'm really starting to understand you. I really think I'm gonna love this you." He paused, taking a deep, supporting breath in. "But, I already do, so maybe that means it'll only get stronger."

Your breath hitched in your throat as your lips slightly parted in surprise. "You- You love me?"

Spencer awkwardly smiled, "Yeah, I love you."

"I love you, too." You admitted, a warmth spreading across your cheeks. "I have since, like, they day I met you."

"I fell in love with you two months and three days after I met you." Spencer replied. He took note of your confused face and decided to help clear up what he meant. "Remember that case where you nearly got set on fire to grab one of the Hutchenson kids from their house fire?"

The memory came back to you in an instant, "That's when you fell in love with me? When I was coughing and covered in ash?"

"When you risked your life to save a child, even after the fact sending her to the first ambulance that arrived despite the fact that you couldn't breathe." Spencer corrected as you shook your head.

"I cannot believe that's when you fell in love with me." You admitted with a small laugh.

Spencer gave you his dorky half-smile, "If it helps, I'm falling in love with you all over again right now." He tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ears, "So you get a do-over."

After a moment of the two of you just simply existing together, relishing in the presence of your love, you decided it was time to go back inside. "We need to go back inside soon. Or, I do. My presence is expected."

"Of course, I can't hog you all to myself, can I?" Spencer teased as he helped you stand up.

"You can have me all to yourself anytime there isn't a gala," Spencer's cheeks grew red at your words as you internally cheered. "Plus, now I have a boyfriend to introduce?"

Spencer nodded quickly, "Yes, you do."

"Good," You smiled, slowly turning around to walk back inside. "I hope you know how to dance too, by the way. The waltz is common at these types of galas."

"Wait, what? No, no, I can't dance- hey, wait up!"

#doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #bau team #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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kitten4sannie · 11 months ago

Text

ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏʙᴏʏꜱ4ʏᴏᴜ.ᴄᴏᴍ

ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ/ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ➠ ʏᴜɴʜᴏ

pairing: camboy! yunho x fangirl! reader (fem)

genre: camming au, fluff (lowkeyy), humor, smut

summary: dedicating your hard earned money and free time to your favorite camboy goodboy_99 comes with a lot of perks.

w.c: 3.9k

warnings: switch! yunho, switch sub leaning! reader, there’s some sub 4 sub vibes in this, monster cock yunho, yunnie’s got piercings, exhibitionism/voyeurism, masturbation, edging, use of a cock ring/golden retriever butt plug >:3), teasing, pet names (baby, kitty, kitten, etc), reader calls yunho puppy/pup and he loves that shit, dirty talk, lots of praise, some degradation, kissing, toy usage, nipple play (f/m), squirting, breeding kink, rough unprotected sex, cumming in mouth, snowballing, these losers lowkey fall in love <3

a/n: shoutout to felix @yourfatherlucifer for allowing me to build on your camboy yunho fic idea :3 you're such a genius for that concept <3 so yeah there’s not enough whimpering baby boys with monster cocks in fics i swearrr (if you know of any pls send them my way ><) so i decided to offer my contribution,, more like cumtribution am i right?? *crickets* anygays i had way too much fun with this one skjdhf you'll see what i mean >3< i hope you enjoy ~~

Now Playing:

ᴄʏʙᴇʀꜱᴇx ʙʏ ᴅᴏᴊᴀ ᴄᴀᴛ

0:01 ❍─────── 4:28

Volume: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%

ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ꜰꜰꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

You've never missed a single stream from your favorite camboy goodboy_99, always willing to pull up his stream after a long day at work no matter how tired you were, never opposed to cranking one out in his honor. You sent him a countless amount of coins throughout your obsession, picking out new options from his personal menu, never tired of seeing him act them out with a cute little smirk on his face and your username gracing his pretty pierced lips.

At first, you were a silent viewer, just concerned with getting yourself off, but then somewhere along the line, you began to leave lots of comments in the live chat, though they were more akin to sexts, and for some odd reason, Yunho paid more attention to yours, instead of the numerous other ones. Maybe it was because you were his number one fan, or perhaps, just perhaps, it was because he was into you too, but you assumed that was just your delulu mind at play.

Regardless, here you were, sitting with your legs spread in your computer chair, a vibrator on your clit, and your eyes glued on the bright screen that was showcasing your beloved camboy in a similar position: his thighs spread open in his gaming chair, his pretty flushed face contorted in pleasure, fucking himself dumb with a purple pocket pussy, the base of his thick cock constricted with an even thicker cock ring.

“Aaah, haaah…W-who made me put on this cock ring, huh? It won’t let me cum, guys, c’monnn, lemme cum,” Yunho whined out, a few beads of sweat dripping past his dyed black and red bangs down to the leather dog collar around his neck, giving his webcam a small pout, begging his viewers with his big brown eyes.

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴡʜɪɴʏ ᴏᴍɢ

➵ ʜɪᴍʙᴏ4ʏᴏᴜ: ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ. ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ

You brought one hand to your keyboard, pressing the rounded side of the large vibrator directly into your clit with the other, making you shudder and jolt, your fingers rapidly pressing into the keys. You’ve been in this exact position so many times before, you knew you couldn’t possibly cum until you saw Yunho fall apart in front of your straining eyes.

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ: ᴅᴏ ᴜ ᴡɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋ3 ᴜʀ ᴄᴏᴄᴋ ʀɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ɴ0ᴡ ʙᴀʙʏ ʙᴏʏ?

Yunho giggled softly at your typos, running a hand through his sweaty hair, causing it to fall back down onto his forehead, spreading his thighs just a little wider. “Yes, fuck, I’m going to cum all over myself for you, baby.” He pressed his fingers into his aching balls, feeling how sensitive they were, before he slowly slid the cock ring up and off of his leaking cock. “I’ve been edging myself for so longgg, god, it's gonna feel so good.”

➵ ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏʟᴜᴠʀ: ɢᴜʏꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴄᴋ'ꜱ ꜱᴏ ʀᴇᴅ ʀɴ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴜᴍꜱʜᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴜꜱ

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ꜰʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ ʟᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ,, ʜᴇ'ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴄᴜᴍ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴇɪʟɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟᴍᴀɴ ᴄʀʏʙᴀʙʏ

Yunho arched his back off of the chair, holding the vibrator near the base of his cock, the vibrations sending endless waves of arousal through his jolting body, the silver chain links hanging from his collar rattling against his drool-stained chest, soft, staccato moans echoing from his drooling mouth, on the edge of ecstasy, but not quite getting there. “Fuck, m’ so close, so close, so close…”

About to catapult into ecstasy yourself, you found it in you to help Yunho reach his much-needed orgasm, rapidly clicking a few options on the webpage. It was the least you could do after watching him edge himself in various ways for your own entertainment.

Yunho heard a familiar jingling tone emanate from his computer’s speakers, preventing his eyes from fully rolling back into his skull, instead bringing his attention to his bright monitor, his cock beginning to pulse, a few more beads of pre-cum spilling down the shiny, bright red tip.

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ¹⁰⁰⁰ ᴄᴏɪɴꜱ

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ: ᴘʟꜱ ᴄᴜᴍ 4 ᴍ3 ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ

Yunho received a hefty dono from his favorite viewer, got a cute request from them, and got called puppy all at the same time? It was simply too much for a baby boy like him to handle, especially after being teased and edged by his dear audience for so long. “Cumminggg, oh my god, m’ cumming so hard,” Yunho moaned out, dropping the vibrator from his cock, just letting it hang at his side, his thighs jolting each time his veiny cock twitched up into his heaving abdomen. “F-uuuck…” Long spurts of milky liquid splattered onto his straining abs, some shooting across one of his pierced nipples, some of it even gracing his pretty, glistening parted lips. Yunho didn’t even realize he managed to cum inside his own mouth until he tasted the bitterness on his tongue when he swallowed his drool down. “Holy fuck, you guys, I just swallowed my own cum…I should’ve just aimed for my mouth the whole time…Mm, remind me next stream.”

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ɪ’ᴍ ɪɴꜱᴀɴᴇ

➵ ꜰᴀɴʙᴏʏ4ᴛᴇᴇᴢ: ᴄᴀʟʟ ʜɪᴍ ᴘɪᴄᴀꜱꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ʜᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴜᴍ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋᴋᴋᴋᴋ

The visual and physical stimulation you were providing yourself proved to be almost lethal, dropping your now silent vibrator onto the carpet below, hunched over in your chair, resting the side of your sweaty cheek on your cat paw mouse pad, your twitching, tingling fingers gently pressing into your keyboard. “He looks so pretty…” you whispered to yourself, hearts forming inside your glistening eyes.

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ: ʟᴜᴠ ᴡᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴜ ᴄᴠᴍ ʏᴜɴɴɪ3 ,, ᴜʀ ꜱ0 ᴄᴜᴛᴇᴇᴇᴇ

Yunho slid his long, slender fingers through the puddles of cum splayed across his chest, bringing them up to his lips, sucking it off of them, his hooded eyes accompanying his curled lips, looking like a mischievous puppy. “If you love seeing me cum so much, Kitty, then you should see it in real life, doncha’ think?”

“Huh?” you reacted, suddenly sitting up straight, your eyes and mouth wide open, wondering if you had nutted so hard, you were having auditory hallucinations.

While licking the remaining saltiness from his lips, Yunho’s smirk grew wider. “You heard me. Since you’re my biggest supporter, I thought I’d fly you out to join me in a stream. Whaddaya think?” He just sat there, looking smug as hell, confident in himself and his decisions, his heart pounding away inside his chest.

As you sat there in disbelief, factory resetting in silence, Yunho turned his attention to the rapidly moving live chat, giggling a bit. “That's a pretty hot idea, huh, guys? Wanna watch us fuck each other stupid?”

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ɪᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴜꜱᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ

➵ ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏʙᴏʏꜱʀᴜɪɴᴇᴅᴍʏʟɪꜰᴇ: ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪᴛ ʙᴇ ᴍʏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴛ

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ᴋɪᴛᴛʏ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴘᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜɢ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀʀ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ

The rest of the chat had an overwhelmingly positive response, further egging on Yunho’s insane idea and your urge to pack up your bags right then and there. You still weren’t sure if you had fallen into a coma or if this was your reality, but regardless, you hit enter on your poor keyboard.

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ: ᴜ ʙᴛʀ ɢᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ

➵ ᴜʀꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇᴋɪᴛᴛʏ: ɪᴍ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ 4 ᴜ ♡

You landed a critical hit on Yunho’s heart when your highlighted comments popped up on his screen, causing him to cover his face and spin around in his chair, tiny giggles escaping his throat. He peeked at his webcam through his fingers, whining, “Hurry up, Kitty, I'm waiting!”

࿏࿏࿏

Taking a flight over to him wasn’t too difficult, but what was incredibly difficult was standing with your luggage outside of Yunho’s apartment in an outfit you took hours deliberating over, left to your own devices, which meant that your brain would go over all the reasons why he would send you home as soon as he opened the door.

Before you could get even more sweaty just from standing there, the door swung open. Yunho’s face suddenly froze, his eyes growing wide, resembling marbles and beginning to sparkle. He just stood there staring at you, taking in all of you, wanting to etch it into his memory.

“H-hi, Yunnie, I’m Kitty, well, Y/N, heh,” you squeaked out, dropping your bag on the ground to give him a shy wave, your lips quirking up into a nervous smile. “Y-you look even cuter in person.”

“You’re the cute one here, silly.” Yunho giggled softly, immediately stepping past his doorframe to pull you into a hug, burying you in his oversized dual-colored sweater. “I’m so happy I can finally meet you, Y/N,” he whispered near your ear, rubbing your lower back with his large hand. “We’re gonna have so much fun together…”

Once he pulled away, you almost melted into the floor, your knees feeling a bit weak, still able to give him a big, goofy smile. “So much fun,” you echoed, your flushed face matching Yunho’s bright red ears.

࿏࿏࿏

After spending a bit more time together just hanging out around Yunho’s apartment and taking time to talk about whatever, including a discussion about your sexual experiences and limits, your walls seemed to drop all together, realizing he was just as chill, and just as perverted, in real life as he was during his streams. Your heart still raced over the smallest things, but that was for a different reason. Your body was practically vibrating as well, but that also had a different cause, a far more explainable one.

“So,” Yunho began, gently running his thumbs over your knuckles, licking at the piercing on the side of his bottom lip. “Should we go live now?” He squeezed your hand slightly, leaning in to drown you with his intense gaze. “Are you in the mood to play, baby?”

You couldn’t possibly tell him that you were essentially the human embodiment of Niagara Falls, having to squeeze your thighs together as much as you could to keep your arousal from dripping down your inner thighs past your short skirt. “I really wanna play with you, Yunnie,” you replied, gently placing your hand on his knee, your fingers moving past his ripped jeans to make contact with his warm skin.

“Then, let’s play, Kitty.” Blushing and returning your sweet smile, Yunho reached up to caress your cheek lovingly, before standing up to turn his webcam on and start up a new stream.

Yunho sat down in his spacious chair, making sure his pretty guest of honor stood in front of him for the time being as his faithful viewers showed up in the chat in large waves, eventually holding his hands out near you like he was presenting a prize. “Here she is, everyone!” He gave the webcam a playful smile past your shoulder, coaxing you to sit comfortably inside his large lap, his hand going up to pet your head, which you nuzzled into, the small bell collar he put on you earlier jingling a bit. “My Kitty finally arrived for playtime.”

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ᴛᴡᴏ ʜᴏᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ??? ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ???

➵ ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏɢʀʟ: ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅꜱ ɪ’ᴍ ꜱᴜɪɴɢ

“Now, c’mon Kitty, show everyone how excited you are to be here,” Yunho purred near your ear, reaching around you to grab your thighs, gently pulling them open as you spread them fully out yourself.

With your thighs trembling, you revealed the bright pink vibrator you’ve had lodged inside you for the past hour, your cunt already so slicked up with arousal that the toy threatened to slip out of you if you didn’t keep clenching around it. “So full…”

“Do you see, everyone? See how good I treat my guests?” Yunho asked his audience, making a downwards V over the top of your cunt, rubbing his fingers along your folds, making sure to stimulate your clit at the same time. “I watched her shove this toy up her cute little pussy earlier…She’s been walking around my apartment with it inside ever since like a good little slut.”

➵ ᴅᴏɴᴛʟᴏᴏᴋᴀᴛᴍᴇ: ᴛʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ɪᴛ ɪ’ᴍ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴡᴋ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴍᴍᴍ

Moaning at the feeling of Yunho pulling the toy out and slipping it back inside your hole, you leaned your head back into his chest, his stiff cock pressing into your ass, your hands moving back to play with his hair. “Wanna touch you too, puppy…”

“I know you do, Kitty. You’ll get to put your hands all over me in a second, I promise.” Yunho nuzzled your cheek, giving it a gentle lick that made you shiver, pulling the toy out agonizingly slow, inch by inch, drawing a long moan from your lips. He slipped both of his arms around you, bringing his hands down to spread you open with his thumbs, your clenching cunt on display for every single one of his viewers to drool over. “Look at this pretty kitty’s hole, everyone. So pink, so wet, so ready to use, huh?”

His follower and viewer count hit a sudden spike, making the both of you giggle to each other. Yunho then lifted one of your thighs up onto the chair, spreading his own thighs open a bit just in time for a golden retriever tail to become visible fo his viewers, his ass comfortably filled with one of his favorite plugs. “Kitty watched me put this in after she filled herself up. It slipped in so easily too, and my sweetheart got so wet, but I told her she couldn’t cum until you guys got to see. Aren’t I the best, guys?” His chat sped up a little faster, the majority of people talking in all caps, making Yunho chuckle.

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ɢᴜʏꜱ ɪ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ

➵ ᴅᴏɢʙᴏʏ: ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ ᴜꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ

When you whimpered and nudged him for his attention, Yunho nodded knowingly with his cheek against yours, nuzzling it. “Oh, I know, baby. You’ve been so good letting that toy fill you up for so long, but you need more. Is that right? You need puppy’s cock in your breeding hole, don’t you?” he teased you in a low, pouty voice, rubbing your wetness around your clit with one hand, using his other hand to push the vibrator in and out of your clenching cunt, going faster and faster until you began to cry out.

“Yes, puppy, please, I can’t take it…!” you voiced desperately, jolting against Yunho’s body, about to scream when he pressed the rounded end of the vibrator to turn it up even higher, your thighs beginning to shake. “Oh my god, i’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, Kitty, cum for everyone….” Yunho squeezed your clit roughly, simultaneously jamming the vibrator into you at such a velocity that you screamed, your arousal starting to pour out of you, the clear liquid getting onto Yunho’s thighs and the chair below. Yunho groaned at the sight, using his hand to rub your juices around just to hear how wet it was, moaning, “Oh, fuckkkk, look at that, Kitty’s making such a mess for us.” He brought his dripping fingers to his drooling mouth, eagerly sucking your cum off of them. “Did that feel good, kitten?”

“So good…” Feeling Yunho’s rock-hard cock throbbing against your lower back, you squirmed around against him, turning your head to look at him, still panting softly from your ear ringing orgasm. “Wanna make you feel good too, pup, with my breeding hole…”

“Oh, yeah?” Yunho nosed your neck, licking a stripe up your neck past your collar to make you shiver, looking you straight in the eye afterward. “Wanna squeeze around me, baby? Feel how big I am inside your tiny little cunt?”

You reached up to caress his hair, gently tugging on it, your eyes full of desperation for your favorite streamer. “Please. Want you to stuff me with your cock. Wanna make you cum from how tight I am for you.”

Yunho unknowingly began to rut against you, leaving streaks of pre-cum on the small of your back. “That’s my slutty little kitty…so eager to be filled by her puppy…” He reached back around you to spread your hole open once again for the camera, looking at his webcam with hazy, hooded eyes. “What do you think, chat? Should I fuck this kitty full of my pups?”

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ɴᴏᴡᴡᴡᴡᴡᴡ

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴅɪᴄᴋ ᴇxᴘʟᴏᴅᴇꜱ

Unable to take Yunho’s teasing anymore, you quickly stood up, wobbling slightly, before you sat back in his lap, this time facing him, the both of you struggling with his joggers to pull his cock out, already grinding yourself along it when it was finally free, the slippery ridge of his silicone cock ring supplying you extra pleasure. “Need you, Yunnie,” you whimpered, pulling at his collar to bring his parted lips onto yours, your tongues joining in the middle.

Yunho moaned into your mouth, swiveling the chair to the side so that his viewers could still get a good look at your shared desperation, his cock starting to throb steadily against your slick cunt when you began to suck on his tongue — though the whining and whimpering noises Yunho was known for didn’t start until you began to rub and flick at his pierced, hardened nipples from underneath his sweater, his hands diving underneath your own sweater to grope and pull at your tits, eventually moving to your ass to squeeze it, your hips lifting up slightly so that he could tease your entrance with his leaking cockhead.

You moved your hips back slightly so that you could reach down, grabbing at the base of his tail and moving it around experimentally until Yunho began to gasp for air, figuring you were rubbing against his prostate. “Does that feel good, puppy? Am I hitting the right spot?”

“S-so good, makes me wanna fuck you, kittennn, wanna fuck you dumb on my cock. Can I, please?” Yunho suddenly begged you, fucking himself back on the plug that you continued to maneuver around inside him, not hesitating to give you the most adorable, lust-drunk pouty face you’ve ever witnessed in your life.

“Yes, puppy, please, please, please fuck me,” you answered just as desperately, ruffling his soft, slightly damp hair, letting go of his tail to wrap your arms around his neck.

Yunho quickly swiveled the chair back to its original position so that your ass and throbbing cunt was on full display from behind, using two fingers to spread your open for him, slowly guiding his thick cock inside you inch by inch, until he completely bottomed out, resulting in a blissful sigh from the both of you. “Look at you, kitten, so fucking full of my cock. I’m gonna fuck your brains out,” he groaned, his large hands encasing your hips, immediately jack hammering himself into you like he was using a fleshlight, your joined bodies creating a lewd symphony of slick sounds.

Yunho rammed himself into you so roughly, you couldn’t do anything else except take it, bouncing on his monstrous cock over and over again, the tip of it repeatedly forming a bulge inside your stomach that only Yunho could see, throbbing inside you from the sight of it. “So good, it’s so good, Yunnie, love your cock…!”

“Love your wet cunt, Kitty, love how tiny you are, like you’re gonna break just from getting pounded into by my puppy cock,” he moaned back, gripping your ass so hard, your flesh squished through his strong fingers, still driving you down onto his cock like you were made for him, for his pleasure. “Makes me wanna stuff you full of my litter….”

“A-aaah, but puppy likes being edged with his cock ring, doesn’t he? It feels so much better like this, yeah?” you huffed out, reaching behind you to squeeze one of his intensely swollen balls, receiving a high-pitched, pleasured moan from your playmate.

“Feels so fucking good, Kitty,” Yunho agreed, mindlessly kicking the speed of his thrust game into hyper-drive, mindlessly fucking himself into you so roughly, so sloppily, his cock almost slipped out a few times, requiring him to hold you down by your hips. “Your pussy’s clenching so hard around me, baby, it’s so tight for me…Feels like you’re gonna cum…”

“Yeah, gonna cum, puppy, feels too–aaah-good…!”

Yunho locked his arms around your waist, his hips never faltering, his veiny length rubbing along your inner walls in just the right way, making you cry out. He pressed his lips onto your ear, slipping his hand in between your sweaty bodies to rapidly rub your stiff clit, purring, “Good girl, cum for me, kitten. That’s right, baby, squirt on my cock…”

When you came, you came hard, your arousal leaking out around his slippery cock, your body jolting as each wave of pleasure coursed through you, resting your head on his shoulder, his sweater slipping down it. Once you recovered, Yunho pressed his lips against yours, whispering words of praise, among other things that his audience couldn't hear until you slowly lifted yourself off of him.

“I think it’s time to make our good puppy cum, don’t you think, guys?” you asked his webcam, walking around Yunho’s chair to stand behind it, running your hands down his body, reaching for his twitching cock, slipping your closed fist up and down it until you made Yunho whimper pathetically, tears forming inside his eyes, causing the already rapidly moving chat to go completely ape-shit.

➵ ᴡʏɴɢ: ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴅɢᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴄʀʏ

➵ ꜱɴ: ɴᴏᴏᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ʙᴀʙʏ ᴄᴜᴍ ᴀʟʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇꜱ ɪᴛ :(

You continued to pump his reddened, leaking cock, replicating his incredibly needy facial expression, pouty lips and all, murmuring, “Awww, poor puppy wants to cum so bad, huh?”

Yunho bucked his hips up into your hand, trying to fuck himself into your closed fist, his abs and muscles straining from his desperation, his ass clenching around his favorite plug, more drool beginning to leave his lips and dribble down his neck to his dog collar. “Please, let puppy cum, wanna cum inside my mouth like a dirty boy,” he babbled out, tears overtaking his vision once the pain of edging himself for so long began to overtake the pleasure on his almost orgasm.

“Mm, then be good and cum, puppy,” you replied sweetly, suddenly slipping the pre-cum drenched cock ring off of Yunho and bringing it up to his mouth, watching him lap up the clear liquid off of it without you even having to ask. “Such a naughty boy, so good for us, aren’t you?”

“So good, Kitty, m’ so good,” Yunho echoed, running his hands up and down your forearms for his own comfort, practically panting like an actual dog would, his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. “Gonna cum so hard…”

“Cum so hard for us, Yunnie, come on, that’s it….” Leaning yourself over his shoulder, you used both hands to milk his long, heavy cock, driving loud, whiny moans out of him, along with spurt after spurt of milky cum, watching the way he caught the stream of it on his lolled-out tongue. Yunho tilted his head back, looking up at you with teary, glazed-over eyes, making a small noise, clearly wanting to share himself with you.

Without hesitation, you pulled him by the collar, pressing your mouth onto his, his tongue slipping inside it almost instantly, lazily swapping his hot cum and saliva with you, the both of you swallowing the combination down with ease afterwards, your hands caressing one another’s sweaty faces. After a shared gaze of affection, Yunho pressed a kiss onto your nose, making you blush harder than you had the whole night.

When the post-nut clarity hit him, Yunho sat up a bit in his chair, giving his webcam a variety of hearts using his hands. “Thank you all for tuning in for this special stream, everyone! Love you!”

➵ ᴀɴᴏɴ: ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴀᴡ ɢᴏᴅ

➵ ᴘᴜᴘ: ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴀᴘɪꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ

➵ ᴡʏ: ʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴇᴀᴛ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ

➵ ꜱɴ: ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʏᴜɴʜᴏ ♡

As soon as Yunho turned his webcam off, he brought you into a tight, comforting hug, nuzzling the side of your head with his own. “You did so good, Y/N…That was amazing, this is amazing…”

You hugged him back just as tight, your heart fluttering, wondering if it was all just physical between the two of you or if there was something else blossoming behind the lens of the webcam. “I think so too, Yunnie…I just…” You began to pull back, causing Yunho’s happy expression to drop a bit.

“What’s wrong, Y/N? You didn’t have fun?” he murmured, his bottom lip jutting out slightly.

“No, it’s not that! I had tons of fun, Yunnie, the most fun I’ve had in a long time…” you reassured him, ruffling his damp dyed hair as gently as possible, smiling at him with your eyes. “I just don’t want to overstay my welcome, you know? So I should probably–”

“No, no, noooo,” Yunho repeated whinily, pulling you back into his arms, nuzzling your neck this time, enveloping you in his comforting scent and warmth. He eventually pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead onto yours, gazing at you, as if he was letting you take a peek at his beating heart through his eyes. “Stay…?”

You swallowed harshly to keep your heart from bubbling up into your throat, warmth searing into your cheeks, murmuring, “Are you sure?”

Yunho bit at his bottom lip, lowering his head slightly so you didn’t have to see just how red he had become, though his bright red ears betrayed him. He eventually looked back into your eyes, swallowing down his nerves. “Y/N, what if…what if told you I was your number one fan too? What would you say then?”

With your heart hammering away inside your chest, you pulled yourself together just enough to softly press your lips against his. You smiled up at him afterwards, caressing his cheek, your eyes twinkling with adoration for your favorite puppy boy. “Does that answer your question? Or do you need another?”

Yunho pouted cutely, just about ready to melt inside your arms. “Another.”

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