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rivalsispunk · 3 days ago

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Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating.

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him.

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted.

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust.

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again.

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus.

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.”

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement.

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear.

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you.

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again.

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you.

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch.

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause.

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world.

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again.

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid.

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick.

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin.

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat.

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door.

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead. “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag.

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare.

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him.

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before.

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words.

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you.

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall. A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook.

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam.

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan.

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre.

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business.

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan.

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.”

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?”

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one?

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library.

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?”

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest.

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.”

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?”

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip.

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall.

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing.

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you.

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time.

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan.

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this.

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

#declan o’hara #declan o’hara imagine #declan o’hara smut #declan o’hara x you #rivals smut #declan o’hara x female #best friends dad!declan o’hara #boss!declan o’hara #declan o’hara x assistant!reader #declan o’hara x reader #declan o'hara #rivals imagine #rivals fan fic #rivals fanfiction #declan o'hara fanfiction #sexy jealous declan #filthy filthy irishman #aidan turner

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buddiebeginz · 2 days ago

Text

There's been a lot of discussion lately about when will Eddie come out and when Buddie canon will happen. I think a lot more people are feeling optimistic that it actually will happen now so the conversation has shifted into people being worried how this is all going to play out. I've seen people saying that if Eddie comes out and Buddie is fully confirmed this season (i.e. they confess their feelings/ there's a kiss) that would be way too fast. I have some issues with that line of thinking though.

For starters after Buck came out in season 7 we had a lot of new people join fandom (even more join during the summer hiatus), which I'm glad for all the new people who have found 911 particularly because the majority are now rooting for Buddie. Still I feel like a lot of the newer fan's opinions (on this topic) are being heard over some of us who have been in fandom for years.

I'm not saying if you're a newbie that your opinions on the show don't matter but I do think you should take the time to listen to those of us who have been around longer. The fact is if us long time Buddie fans hadn't been rooting for this ship for years we wouldn't even be as close to them becoming canon as we are. Buck likely wouldn't have had his bi awakening if not for us either. We've supported the show and pushed them for years to give these characters the storylines they deserve. That should matter when you're talking about something like how and when Buddie canon will happen.

I understand that people want Buddie to get together in just the right way but I think we all need to realize there is no one right way this will happen. We need to make peace now before it happens that there will be things about them coming together we won't expect even things we may not exactly like. All that matters is they finally get to take their relationship to that next level. That both Buck and Eddie get to realize their person their soulmate has always been right beside them. The other mains have had their person for years it's beyond time for Buck and Eddie to (consciously fully) have that too.

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I've seen people say that Eddie deserves a long journey to figuring out his sexuality and he needs to work on his mental health before being with Buck. And while I do think Eddie deserves more focus and screen time I don't see 911 doing a long drawn out thing with him. 911 typically does smaller 1-3 ep arcs for their characters. There's also the fact that they've been dropping hints for Eddie's coming out these past two seasons. Ones I'm positive they will connect back to other things throughout the series, like why it never worked out with him in his relationships with women.

I'm also personally not a fan of the logic that someone needs to do all these things to change themselves to be ready for love. Buck and Eddie have seen each other through their best and their worst. The show has literally made it a point to tell you that's what love is on numerous occasions. They said that love is about stepping into someone's mess with them. Why is it that Bobby didn't need to be a perfect person before he was worthy of Athena's love? Go back and watch season 1 Bobby was not in a good place when they got together. He was getting better but he was still struggling and up until the end of the season was still thinking about ending his life. But we see Athena "step into the mess" with him. She starts by going to church with him and we see them in s2 (early on in their relationship) talk about his past at different times.

I just feel like this fandom sometimes holds Eddie to unfair standards. He's been struggling for the past couple of seasons but I honestly think we're going to find out in 8b that it's connected to him having not felt able to live his truth. We saw in 806 that Eddie is starting to embrace joy and taking steps to fully be himself. That he's starting even in small ways to take ownership of what he wants and doing things for himself not because he feels obligated to.

I think him going back to Texas is not just to get Chris but the shows way of giving him a rebirth of sorts. They're bringing him back to where he's from and it's where I think Eddie is going to realize who he is and what he wants (Buck) and that him and Chris don't belong in Texas they belong in LA with Buck and the rest of their found family. And this time Eddie will get to make the decision to leave not based on fear or desperation or running away from his life but based on knowing where he truly belongs.

I know there's also a worry that if Eddie comes out in 8b it will feel rushed but the length of the story being told shouldn't be the main concern it should be how well the show tells it.

They could have him realize his feelings for Buck (because I do think him figuring out his sexuality is going to be tied to that) while he's still in Texas. That could be one whole episode just Eddie (like they did for Bobby in s7) or have it play out over a few eps. Then Eddie comes home and Buddie canon happens by the end of s8. I also feel like people are forgetting we have quite a few eps for 8b left to go so it's not like Eddie coming out and Buddie canon are both going to happen in 1 or 2 eps right after the other. It's very likely Eddie realizing his feelings will happen earlier and Buddie canon will happen in one of the last eps of the season.

Also even if they have Eddie come out in one ep that doesn't mean it's the end of him ever talking about his sexuality or facing any struggles with it. We haven't seen Buck facing much struggle when it comes to his sexuality but I think it will be different with Eddie. Even if Buddie officially get together in s8 in s9 we could still see things like Eddie having mixed feelings over being out especially when it comes to stuff like pda. Maybe we could even see Eddie talking to the priest again. Eddie coming out and Buddie canon happening doesn't mean it's the end of Eddie's sexuality journey it's just the beginning.

Like I said before we need to make peace that every part of these stories isn't going to make everyone happy but I think the last thing we should be doing when Eddie comes out and Buddie canon happens is look for reasons to criticize the show for how it happens. They will inevitably receive hate from bummys and people who will accuse them of making the show too gay. We can't add to that by complaining that a storyline didn't happen in a perfect way. If they actually finally go there with these characters we need to celebrate the show and be louder with our praise than any bs they'll get.

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On the subject of Buddie I've seen people say that if they confess their feelings for one another by the end of 8b it will feel rushed that the general audience won't get what's happening because the show hasn't set the groundwork for their relationship. I feel like I'm seeing this argument more from newer fans which I guess makes sense because to you it probably does seem like everything is moving fast. But for those of us who have watched Buck and Eddie's relationship develop over years and years this has all been a long long time coming in fact it's beyond overdue.

Some of you need to remember that Buck was supposed to come out in s4 (the shooting was likely to be the catalyst to him realizing his feelings for Eddie) and Eddie in s5 which means Buddie canon was likely to happen that same season. How can s8 be too soon when they were supposed to get together three seasons ago? They have literally been through almost everything Madney and Bathena have been through or some variation thereof. If Buck and Eddie were a straight couple they would have been married already. Buck and Eddie have spent 7 years building their relationship. Building a life and family together. Them finally admitting they're in love with each other is simply the natural progression their relationship should be taking from best friends (that have always been more than friends) to lovers. I think another reason people question if it's too fast for this to happen in s8 is because a queer couple like this has never happened on a show like 911 before. There's been plenty of slow burn straight couples. Which is why I'm positive if Buck and Eddie were a guy and a girl there wouldn't be this big debate over if it should happen now, people would be saying what the hell is this show even doing? Why haven't they kissed already?

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A big point about all of this that I feel like is being left out of the discussions is that 911 is made in the US and is first and foremost made for US audiences. I bring this up because as someone who is from the states it's very apparent there's a huge uprising of anti lgbtq rhetoric and legislation here right now. I know it probably seems unfathomable to some people that the US government could do something like ban lgbtq people from TV but there's already been pushes to ban things like lgbtq books on a state level so it could happen. But what is more likely is networks and companies have already started to capitulate to trump to protect themselves and their money. We have no way of knowing how bad things will continue to get with trump and how a network like ABC will behave in the future. We don't have the luxury to sit back and say let's wait until s9 or 10 for Buddie to officially get together when there's no certainty of what will even be happening in the US by the time those seasons are made.

Connected to that same topic of what's going on not just in the US but in other countries too. This attack on lgbtq rights means it's more important than ever for Buddie to finally be together. I know that 911 has always had queer characters and ships and they should always be respected for the important representation they've given on the show since day one (particularly characters like Henren and their family) but Buck and Eddie are ground breaking in a way we really haven't seen on TV before. Two men who are best friends and who have come out later in life. Who have fallen for each other over years of building their relationship. Who have spent years raising their son together. Who are an interracial couple. Buck and Eddie in a loving relationship together as a family with Chris is vital representation the world needs to see right now. That lgbtq people need to see. We need to see more depictions of queer joy in the face of all of this hate.

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I see people keep pushing back the time frame of when Buddie should officially get together when we were in s7 people were saying s8 now I've seen them say s9, I've even seen some people recently say s10. I need some of you to realize 911 is a network TV show and that this isn't the golden age of TV anymore. TV shows get canceled left and right sometimes for no reason at all. 911 itself was canceled from Fox after s6 not because no one was watching it but because Fox felt it was too expensive to make. 911 is a super successful show one that will likely go on to it's 9th season and that's an amazing thing when a lot of shows now barely even make it past like two seasons. But because 911 is so many seasons in and is so costly not just to make but also for the cast that means there's always a risk that it could get canceled again. I hope that 911 goes on for at least 10 more seasons but we can't guarantee that at all. The more we push Buddie back the more we run the risk of them not happening at all.

The other thing is I don't want Buddie canon happening at the end of their last season. I want to see how Buck and Eddie's relationship develops and changes once they're officially together. I want to see all the good and bad stuff they go through like moving in together and telling everyone (especially Chris). I want to see how their parents react. How that changes things for them at work. They deserve to have an epic love story just as grand as any of the other main couples have had.

To add to the point of us not knowing how long the show may go on for we also have no idea how long all of the actors plan to stay with the show. I'm not sure how long the contracts they've all signed are for at this point but they've all been with the show a very long time. It's clear they all love working together and I can't see any of them giving that up right now but that could change. We're lucky that Oliver and Ryan have continued to stay with the show after this many years but we can't guarantee they will stay forever. Eventually they could want to go off and work on something else or just get tired of playing the same character. The fact is everything is in the right place at the right time for Buddie canon to happen now. It has to happen now or it may not happen at all.

Also as much as some of you want them to drag out Buck and Eddie getting together I think you underestimate how long the fanbase is willing to hang on for. Like I said some of us have been waiting for Buddie to happen for years we're tired. I almost stopped watching the show after s6 I was that fed up with how they handled things. I'm positive if something doesn't change by the end of s8 that there are people who will stop watching.

I know some have said they want to see Buck and Eddie realizing their feelings and going into s9 pinning. I don't think the show needs to drag out their will they/won't they any longer. I've seen some people say well Buddie hasn't really had a will they/won't they because it wasn't explicit in the show. Buck and Eddie have never been written as just friends. Go compare them to Chim and Hen's friendship. There has always been more there between them always. Again if this was a straight couple people would be complaining constantly wondering why they weren't together yet. They don't have to be kissing for it to be a slow burn. They've done everything but though. I mean what do you call that scene in the kitchen in 3x09? Eddie literally put Buck in his will. He told Buck he trusts him above anyone else with Chris. Buck sobbed when he knew Eddie was going to be okay after he was shot (he's never reacted that way over anyone else on the show getting hurt). Eddie counted the seconds when Buck wasn't breathing. These two men love one another they just haven't admitted it yet.

We don't need more time to tell this story. 911 hasn't always gotten it right (see the weird Vertigo story) but when it's good it can be fcking amazing. The shooting eps are some of my fav eps of tv ever and not just of 911. I have faith in Tim and the show. Tim has wanted to put Buck and Eddie together for a long time and I know he knows he only has one chance to tell this story and get it right. I have faith that him and the actors and writers will do the story justice however it gets told. I know they know it means a lot to so many people. And you know the truth is we're lucky that our ship is even at this point. That we can all debate about how Buddie canon should happen because we're all so sure now that it is in fact happening. Cause the show was very close to ending on a finale that had Buck and Eddie ending up with other partners. Buddie would have only been able to continue to live on in fanon. Instead I truly believe we are months away from the show making history.

#911 abc #buddie #911 buddie #911!

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goldfades · 1 day ago

Note

i love crash out series and thanks for your service queen 😭 i had an idea for like a fight and then make up between them with smut? a lil longer too if you don’t mind

hi baby! i hope you enjoy this!!

warnings: NSFW under the cut, minors pls dni! i feel like i forgot how to write smut so PLEASE give me some feedback

The door barely clicks shut before Luka exhales, sharp and frustrated. You don’t look at him.

You haven’t looked at him since dinner.

Your coat is already halfway off when he reaches for you, fingers just grazing your wrist before you pull away, stepping into the kitchen like he’s not even there. Like the whole ride home hadn’t been thick with tension, the air between you stretched thin, fraying at the edges.

Luka leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with narrowed eyes. You don’t acknowledge him.

He hates it.

Hates the way you move around the kitchen like he’s invisible. Hates the way your lips are pressed into a tight, unyielding line. Hates the silence, because god, anything is better than this. You could be yelling, cussing him out, shoving at his chest with all the fight you have in you—and he’d take it. He’d welcome it.

But this?

This cold, calculated ignoring? He feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks, voice clipped.

Nothing.

Luka clenches his jaw. Pushes off the counter. Takes one step closer.

“Seriously? You’re just gonna act like I’m not here?”

Silence.

You open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, twist the cap with a little more force than necessary.

He watches. Seething. His patience, already thin, finally snaps.

“Oh, my fucking god.” Luka drags a hand down his face. “Can you just say whatever you need to say? Yell at me. Call me an asshole. Something.”

You take a slow sip of water. His eye twitches.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters under his breath.

That does it.

Your head snaps up, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with irritation. “Excuse me?”

Luka smirks. Oh, now you want to talk.

He shrugs, leaning against the counter again, arms lazily folding across his chest. “I said,” he drawls, tilting his head, “you’re a brat.”

Your nostrils flare. He bites back a grin. He knows he shouldn’t be pushing you, shouldn’t be stoking the fire—but at least now you’re giving him something.

You slam the bottle onto the counter, stepping closer. He can see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“There she is.” Luka grins, infuriating and smug, but there’s something else beneath it—something restless. Something hungry. His voice dips lower. “I was starting to miss you.”

Your pulse jumps. But you’re still pissed. Still fuming.

And Luka?

Luka loves you like this—fierce, unrelenting, all fire and defiance. But he loves breaking you down even more.

You glare up at him, chest rising and falling with each sharp breath. Luka is standing so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his broad frame crowds you in, making the kitchen suddenly feel smaller.

His smirk is lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are dark. Heated. He’s enjoying this.

And that pisses you off even more.

“You are such an asshole,” you hiss, pushing at his chest.

He doesn’t budge.

“Am I?” His voice is all silk and steel, infuriatingly calm, like he’s barely restraining a laugh. “For what? Wanting you to actually talk to me instead of acting like a little kid?”

Your jaw tightens.

“You think I’m acting like a kid?”

“I think you’re acting like someone who wants me to lose my patience.” He steps even closer, and you take an automatic step back—until your spine meets the edge of the counter. Luka leans in, bracing a hand beside you. “And you know what, baby?” His voice drops, low and thick. “It’s working.”

Heat pools low in your stomach.

You hate how easily he gets to you.

How his presence, his voice, his everything makes you feel like you’re standing too close to the edge of a cliff, toes curling against the drop. But you’re still mad. And you’re not about to let him just bulldoze over that.

“You embarrassed me,” you say, voice tight.

Luka’s brows knit together. “How?”

You scoff, shoving at him again—harder this time. He lets you. “At dinner. The way you were talking over me, making fun of me in front of everybody—”

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” His voice is firmer now, the teasing edge fading.

“Yes, you were.” Your fists tighten. “You always do this. You always think it’s so funny to push my buttons, and I know you don’t mean anything by it, but sometimes—sometimes it’s not funny.”

Luka exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. He watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face. Then, finally—

“Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t—fuck, baby, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Your anger is still there, but it softens, just a little, at the raw sincerity in his voice. You cross your arms, looking away. “You’re an idiot.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, his hands settling at your waist. “I know.” His thumbs stroke slow, deliberate circles against your hips. “But I’m your idiot.”

You bite your lip. “That’s not a good excuse.”

He dips his head, lips brushing your ear. “No?” His voice is low, dangerously smooth. “Then let me make it up to you.”

Your breath catches. Luka presses closer, his body warm and solid against yours. His nose drags along your jaw, his lips just barely skimming your skin.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He notices, then smirks.

“C’mon, baby.” His voice is pure sin, rough and coaxing. His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs. “Let me fix it.”

You shouldn’t give in this easily. You should stay mad. But Luka—your Luka, with his infuriating smirk and teasing touch—knows exactly how to unravel you.

And right now?

You’re about to let him.

The tension between you crackles like static in the air, thick enough to choke on. Luka's hands are still heavy on your hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your dress. He’s waiting—for you to push him away, for you to tell him off, for you to fight back.

But you don’t. Instead, you stare up at him, lips parted, breath coming just a little too fast. He notices. Of course, he does.

“Say the word, baby,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw. “And I’ll stop.”

You don’t say it.

His smirk is slow and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

You should still be mad. You should still be fuming, pushing him away, making him work harder for it. But Luka knows you too well. Knows the way your pulse is racing, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they want to grab him but your pride won’t let you. Knows exactly how to break you down.

“Luka,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.

He moves.

His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, hoisting you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing. You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as he steps between your legs, pressing his body against yours, trapping you in.

“You gonna let me fix it?” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your throat, sucking just hard enough to make you shiver.

You hate him for this. Hate how easily he gets under your skin, how he turns every fight into something else entirely, something heated and breathless and dangerous.

And you hate even more that you love it.

“You’re such a menace,” you whisper, nails scraping against his scalp.

He grins against your skin. “You love me.”

And god help you, you do.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him groan. His hands squeeze your thighs in response, his control slipping, his breath warm against your lips.

“I’m still mad at you,” you tell him, but your voice is shaky, betraying you.

Luka smirks, pressing his forehead against yours. “No, you’re not.”

You glare at him, opening your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Instead, his lips crash against yours, and everything else melts away.

The fight, the tension, the anger—it all disappears the moment his mouth moves against yours, the kiss hot and needy and just a little desperate. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

Your legs wrap around his hips, anchoring him to you, and Luka groans, deep and low in his throat. He breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, his breath ragged.

“I hate when you ignore me,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me fucking insane.”

You smile, tilting your head to give him better access. “I know.”

His teeth scrape against your pulse. “Brat.”

You tug at his hair, making him growl. “Cry about it.”

His laugh is dark and breathless, and before you can say another word, he’s lifting you off the counter, carrying you towards the bedroom with purpose.

“You wanna play games, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “Let’s play.”

And just like that, the fight is forgotten. Because Luka may hate when you ignore him, but he knows just how to make you beg for his attention.

Luka's steps are measured, each one echoing through the hallway as he carries you effortlessly in his arms, the sheer power of his body on display. The air around you crackles with an electric current, every brush of his fabric against yours sending jolts of desire straight to your core.

The bedroom door swings open with a soft thud behind him. Luka sets you down gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, burning with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. He leans down, his hands planted firmly on either side of your head, caging you in with the strength of his arms.

“You sure you can handle this?” His voice is a low drawl, teasing, yet laced with an edge of seriousness. He knows your games, the push and pull of your resistance, but tonight, the unspoken challenge hangs heavy between you.

Without waiting for your response, Luka’s lips find yours again, more forceful this time. His tongue slides against your lips, demanding access, which you willingly grant. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of mint and something uniquely Luka that makes your head spin.

His hands roam downward, finding the hem of your dress and pulling it up slowly, tantalizingly, until it bunches around your waist. Cool air hits your skin, causing you to gasp into his mouth, a sound that seems to drive him even further. His fingers trace up your thighs, light yet firm, mapping the skin he’s claimed so many times yet still can't get enough of.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. His gaze is fixated on your exposed skin, as if memorizing the sight before him. His fingers hook around the edge of your underwear, teasingly pulling them down as he locks eyes with you, his intentions clear as his lips curve into a smirk.

The fabric slides off with ease, leaving you bare before him. Luka’s breath hitches slightly as he takes in the sight, the raw desire in his eyes enough to make your heart race. He dips his head, pressing kisses along your inner thigh, inching closer to where you want him most—but deliberately avoiding it, driving you crazy.

You squirm beneath him, trying to guide him where you need him, but he gently pins your hips down with his strong hands. “Patience, baby,” he chides lightly, his breath hot against your skin. His refusal to satisfy your needs makes every touch feel like both a punishment and a promise.

Finally, he relents. His mouth moves directly on your pussy, his tongue masterfully invoking sensations that leaves you writhing beneath him. Each lap sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, intensified by the sheer anticipation he's built. His name falls from your lips in a helpless mantra, echoing around the room, filling it with the sound of your pleasure.

Luka's hands grip your hips tighter, a silent command to stay still under his ministrations. But it's a tall order when every flick and swirl of his tongue draws whimpers from your throat. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, his fingers join the play, sinking into you with a precision that sends another jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins.

The room is thick with the heat of your bodies, every breath, every moan mingling in the charged air. Luka’s movements grow more urgent, more focused on your clit, as he senses your climax building. His name becomes a litany, a plea, a declaration as you teeter on the edge.

With a few more skilled movements, you cum all over his tongue, waves of pleasure rolling over you in a relentless tide. Luka slows his pace, riding it out with you, his own heavy breaths a testament to his satisfaction at your unraveling.

As you float back down, he crawls up your body, his weight a welcome pressure. His lips find yours again, kissing you deeply, passionately, sharing the taste of you. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers against your lips, a smile in his voice, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

Luka's gaze holds yours, intense and fiery, as he shifts his position. You can feel the solid weight of his bulge pressing against your thigh, a promise of what's to come. He trails one hand down the center of your body, a teasing path that makes every nerve stand on alert.

When he reaches the junction of your thighs, he pauses, his fingers playing at the entrance that beckons him. His other hand braces beside your head, his thumb caressing your cheek softly, a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes.

Without waiting any longer, he aligns his cock at your sopping pussy. With a slow, firm push, he slides home, filling you completely in one smooth motion. You gasp at the sensation, a perfect stretch, a perfect fit, as Luka pauses for a moment, allowing you both to savor the moment and adjust.

Then, the restraint vanishes. Luka sets a pace that is both relentless and passionate. His hips snap forward with precision, each thrust driving him deeper, eliciting moans from deep within you. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a rhythmic beat that drives the intensity of the moment.

Luka’s face is a mask of concentration and raw pleasure as he watches the effects of his movements reflected in your expressions. His name spills from your lips in a crescendo of sound, each utterance a spur to his motions. His hands roam over your body, one settling to anchor your hip, the other reaching up to pull your leg around his waist, changing the angle of his thrusts to delve even deeper.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, his voice rough with desire. His movements become even more targeted, designed to hit all the right spots within you. The change sends sparks of pleasure zipping through your veins, your back arching off the bed as you meet him thrust for thrust.

The intensity builds, a coiling heat in your belly that signals the rushing approach of your second climax. Luka senses it too, and his motions become even more focused, desperate, as if he’s chasing his own release that's tethered to yours.

"Cum for me, baby," he urges, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck, his breath scalding against your skin. His words, spoken in that commanding tone, pierce the fog of pleasure and tip you over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he pushes you both past the brink.

Your climax shatters through you, waves of intense pleasure washing over you in relentless surges. Luka follows closely behind, his own release claimed in the tight clasp of your body, his name a prayer on his lips.

The room is warm, hazy in the golden light spilling through the curtains. Your skin hums, still tingling from him, from everything.

Luka collapses beside you with a heavy, satisfied groan, one arm flung over his face, the other instinctively reaching for you. His fingers find your waist, tracing absentminded circles against your damp skin. He’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling, a lazy grin stretching across his lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice hoarse, wrecked. “You’re actually tryna kill me.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him. His cheeks are flushed, hair an absolute mess, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead.

“You deserved it,” you murmur, dragging a teasing finger down his chest. “Brat.”

Luka cracks an eye open, fake-offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You smirk, shifting closer, your lips grazing his jaw. “You love pushing my buttons.”

He sighs dramatically, rolling onto his side to look at you properly. “I don’t mean to,” he says, quieter now. His big hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “I just love messing with you.”

You arch a brow.

“Okay—” he amends quickly, lips twitching “—sometimes I go too far.”

You hum in agreement, stretching your legs against his under the sheets. “Yeah, you do.”

Luka groans, grinning as he buries his face against your shoulder. “Shit, you’re really making me work for this apology, huh?”

You bite back a smile. “You should suffer a little.”

“I’m literally dying.”

You laugh, carding your fingers through his messy curls. “You’ll live.”

Luka leans into your touch, all soft now, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder. “I really am sorry,” he murmurs between kisses. “I never want to embarrass you, baby. Ever.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip.

You nudge your nose against his, letting the last remnants of your irritation melt away. “I know.”

He exhales, relieved, and then—because he’s Luka—grins. “Sooo... am I officially forgiven? Or do I need to go another round to prove how sorry I am?”

You roll your eyes, smacking his arm. “Go to sleep.”

Luka laughs, grabs you, and pulls you against his chest with a satisfied sigh. “Mmm. Fine. But only ‘cause you wore me out.”

You tangle your legs with his, feeling warm, sated, and impossibly content. Luka’s arms tighten around you, and for a long moment, neither of you speak—just breathing in sync, just existing together.

Then—

“Still think you’re a brat, though,” Luka mumbles sleepily against your hair.

You pinch his side.

He yelps.

Then, he laughs.

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić #luka dončić x reader

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ktyekmrf30 · 3 days ago

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I was so upset about it yesterday because that's it. They are acting. The entire cast and crew love this show so much, they put so much effort into it, they are literally the only ones promoting the show every friday on social media, interacts with fans and making content and gives us commentary about characters' inner thoughts. That's literally what this post was about. About their work, about art of love of two people, about characters.

GMMTV gave them the bare minimum for promotion and all the events and offers they are getting now are all due to the actors work. Its their hard work and the amazing show that people noticed and that's why they became popular. GMMTV literally did nothing because even the casting was handled by P'Mui and Pardbee, she was the one who wanted William as Thame and saw Po in Est. Est said that he signed contract with GMMTV because of the leading role in ThamePo. That means GMMTV didn't sign him for a role in Beauty Newbie and Frenemy, he was casted like an outside actor for these series, but he need to be signed as GMMTV actor for a leading role. And that's what he did. He signed with them and he puts his soul into this character alongside with William.

And one of the disgusting things is how these people in qrts tried to act innocent and speak FOR William and his parents about how William wasn't actually asked for consent for this scene (bullshit) and how his parents are probably against these scenes (even more bullshit). William was THE one who talked nonstop about this episode the entire week before because he was so proud of his work and the effort he put into it. Not to mention that actors read the entire script before filming and do a screenplay so they have time to back out if they wanted to, and there is no way that William's parents, who btw in a few days will no longer be responsible for William's documents, were against this show or any of these scenes. His parents are literally the most supportive people in the world, constantly liking videos of the show and videos with their son and Est and even Est's solo videos. But these people tried to speak for them to make it fit their "opinion" and insult Est.

The way these people are trying to make William look like a child, making themselves as his real mother's protege - and again his real mother doesn't see a problem with any of it - and the whole mommy culture in Thailand needs to just go away because babysitting grown men is not okay.

Every friday ThamePo fandom has to deal with William's haters, LYKN fans who are either asking for William to be kicked out of the group or making the show look like a burden to group when the main problem is the agency's poor management, and solo stans, and now it's all mixed up with this random homophobic shit about how William is a minor and actually shouldn't be acting in a BL show! So, next Friday is William's birthday and he will be an oficiall adult. We're about to see the new excuse to hate on them because the previous reason will be invalid!

And the way GMMTV quickly hid all the videos and deleted tweets with ThamePo even when there weren't that many of these comments? It makes me angry. Even thai fans were shocked. As a company that produces LGBTQA+ content the way they allow haters and homophobes to speak louder than the fans or community is simply unacceptable. Although what am I talking about when this company continues to employ homophobes and misogynists. But it was just... So disrespectful to William, Est and Pardbee team. It looks like they panicked but later returned most of the content but only when people start speak about it and make trends. Like why you did that in the first place? You literally were the ones who accepted the scenario and agreed with the cast.

The saddest part of it for me? Both William and Est 100% saw this because they know everything what's going on and Est was online when this whole thing started. I was so happy that he didn't delete this post because there literally nothing to be ashamed of, it's part of their hard work. I was a little bit afraid because today was WilliamEst event with fansign but you know, they were all lovey-dovey and Est wrote that the most impressive thing William has done to him is him being protective.

Also one of the fans asked them about their favorite kiss scene. It was a chance for them to do the funniest thing ever and guess what? They did it and choose THE kiss they got crucified for by homophobes the day before. Kinda iconic if you ask me.

In case you are wondering all EP9 content regarding the kiss/nc scene have been wiped off GMMTV's social media accounts.

Why? Did you see the tweet of Est I posted about the NC scene?" Well...

People being blatant homophobic here and I am also angry at GMMTV giving in to those people. This will just set a future present.

#I'm sorry for this long post I was so sad yesterday when I saw how GMMTV deleted those videos like.... What is this. Are you crazy.#Why are YOU sabotage your own artists like that. They already have 'fans' for that.#God i'm so tired #thamepo the series #thamepo heart that skips a beat #thamepo

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rosenclaws · 2 days ago

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Do Mutants Dream of Two-Headed Sheep? Prologue || Logan x Cyborg!Reader

Warnings: Body horror, experimentation, reader is in a lot of pain, violence, angst.

a/n: This is the rescue! A preview to the first chapter which should be out sometime next week <3 Short but I hope you enjoy

Series Masterlist

Hurts. Hurts so bad.

Everything hurts. You can’t feel your hands, your legs. You can’t move. Strapped down with cold leather straps. You try to move but you can’t. There’s a ringing in your ears that won’t stop. It’s loud. So loud. You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out. Your heart pounds in your chest as your mind screams a million things at once.

Where am I? Get out Get out Get out. I can't move. Help someone help. Who am I? GET OUT!

It takes everything inside of you to open your eyes. Every ounce of willpower is dedicated to what was once a simple task. A bright white light shines in your eyes. You wince as your eyes squint. Your vision is blurry as you try to look around.

As the room comes into focus, so does your hearing. The ringing in your ears quiets as the sounds of destruction and screams fill the void. An alarm is blaring loudly throughout wherever you are. You see steel tables, medical equipment, scans. Fuck where were you.

Why can't you remember anything? Your brain goes fuzzy as you try and recall anything from a few minutes ago. The last memory is pain. So much pain. You start to hear the screaming get closer.

“Help…” Your voice is raspy as you try to call for anyone. Your throat burns as you speak. Footsteps get closer and closer.

“Please, Help me.” You cry a little louder.

Pain shoots through your body as you try to move your arms. You want to cry, but no tears come. You don’t understand. Suddenly you hear a loud bang. The steel doors bend under the pressure as the banging continues. You cry out in relief as the doors burst open. You see a strange man enter the room.

“Over here!” He calls, his voice sounds so far away.

Snikt

In your hazy vision you see blades come out of the mans hand. Suddenly the leather straps were gone, cut away. Fear shoots through your heart at the sight of his claws.

No no no, he's going to hurt you. The people with knives, they hurt you.

"Please no don't." You whimper as he comes closer.

“Hey there kid I'm not gonna hurt you okay? We’re gonna get you out of here.” He says.

You groan as he picks you up. You move your left hand, cupping his face. Trying to see who this was, what was going on. And then you move your right hand. Only something feels very wrong. The pain still echoes through your body but only on one side.

“Wait.” You mumble. Pushing yourself out of the man's grip.

He grunts as you push hard with your right hand, sending him stumbling back much to his surprise. You fall from his grasp. A loud clang echoes when you hit the ground. You hear more footsteps, more people, more talking.

“Oh my god.” You hear a voice say in a terrified whisper.

“Kid, you need help.” The man from before says, bending down to whisper in your ear.

You ignore him. Crawling towards a steel pan on the ground. Shakily you lift your right hand. To your horror there is no longer the familiar sight of a human hand.

It’s solid white. Plates of metal make up what was once your skin. Wires connect like veins. You close your fist and open it again. Your eyes trail up your arm. The whole thing is just like your hand. Shiny white metal instead of what was once your soft skin.

You grab the steel pan and hold it up to your face. The image is distorted but you can see yourself clear as day. Half your face is turned into something so, unhuman. Robotic and unnatural.

You lift your other hand, your human hand to your face. You flinch as you touch the cold metal of your cheek. A tear slips down one of your cheeks while your other eye just stares back, cold and empty. You drop the pan in horror. Your mind goes numb as you feel a hand on your shoulder. Someone speaks but you can’t hear them.

They wrap a blanket around you, and lead you outside. They speak to you slowly and carefully, like you’re a wounded animal. They stare at you like you’re a freak. A failed experiment that has stripped you of everything. You are a freak, you are an abomination of bones and metal.

You don’t look at them. Don’t acknowledge a single thing as you stare at the floor. Slowly you lift your head, the man who cut you free sits across from you. Staring at you with hostile eyes. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the warped metal above him.

The blanket falls open, you get a look at your whole body. Half human, half machine. Expect your chest, where your ribs, your heart should be. Is a big gaping hole. Just tubes and wires and metal.

What have they done to you?

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett angst #logan howlett x cyborg!reader #wolverine x reader

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getaapologist · 3 days ago

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The Tension and the Terror............Part XIV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: With everything so precarious, Macrinus feels the tension in the palace. A sign from the gods steers him to the conclusion of this long, protracted series of events.

Warnings: violence, death, 18+ only.

Word Count: 4.2k

Part 14 of 15 (I'm sorry)

[ Part XIII ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: Okay, here it is. I did the best I could with the hole I'd written myself into. I hope you enjoy it. The end might feel final, but we still have another part after this where we get some more much-needed closure. Thank you for following me on this ride.

Geta reclined in his chair, watching the spectacle, isolated, all sound missing his ear. The food tasted like nothing, his head swam, the wine serving as his only comfort. Even Caracalla had retired early, clutching a plate of treats for Dondus. When his boredom grew to a suffocating level, he rose from his seat, coldly dismissing their guests.

He could feel their stares, could still hear the mutterings in the arena that afternoon.

A moment of weakness. One he would not suffer from again. He’d promised Macrinus as much. Which was why he’d sent him to retrieve his weakness so she could be dealt with once and for all. How he would do that, he had no clue.

Macrinus had appeared almost anxious after Caracalla’s man took Plautianus down. Flighty and on edge, he carried himself with less grace than usual. He openly watched the guards standing around the Emperors, keeping himself aware of where they were and when they came and went.

Geta was beginning to realize he’d killed an innocent man.

Before the grief of his stupidity could wash over him, the man himself reappeared, glancing around at the abandoned seats, servants already moving in to clear tables and any other flat surface used as one. He kept his commentary to himself and approached Geta.

“Geta, she is gone,” Macrinus spoke, true concern in his voice. It was the most agitated he had ever seen the man.

“Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

Macrinus grew uncharacteristically frustrated. “She was not in her cell. Viggo could not tell me what happened.”

“You seem to surround yourself with incompetence,” Geta commented, his wine dulling his desire to maintain a friendship with this man he no longer trusted.

Macrinus’s eyes flashed for a moment before he corrected himself. “They were given a delivery of wine, your majesty,” he explained. “From the Emperors. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

Geta relished the way the man seemed to be coming apart at the seams, his perfectly tailored persona cracking just a bit under the pressure.

“No, but I believe it is customary. To repay the effort spent in readying the prisoners.” Gets finished his glass, setting it down on the table. “Are your men looking for her?”

“As we speak,” Macrinus confirmed.

Geta wasn’t even particularly mad Letha might have escaped. If she meant what she said, was as good as Caracalla seemed to believe, she wouldn’t be returning to collect. She would disappear. He might never see her again.

That was what bothered him.

More than bothered him. Filled him with despair. Every second was another opportunity to wallow in that grief. Wine.

“Where is Emperor Caracalla?” Macrinus asked.

Geta waved him off. “Probably with his concubines, having a much more entertaining evening than I. Besides, what does it matter?”

“If he sent the wine–”

“A customary gift,” Geta reminded him, growing irritated.

“I do believe it was hand-delivered, by that Praetorian always at your brother’s side.”

“Ancus?” Geta laughed. “Yes, well I will instruct that he stick even closer to my brother. No more excursions.”

“That is not what I–”

“Enough, Macrinus. I am tired. You ought to get some rest yourself, it’s been a long day.”

Geta stood and walked away through the eerily quiet hall, wondering if he’d live through the night. He would ask someone to fetch Tegula. He could sit in his study with his best men, to make sure no one got through to his bedchamber.

As he entered his chambers, stripped the day from his skin, and sank into his bed, he realized just how much he missed Letha. He missed the hope she brought him. The possibility of a life steeped in warmth and love. But it had been ripped away just as quickly as it had taken root, and the agony of that still consumed his waking thoughts.

Maybe she escaped the city. He tried to imagine where she might go, with nothing to her name and no family that he knew of left to find. He could picture her so vividly, cycling through the innumerable times he looked at her long enough to memorize the expression on her face.

She had so willingly accepted her fate, resigned herself to death. It was him that put her in that position in the first place. Her death would surely have shattered what bit of his sanity remained. He did not think of consequence when he ordered the fight to end. He could feel his blood racing through his ears, could hear each beat. It was what she was owed. A life for a life. He hoped she would use it well.

He fell asleep clutching a pillow that still bore some scent of the oil she’d brushed through her hair. Jasmine.

Macrinus paced. And paced. And paced. He could see the hallway that led to the Emperors’ rooms. What he was waiting for, he hated putting words to. To have to admit it, even if only to himself, it was just another indignance dealt by Letha. One he would rise above, once he worked up the nerve.

He was suffering her loss. For all his threatening and scheming, he realized quite quickly he wasn’t cut out for this direct involvement. He needed a new agent, but lacked the connections while stuck inside the palace. He felt the Praetorians watching his every step, could feel the heavy scrutiny from Caracalla at every mealtime.

It shouldn’t be so difficult, he agonized. If Letha could do it, so can I.

With renewed purpose, Macrinus strode down the hall, thinking of what he could say if caught. Before he got more than a few steps down the hall, one of the doors opened. He tucked himself behind a column, beside a bust of Caracalla. He peered around the edge of the column and watched.

Someone wearing an elaborate cloak, complete with a hood, stepped out into the hallway, followed by a guard.

Ancus.

“You ought to stay here,” the figure spoke. Her voice was low, hardly a whisper. “I know where it is.”

“You will need someone to check if anyone is there,” Ancus retorted, concerned.

“You said he is sleeping, yes?” she questioned, glancing down the hallway. She turned, about to look in Macrinus’s direction. He tucked himself flush with the wall, out of sight. He could only listen now.

“Yes,” Ancus confirmed. “Tegula is watching over him.”

“Then I will be only a moment. Do not leave Caracalla unattended with that snake about.”

Macrinus’s blood ran cold.

Letha.

By the time he could hear footsteps retreating, she had already turned the corner, heading deeper into the Emperors’ wing of the palace.

Letha was in the palace. Kept hidden by Caracalla. And Geta didn’t know.

Macrinus felt a weightlessness settle just above his shoulders. Fresh, delicious surprise and hope sprang forth. He hardly resisted the urge to laugh at this fortuitous turn of events. The gods smiled on him in his hour of need.

As he strode away to his chambers, he was already putting together ideas.

Yesterday Morning

“I think I like this one best,” Caracalla commented. He turned to Ancus. “Ancus, what do you think?”

The guard raised his eyebrows, looking over the tunic his emperor held up. “I-I do think it brings out your eyes, Imperator.”

That drew a smile from the smaller twin, and he stared down at the garment. After a moment of thought, Caracalla approached the servant, holding the outfit out for them to take so he could be dressed in it.

“Do I have your loyalty, Ancus?” Caracalla called out.

Ancus turned his back to his Emperor, pulling at some of his armor. “Of course, Emperor.”

“You will not speak of this to anyone, even Tegula? Or my brother?”

Ancus glanced over his shoulder, concerned, but he didn’t let his eyes focus on anything in particular. “If you will it.”

“Leave us,” Caracalla muttered.

Ancus waited until the servant left the room to turn and set eyes upon his Emperor. The color did brighten his eyes.

“I intend to save my brother from himself,” Caracalla explained.

“How?”

Caracalla approached a small table. He opened a drawer and produced a linen-wrapped object, setting it in Ancus’s larger hands.

“We start with this.”

As Ancus realized the genius of Caracalla, he couldn’t help his smile.

“You will help me, Ancus?”

“With anything.”

Later that day

“Letha?” The voice was soft, uncertain.

She looked up, more than a little shocked to make out the form of Caracalla standing outside the cell in the dark, Ancus dutifully holding a torch up behind him.

“Caracalla?”

He approached, clinging to the bars of the cell, his jewelry clinking against the rusted metal. “How is your arm?”

She didn’t spare it a glance. “What are you doing here? Where is–”

“My brother is not well.”

Her fear returned, quick as lightning. “What’s happened? Did Macrinus–”

“He’s heartbroken,” Caracalla interrupted. “You, that’s what happened,” he frowned.

Letha moved to Caracalla, her dirty hands covering his on the bars. He didn’t draw back. “Tell him I’m sorry,” she pleaded.

“Would you have done it?” Caracalla asked. “Really?”

She shook her head. “No. I… I couldn’t have.”

“And it wasn’t Thraex’s doing, was it?”

She frowned. “No.” He didn’t seem to need to be told who was truly responsible.

He studied her in the torchlight, mulling things over. Finally, he pulled his hands out from under hers, taking a step back away from the door, closer to Ancus.

“I’m an Emperor too,” he announced, “and I require your presence. Your sentence is vacated by the order of Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus. The door, Ancus,” Caracalla ordered, beaming.

Ancus stepped forward, a slight smile tugging at his lips at Caracalla’s display.

Letha released the metal, stepping back away from the door, uncertainty swimming in her gut. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as Ancus unlocked the cell door, pulling it open, leaving it open for her to step out of, free.

“Come back with us. You can stay in my rooms until my brother is less… volatile.”

“He’s angry?” she asked, thinking back to the way he’d looked at her with blazing eyes. Should she be fearful?

“He can’t get over your betrayal, Letha,” Caracalla sighed. “He’s lost a bit of himself. It’s a bit ironic, right? Me trying to look after him?” He let the question hang in the air, but he didn’t need an answer from her, just giggling to himself. “Let’s go. Dondus will be delighted to see you.”

Letha felt touched by Caracalla’s faith in her as he grabbed her hand, tugging her along beside him as he left the cavernous depths where she’d been kept, Ancus following behind.

The next morning, Geta didn’t want to leave his bed. It was an ordeal for his servants to get him up and dressed. There were still more games to attend, more people to meet, and dinner parties to host. He didn’t understand how he was expected to return to the normalcy of their life with all of it so fresh.

His thoughts drifted to Letha. The one stolen night. The happiest he’d been in years. He could pretend she waited for him in his rooms to get him through the day. As he sat and forced food and drink down his throat at Caracalla’s nagging, as he watched men fight for glory in the arena, as if he hadn’t just seen his love almost meet her end in the exact same spot. And even now, guests dwindling, as he was forced to paste on a smile with some of the senators, the play-by-play of the day’s fight boring him nearly to tears, he thought of Letha.

“Excuse me,” Geta muttered, abandoning the glass in his hand on the nearest table before heading to his rooms for a moment of peace.

As he passed Caracalla’s door, he heard a laugh that stopped him dead in his tracks. In a split second he was back in the box, the first day of the games. His eyes lifted just the same, but a door was all that greeted him. Before he could convince himself his sanity was slipping, he knocked loudly.

A few seconds passed, long ones. Geta heard rustling, but not much else.

“Yes?” It was Ancus.

“Can I come in to speak with my brother?” Geta asked, his stomach in knots.

After a moment the door was opened, and Caracalla stepped out, the shreds of a smile still on his face and in his eyes. “Yes, brother?”

“You have guests?” Geta questioned, his voice strained from lack of use and the nerves burning his throat.

Caracalla stared at him before falling into one of his usual giggles. “Just, you know, my usual attendants.”

“I heard a woman’s laughter,” Geta accused.

A flicker of concern was overridden by sympathy. “Hearing ghosts, brother?”

Geta scowled, waving off his brother’s concern. “Nevermind.”

“Are you alright?” Caracalla asked, a hand on his brother’s arm.

“Just perfect,” Geta ground out before turning and heading back to the party. There wouldn’t be enough wine to get him to forget this.

Macrinus watched Geta return to the party, his troubled state much more obvious. As he downed a glass of wine and requested another, Macrinus knew this was his opportunity.

“That was close,” Caracalla sighed, looking up to where Letha was currently stepping out from behind a large curtain panel, her face drawn. “He was so sure it was you.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“It was in his eyes.”

Letha nodded, sitting on the edge of Caracalla’s unmade bed. “Is it still too soon to tell him?”

“While Macrinus still stays here you are in too much danger,” Ancus spoke up, scratching at his jaw. “He’s supposed to leave once the games are over.”

Letha thought it was amusing how Caracalla and the Praetorian he’d dismissed so readily had truly bonded. There was a glimmer in the Emperor’s eyes as he looked up at his guard. It relieved her to see him happy like this. And Letha did not miss the flush that filled the cheeks of the man anytime Caracalla paid him specific attention.

Oh, Ancus.

The Emperors truly were magnetic.

A small part of Letha wanted to ignore their advice and storm out of Caracalla’s rooms in search of his brother, but she understood their hesitance. And she truly believed her reappearance would not be met with joy. She wasn’t sure she wanted to feel that agony so soon.

“Well, I need to go out and show my face some more, but we’ll be back in a bit. Keep Dondus company for me.”

“I will, Caracalla,” Letha promised, looking down at the small monkey pulling at her dress. “We’ll have our own party, right Dondus?” She got a squeak in return as he climbed to her shoulder.

Geta walked further into the gardens, another night coming to a close, the day weathered by some miracle. He wasn’t drunk, just comfortable, warm. He could allow himself this, now that their guests were gone. His feet led him, no destination in mind. Still, tragically, that jasmine-smothered statue came into view and he took another long sip of his wine to try to swallow down the confusing slurry of emotions.

He found himself leaned back against it once again, trying to remember, wishing he could have done something to help her. If she’d just trusted him enough to tell him, he would have protected her. He would have shielded her from Macrinus, he wouldn’t have told another soul, his selfishness overriding duty.

He pressed his own palm to his chest, over his heart, his eyes closing to avoid the welling of emotion, the pressure behind his eyes, the knot in his throat.

“Brother?”

Geta stood up straight, shaking off his melancholy. “‘Calla?” He spotted his brother as he walked over, saw Ancus lingering by the stairs, a good distance away.

“You look sad.”

Geta scoffed. That wasn’t the half of it. “It’s fine.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately.”

It irked Geta that he wasn’t allowed to feel the wealth of emotions in his chest without someone having something to say about it. Everyone else was allowed their moods and frustration, but if he felt something so strongly… He felt like he wasn’t being allowed to mourn. Because that’s what it was, mourning.

“Emperors, how fortuitous,” Macrinus spoke, disrupting the calm that the gardens granted.

Caracalla made no effort to mask the shift in his expression, annoyance obvious.

Geta stepped away from the statue, gesturing to Macrinus with his cup. “Something you need?”

“Oh, no,” Macrinus smiled, a return to form after stumbling through the last couple of days. “I just wanted to thank you both for your hospitality.”

Geta watched him, the relaxed lilt to his voice concerning.

Caracalla groaned in frustration. “Yes, yes,” he muttered.

The impolite response didn’t deter Macrinus, not for a moment. Geta should have known then that whatever he was about to say stood to derail the entire day. But he didn’t, instead shooting his brother a scolding look.

“I have not had the opportunity to meet your other guest. She seems to avoid parties, meals, games…”

“We have no other guest, Macrinus,” Geta explained, quite confused. He looked to Caracalla, surprised to see him clammed up. “Brother?”

“Should someone go fetch her?” Macrinus suggested, eyes fixed to Geta.

“No,” Caracalla insisted.

Geta looked to his brother, concern growing. “What did you do?”

Caracalla’s frustration grew under the intense scrutiny. “Neither of you can be trusted with her!”

Geta felt overwhelmed. There was no way. “You lied to me?” he questioned, feeling faint.

“You are not in your right mind,” Caracalla accused.

“So it is I who cannot be trusted?” He couldn’t help his frustration.

“For all we knew, you would kill her!”

The glass collided with the stone, shattering. Geta still spoke, though Caracalla paid him no attention, his eyes glued to the shards littering the grass. “You know nothing.”

At the commotion, Ancus approached, a protective hand pressed to Caracalla’s shoulder as he took in Geta’s affected state.

“Ah, here she is. The search is over, your majesties. Here is your traitor.”

Geta’s heart stopped. He felt each agonizing second it took for him to turn, to see Letha being led into the gardens, Macrinus’s man keeping a tight grip on her arms. The sight drove a spike of anxiety into his chest.

Letha didn’t struggle, she kept her eyes trained on Macrinus, wondering what was coming next.

“What a reunion,” Macrinus chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Didn’t you have some justice to dole out, Geta?” At that, Macrinus approached Letha. A sword was produced, and Macrinus held it to her throat. “How did you put it? A weakness, to be dealt with once and for all?”

Letha’s eyes met his, and Geta felt tears coming as he took in her fearful expression, the cut across her cheek, the bruising.

“Stop,” he ordered, approaching them, his hand held out for the sword.

Macrinus leveled the sword at Geta, the flat of the blade smacking his open palm. “I don’t think so.”

Geta recoiled, withdrawing his hand.

“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted, gesturing between Geta and Letha. “I should have, and I have paid for that mistake, but I will not make it again.”

Geta bit back his protest as Macrinus reached over, his hand squeezing Letha’s bandaged shoulder tightly enough to bruise. The cry she let out wounded him.

“I should thank you, Caracalla,” Macrinus smiled. “Up until last night, I was so sure I’d wake up in a cell myself. But the gods have other plans for me. They sent me this solution as a sign of their unwavering support. It could not be anything else.”

“The gods do not care for you,” Letha spat. She struggled beneath Macrinus’s grip, trying to wriggle her shoulder free.

Viggo renewed his grip on her wrists, scowling at her, as Macrinus brought the sword back to her neck, a warning. She stilled.

“Ancus,” Caracalla muttered, his voice betraying his fear.

Geta felt trapped. They were all in danger, all caught off guard.

“I will tell you of my plan,” Macrinus grinned. “It’s too good not to share it. While not perfect, I do believe it is the best anyone could do in these circumstances.” He let the blade leave Letha’s neck, pacing leisurely before them. “It would seem that Letha here, having escaped, decided she would come back and finish the job,” Macrinus gestured to her with the sword tip. “Finding the two of you here in the gardens, after felling him, of course,” he gestured to Ancus, “she made quick work of you. And I, hearing the commotion as I just so happened to be passing by, came upon this grizzly scene. Fortunately for you both, I was able to avenge you. And with your last, gasping breath, you named me your successor,” he spoke, moving the sword over to press against Geta’s neck. “Go on, say it.”

Geta said nothing.

Macrinus’s grin grew, the sword pressing closer to where his neck met his shoulder, the razor sharp bite of it beginning to draw blood. Letha let out a cry, struggling with Viggo.

As Macrinus turned to ridicule Viggo, a jovial jab that he seemed to be having trouble restraining a woman, a hand gripped Macrinus’s wrist, pushing the sword away from Geta’s neck.

Macrinus whipped his head around, eyes falling to Ancus, indignation settling in on his face for only a moment before a dagger pushed through the ornate white robes he wore, sinking into his stomach, pushing the breath from his lungs. Geta’s eyes fell to the hands wrapped around the hilt, seeing his brother’s ornamental jewelry.

Geta was pushed back as Ancus stepped in to shield Caracalla, ripping the sword from Macrinus’s hands.

Still partially frozen, Geta looked over to where Letha was, or had been. His feet moved him before his brain could formulate a plan.

Letha was on the ground, struggling against Viggo, the base of her palm pushing at his chin, her other hand trying to pull his hands away from her throat. He seemed to have the strength of ten men, knowing death awaited.

Her throat burned, the pressure in her head from the buildup of blood, her circulation cut off, overwhelming. Spots filled her vision, and she wondered if this would be it, finally. She should’ve been happy, she got all her wishes. Macrinus dead, or in the process of dying, and she got to see Geta one last time. It was all she had asked for. But the desire to remain, to live, breathed life back into her muscles.

Letha abandoned her efforts to claw his hands away, instead opting to make a firm fist and punch as hard as she could into his groin. Viggo let out a choked gasp, one of his hands moving down to shield himself from further attacks, a reflex. The vice around her throat lessened and she could get some air. As Letha was able to suck in a halfway decent breath, Viggo was ripped off of her.

The unnerving sound of a fist meeting Viggo’s face filled the normally tranquil gardens. Letha sat up, surprised to see Geta leaned over her attacker, one of his knees pressing hard into Viggo’s stomach, a hand gripping his clothes while the other repeatedly punched his now-bloody face, rings and all.

Letha tamped down the satisfaction she felt, calling it relief, and moved over to Geta. She pulled at his shoulders, trying to get him to stop, telling him it was enough. He didn’t listen at first, but she pressed herself to his back, pulled his arm to her, her hand wrapping around his wrist.

“It’s done,” she soothed, inspecting his hand, seeing the bite of his rings in his own skin. It would need the attention of a healer and it would surely be swollen purple in the morning.

“Letha,” he whispered, his eyes closed as he turned his head, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her throat still quite tender.

“Mmmh, no,” he managed, shaking his head.

“Emperors?”

Praetorians were upon them, forcing everyone apart, taking stock of the damage done to their rulers, if any. Letha stayed sitting on the ground beside Viggo, not sure what might happen next.

Before long, Tegula himself appeared, speaking with the twins, and then Ancus, who delivered a succinct version of events that included a charitable explanation that Macrinus had masterminded the entire thing, even down to Letha’s inclusion, implying that she was innocent after all.

She didn’t dare correct him, her eyes fixed on Geta where he stood. His knuckles were stripped of his rings, the healer dabbing at the small cuts. Geta winced each time, eyes falling to his injured hand for a moment before he continued watching Ancus recap their evening, as if surprised by it.

Caracalla stood beside Ancus, quite close, certainly closer than an Emperor would be to his guard, rubbing his fingers together, staring down at the blood on them with soft fascination in his eyes, his other hand still clutching the dagger. Plain, military issued, it looked like.

Letha was brought to her feet as someone inspected her neck, commenting on the redness around her throat. Geta looked over, the people and the circumstances creating a great gulf between them that he couldn’t yet ford. There would be business to attend to before she would get her chance to speak to him again.

It gave her something to look forward to.

[ Part XV ]

#emperor geta x ofc #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #gladiator 2 x reader #gladiator II x reader #joseph quinn x reader

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withsubsplease · 2 days ago

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Rewatching “Clear” [S3:12] and this is such a pivotal episode for these three learning about one another, how to work together, how each of them thinks, what their motivations are, what’s important to them.

I’d love to spend time dissecting the entire episode but for now I’ll mention a couple things about the first third of the episode:

Michonne goes on this run. Rick says he needs to keep Michonne and Merle apart and I do think that is half of it. He still doesn’t trust that she won’t kill Merle. Which I actually love. I don’t think he’s concerned about Merle attacking her, yet he does sense Michonne is determined enough to find a way to take Merle out for what he did to her. We also know Rick protects the group and tends to keep people he finds questionable close to him. But most of all, this run is a test. Up until now, Rick has seen bold, fearless, formidable Michonne. He knows she’s resourceful but is she reliable? Is she a team player? Therefore, when they pass Orange Backpack (which always tugs at my heart a bit) and they get stuck in mud, he tells Carl that it was an innocent mistake and though true, he didn’t have to say it. He offers something positive about this woman he’s made very clear (as rattled off by Carl), he found unpredictable and suspicious. Which leads me to believe he’s softening toward her, maybe because despite his apprehension, he likes her or maybe because it’s the first time she’s been completely and totally human. Also, Michonne going along shows she’s willing to invest time and effort. That she cares about these new people she’s met and desires to be a part and do her part in what they are building.

Rick says “thank you.” After Carl shoots Morgan, Rick and Michonne don’t agree on what to do next but he does tell her to be careful of all the booby traps, but promptly forgets this right before he steps on that infamous welcome mat😆. Michonne, however, hasn’t and stops him before his foot gets slashed open. Seeing what’s hidden underneath the mat (noting her word of caution was for his protection) he stops and acknowledges this by saying over his shoulder, “Thank you.” One of my favorite things about Rick is that he’s someone who is always quick to say “thank you.” It’s a quality I find endearing about people and this is the first time he says those two words to Michonne.

[sidenote: Rick thanks her often as the series progresses but as they get closer he makes more of a point to look at her directly or catch her eyes when he says it like in S6:10. Which shows “thank you” holds a lot of value to Rick as well.]

Michonne sets a standard of communication. When Rick reneges on taking the guns and leaving, deciding to stay longer than planned (out of guilt and hope), Michonne pushes back. Rick puts a stamp on his statement with a “that’s it” but Michonne isn’t quelled. She continues to not only finish her train of thought but also makes her point. Even though she lets him have the last word and respects his decision, she doesn’t dissent or shy away from confrontation with him. It’s one of the first times we see an example of them being on the same team but not in complete agreement. We also see small hints to the building blocks of this dynamic on Rick’s part. Where he shows slight and unwelcome discomfort to her possible dissatisfaction or disagreement. Because as we all learn if there is an opinion he can trust (whether he likes it or not) it’s Michonne.

In addition, this is the second time Rick displaces his own insecurities onto Michonne by insinuating she has a negative perception of him. First with the guns (Rick’s leadership and decisions) and then with Morgan’s mental health (Rick’s similar struggles with grief). What I love about both moments, is how Rick tries to mask his agitation with Michonne’s apparent judgement and the fact Michonne immediately shuts these thoughts down. While I won’t go as far as to say Rick is trying to “impress” Michonne (though he is being quite arrogant once they arrive in KC), I do believe he’s trying prove something to her and himself.

#rick x michonne #richonne #the ones who live

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maitimosrighthand · 2 days ago

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141 x Succubus male reader( oc )

(please note that this is a series and will continue)

Author note:

Most of the characters in this story will be their usual hybrid type. Ghost( Demon ), Soap( Wolf ), Gaz( Eagle ) and Price( Dragon ).

Please note that this series will eventually contain +18 contents. Minors do not interact.

Yes this will contain heats and ruts. You horny bastards 🫵

( The reader or oc (idk) is described as rather feminine. Not like that but well they are a succubus so they a that way. Gooner bait. It’s genetics.

Just like Ghost‘s massive dic-

For more information to how I will deal with the Succubus thing please scroll down to the bottom of the page

Chapter 1: Meeting the pack

It’s been ages since animal genes had mixed with human ones. While the question of who has fucked an animal was ignored ever since, another case has been opened as of late.

Demons.

While they are rare there have been a few cases within the last years. Demons, Vampires and then you, a succubus. While that does say a lot about your parents, it doesn’t mean too much to you. While yes, people assume you are nothing but a jerk and want to constantly have sex, it’s not that easy.

It had been raining for three days straight now. No sun to be seen and the roads look accordingly. „Seems like we‘ll be stuck here for a while longer.“ Hoffmann said. He is the reason of why you are here right now. Despite ages of experience most old white man still thought that people like you had to be in a group with responsible people, such as their military. Not that you were against the idea. You had been once to the army before in your early 20 but left right after. You had become a mercenary and taken countless jobs already, so you could say you were experienced in such matters.

After a couple of failed operations within the military of late, people like you were hired to come there and give them a hand. It wasn’t voluntary at all, either you help or they put you in prison for illegal activities. You however were not about to help them after this one. Right.

You came here duo to one of their high ranked soldiers missing. You where sure you had heard his name once beforehand but you who knows. Maybe he had been a trainee just like you back in the days. That made you sound really old.

„I‘ll get out here then.“ you said not waiting for an answer. The place you where supposed to find him at was barely five minutes away from here. You could walk that. Better than to spend one more minute with Hoffmann in the same car. He stank you had noted over the 2h ride here. Something with wolf and a bit of bird in it. Perhaps he was a brothel enthusiast, especially the one with hybrids in it. But that was not your business.

While walking from the street your phone rang. „What is it Asher?“ you answered immediately. She was more or less your boss? No you didn’t have that. She would give you notes on who needs your services at the moment and you‘d watch her eating your pasta while she does so. For some reason she would always sneak into your apartment.

„Where are you?“ came through the speakers. „On a little trip. Willingly.“ you huffed a bit. „The government?“ „yeah…“ Neither you nor her were big fans. She had constant legal problems with them and now they even got to you. „I didn’t know you were such a good man.“ She mocked you. She knew you were a good person. You set yourself a couple of rules a long time ago. „Are you going to come out alive?“ she shuffled with something on the other end of the line. „Why? Do you have a job for me?“ you heard her laugh behind the phone. That meant yes. „I‘ll call you later for the details, bye.“ Oh wow. This place is wrecked.

You stood on a platform near a river. That solider has been seen here last. But it looked completely empty. There were a couple of small ruins of old houses that have succumb to the weather conditions in the area. Another thing that bothered you was that it is so close to the street. If you do something illegal most of the time you‘d wanna be away from prying eyes. So him being here made no sense. Non the less you had a job to finish.

Sliding down the muddy trail, without falling mind you, you began searching around the area. Some wet puddles, some broken trees confinently fallen onto the house roof. Wait that was suspicious. Normally the trees would have broken down something of the house but these look hardly damaged and there was little to no things under them. Lucky you, you didn’t skip your sport days during your free time.

Slowly but surely your pushed the trees away from their previous spot. You wiped away some of the dust and broken tiles and slowly open the hidden luke door. The iron seems very scratchy and for a moment you think about just not opening it. But well you wanted to go back home and the faster you found him the better.

After opening the door you look down. There was water, probably not too high but still high enough to reach until your knees. You were ready to take that risk through. Jumping down you landed in the water. It was not very nice when the water splatters on your jacket. That one was new you noted in your mind. You observed the room a bit. A few broken tables, a couple of prison cells and who would have thought…water. And a man.

You make your way through the water slowly. You didn’t know who you were looking for but it was probably him. You were unsure if he was awake so you put on a mouth mask and put on the hood from your jacket. It’s just to be safe. There may be many misinformations about succubus on the internet but you had to make sure. Occasionally you would get away with saying you were a goat but some where not convinced.

You checked on the man who was laying down in the water. He had been lucky that his head was above the water. However the water was freezing and he might have been here for days. „Oh god.“ his lips were blue. You pulled him up and onto a table. He was one bulk of a man. And an eagle nonetheless. His wings were too huge to fit through the entrance you came through. First things first: let’s call Hofmann.

„Are you sure that’s him?“ he asked. „Yes it’s him. The eagle! Now I need a truck near here!“ „Fine fine. I‘ll also send you the location of where to bring him.“ he hung up. You slowly but surely dragged the soldier through a back door you found. He was heavy and you felt sry for scratching his wings a couple of times. But you did not really have much of a choice. When you finally got him outside and forced him into the truck‘s backseat you sat down in the drivers seat.

Weird.

Why was no one here. If he had really been kidnapped and was a high ranking solider then wouldn’t someone look or watch over him? It’s was questionable you thought. You took down your mask after half of the ride to the location that was send to you, since the eagle did not stink. Their base was in the range of that but they didn’t tell you where exactly.

Nothing really bothered you with that. It seemed to be a rather secretive situation and you were not about to get into legal trouble by trying to find it. Occasionally you could hear the man behind you groan. Whenever you looked into the back mirror you could see his disheveled state. Some feathers unplugged and halfway ripped out, his hair probably a bit longer than it should be and various cuts on his arms and face. Poor guy.

About half an hour you arrived at the location you had been given. A remote area where a smaller town was not too far away. You heard there was a bar there. Maybe you‘ll go there later, it’s been a while since you ate anything beside those medications.(read info) But for now you kept waiting. Waiting. And…waiting? Why was no one here yet? Just when the sun was slowly going down you heard a car nearby. In case it may have been just some townsfolk you quickly tried to blend in. Pulling up the mask and acting like you tried to light cigarette. You did not smoke. It was too expensive and you didn’t get the appeal. To you it was like a cheap sex potion that lady’s were attracted to. The car however stopped and 3 large man came out of it. You were sure if you hadn’t already had your gay awakening this could have been it. But you couldn’t ask a military officer for a one night stand. Sadly

One had huge wings and the other a tail. The tallest one did not show any signs of abnormality. Maybe they had a human amongst them. You were about to say something when you felt a pressure on you.

Oh. That guy was some kind of demon too.

Demons could feel another. Some more than others. And some did not at all. But to you, demons stank like fish. You hated fish.

„Are you X?“ the dragon asked. „Depends on it. Who is asking?“ you just had to make sure it was them. And you tried to buy time. Just to see if that demon recognized you as one. Any reaction could reveal it. Demons were territorial after all. You were too but since nothing belonged to you and your noodles were always stolen by Asher there was nothing to protect.

„Captain Price.“ he answered. That’s him mind you. You open the car door and immediately a hawk claws at you. Lucky you, you had stepped to the side. „Rise and shine birdy. Your pack is here.“ He stood up a bit cranky from the ground he fell to. Not moments later the dog came and helped him to their car. Wait dog? No it’s probably a wolf. He was too quiet for a dog.

„I must thank you. Hope to work again with you in the future.“ the dragon said after some back and forth about your payment. „Lie.“ You knew from the way his eyes never left you that he was lying.

„I don’t trust you mercenaries. But your help is undeniable.“ With that he said goodbye to you.

That demon guy stared at you a bit longer. You could swear you saw him smell the air. You wondered what kind he was. Maybe a succubus like you!

He then followed Price to the car and you watched them drive away.

Urghh. You needed a drink. And a hookup

Notes about succubus:

They are rare very rare

They can smell sexual excitement even without wanting it and it somewhat feeds them but in the end they still need sex ( some more than others )

The need for physical contact ( sex ) can be lindert by a special kind of medicine

Succubus look like normal people but they can extend claws and tails if they want to

( and to go into actually mythology here) they cannot however hide their horns and when on the hunt for food ( sex ) they cannot hide their animal feet ( hooves )

They can like in real mythology appear to someone as another person after they know who they crave

They are not too fast

Their voice can cause sexual excitement and can be somewhat like a drug ( when they want to)

Succubus however have the problem that most of the time they do not wish to engage into such things and therefore the smell can make them feel ill and cause unwanted excitement on their part

Succubus can be bound by a spell that is specific to their own and they usually contain it in a toy or a thing they always carry around

If another person has this toy or object they can force the succubus to do anything they want

The succubus cannot disobey

#141 x male reader #cod x male reader #cod x reader #gaz x male reader #ghost x male reader #price x male reader #soap x male reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader #hybrid

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lxstkxddo · 3 days ago

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thinking about destiel, again.

i was watching a tiktok compilation on youtube when i thought about Dean always saying "i need you" to Cas instead of "i love you". And while it's obvious one of the reasons he does this it's because he's afraid of ruining his "macho-facade", i don't think it's the only one.

think about it. dean is a person who has been abused and used by everyone in his life (mainly his father, but sam also unintentionally "used" him to survive since their father is a dick). he learned that being needed was more important than being loved and that relationships had to be transactional. it's something we see very much in the series, with many characters pointing it out during the various seasons (for example crowley telling kevin that the winchesters are using him, and they would get rid of him once he was no longer useful, in season 9).

so maybe he was telling cas he needed him because it was the highest point he thought their relationship could go, and he didn't think there was an option for more,.

also, he always sees the people he loves get hurt or die (lisa and ben, sam, bobby, his father, his mother, charlie, ...) so maybe he thinks that if their relationship is not "officially" close (even though it is obvious to everyone with eyes that it is close) cas won't get hurt or won't die.

so yeah welcome to my ted talk.

#dean winchester #castiel #supernatural #spn #spnfandom #spn analysis

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acute-crashout-jeyuso · 13 hours ago

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Checkmate: a jhea fanfic. (Book 3 of 3: BTR Series)

Chapter 13: Orange Soda

Special shoutout to @cheappop @xxjheaxx @maineventabbey @love4brutality @xxwhatcouldhavebeenxx

Flashback - June 26th, 2025

LaKota Oaks, Hall A. 6:24 PM.

Jon stood confidently at the podium, his smile wide as he addressed the audience. The room, filled with donors, philanthropists, and well-wishers, buzzed with a quiet sense of anticipation. The sparkling chandeliers overhead cast a soft glow on the elegant décor of the venue. Jon was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, his usual confident demeanor amplified by the significance of the evening.

He cleared his throat, his voice commanding yet warm. “I usually don’t do stuff like this,” Jon began, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of distinguished guests. “But on behalf of the Demi Fatu Foundation, I would like to thank each and every one of you for coming out tonight.”

A ripple of applause echoed through the hall, and Jon smiled, nodding in appreciation. He paused, allowing the moment to settle before continuing.

“Tonight, with your incredible contributions, we have raised $6.8 million dollars.” The applause grew louder, with many of the attendees rising to their feet in support of the foundation’s mission. Jon looked toward the back of the stage, his gaze shifting toward the figure who had inspired it all.

“Now, if I could, I’d like to invite the heart and soul of this foundation, Demi Fatu, to join me up here,” Jon said, his voice filled with reverence.

The spotlight flickered, drawing attention to Rhea, who was sitting at a table near the back. She smiled gently as she rose from her seat, her presence commanding as she waved graciously to the room. She moved toward the stage with the help of Joe, who supported her as she made her way to the podium. Her movements were graceful, but her eyes carried the weight of all she had overcome. She reached the stage, her figure bathed in the soft light.

Rhea took the stand with quiet strength, her eyes scanning the crowd of faces eager to hear her speak. She stood at the microphone, pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts as the applause slowly faded. Her hands rested lightly on the podium. It was evident that she had fought hard to be here tonight.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said, her voice smooth and steady, though there was a hint of emotion just beneath the surface. “And thank you to everyone who has made this evening possible. Your support means the world to me.”

The room was silent, hanging on her every word. Rhea continued, her tone more serious as she shared the foundation’s mission.

“The Demi Fatu Foundation is dedicated to helping troubled youth, those who have suffered at the hands of violence, neglect, and abuse. Our work is focused on those who have been victims of sexual trafficking, offering them a chance at a new life—one where they can heal, find hope, and build their future. Every dollar you’ve contributed tonight will go directly into providing those victims with the support they need to start over.”

A wave of emotion swept over the room, the audience visibly moved by the heartfelt message. Rhea’s eyes shone with determination, but there was also vulnerability in her expression as she spoke of the cause so close to her heart.

“We all have the power to make a difference,” she continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. “The more we give, the more lives we can change. And together, we can create a world where the victims of these horrors no longer have to suffer in silence.”

The crowd, touched by her words, erupted in applause. It was a standing ovation—one filled with admiration, respect, and gratitude for the woman who had fought through her own darkness to emerge as a beacon of hope for others.

As the applause began to die down, Rhea stepped back slightly from the podium, taking a deep breath as she glanced out into the sea of faces, feeling a profound connection to each person in the room. She knew the road ahead would still be full of challenges, but tonight, she felt as though she had finally found her purpose—one that would carry her through whatever obstacles life still had in store.

Joe and Jon carefully guided Rhea off the stage, their movements protective yet unspoken, as if shielding her from the weight of the world. The energy in the room still crackled with admiration for her speech, murmurs of praise floating through the crowd.

As they reached their table, Rhea settled into her seat with a quiet sigh, smoothing her dress over her lap. She turned to Joe, offering him a small but sincere smile.

“Thank you for making the trip out here,” she said softly.

Joe waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head. “Come on now, you know I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” His tone was gruff, but there was warmth in his eyes.

Jon leaned back in his chair, exhaling as he glanced around the opulent hall. “It’s a shame Jey couldn’t be here,” he commented, his voice carrying a note of something between understanding and disappointment.

Rhea didn’t miss the subtle weight behind his words. She tilted her head slightly before responding. “He’s off being a bona fide superstar,” she said with a small smirk, though the flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression for just a second.

Jon hummed, nodding. “Yeah. That boy’s been on a roll lately.”

Before the conversation could go any further, a waitress approached their table, her presence poised and professional. The name tag pinned to her crisp black uniform read Ashanti. She held a small notepad, pen poised between her fingers.

“Good evening, would you like anything to drink?” she asked politely, her eyes scanning between the three of them.

Joe glanced up first, offering a charming smile. “A glass of wine,” he requested smoothly.

Jon lifted a hand slightly. “Beer for me.”

Ashanti turned her attention to Rhea, who instinctively rested a hand over her midsection, a small protective gesture.

“A Sprite will do,” Rhea said with a gentle smile.

The waitress nodded, scribbling down their orders. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared seamlessly into the crowd, leaving the trio in a moment of quiet.

Joe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his sharp gaze flickered between Jon and Rhea. “So,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of something more serious beneath the casual exterior, “how you holding up, sis?”

Rhea met his eyes, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the edge of the tablecloth. “I’m good,” she answered, though it came a little too quick. She cleared her throat, adjusting in her seat. “Tonight’s been… important.”

Jon studied her, his expression unreadable. “You sure?”

Rhea exhaled through her nose, offering a small but genuine nod. “Yeah.” Then, her lips curled up just slightly. “Besides, if I wasn’t, I’m pretty sure you two would be the first to call me out on it.”

Joe smirked. “Damn right.”

The drinks arrived moments later, Ashanti setting them down with a graceful efficiency. As the three lifted their glasses—Joe and Jon in toast, Rhea in quiet amusement—there was an unspoken understanding between them. The night wasn’t just about the money raised or the cause being championed.

It was about Rhea reclaiming something—her voice, her purpose.

And despite the miles that separated them tonight, Jey was still a part of it. Whether he knew it or not.

Rhea adjusted the fabric of her dress as she rose with Joe and Jon’s help, her movements slow but steady. At this stage in her pregnancy, every step carried a heaviness, but she still held herself with quiet strength.

Dom, one of her most trusted assistants within the Demi Fatu Foundation, had just informed her that the winners of the highly anticipated meet-and-greet had arrived. Rhea gave him a nod of appreciation before glancing between Joe and Jon.

“Guess we better not keep them waiting,” she said lightly, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Joe smirked, adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “Let’s make someone’s night, then.”

Jon nodded, his expression relaxed as he walked beside them, keeping a watchful eye on Rhea as they maneuvered through the grand dining hall.

As they approached the designated area, two women stood eagerly near the reception table, their faces lighting up at the sight of the trio. The excitement in their eyes was unmistakable, the kind that only came from meeting idols they had long admired.

The taller of the two stepped forward first, her hands clasped together. “Oh my God, this is unreal,” she breathed, eyes darting between them. “I’m Maki.”

The other woman, just as overwhelmed but radiating excitement, quickly introduced herself. “And I’m Abbey! It’s so amazing to meet you all.”

Rhea smiled warmly, taking in their enthusiasm. “It’s great to meet you both,” she said, reaching out carefully to shake their hands despite her limited mobility. “You guys excited for tonight?”

Maki nodded quickly. “More than you know! This foundation means so much to us. What you’re doing—giving a voice to victims, helping those in need—it’s incredible.”

Abbey chimed in, her voice filled with sincerity. “We’ve been following everything since you started the foundation, and it’s been so inspiring.”

Rhea’s heart swelled at their words, a deep appreciation settling in her chest. Despite the chaos that often surrounded her life, moments like this reminded her why she fought so hard for this cause.

Joe, ever the charmer, grinned at them. “Well, I gotta say, you picked a hell of a night to be here. Six-point-eight million raised? That’s history right there.”

Jon clapped a hand on Rhea’s shoulder, nodding toward Maki and Abbey. “And that’s all because of her.”

Rhea shook her head modestly. “Because of all of us. This is bigger than just me.”

Maki and Abbey exchanged a glance, their admiration evident. Abbey hesitated for a second before speaking again. “Can we—uh, would it be okay if we got a picture with you guys?”

Rhea chuckled. “Of course.”

Joe gestured toward Dom, who immediately stepped forward to take the photo. As the five of them gathered together, Maki and Abbey stood between their idols, their joy unmistakable.

As the camera flashed, capturing the moment forever, Rhea felt something shift inside her—a reminder of how far she had come, of the impact she was making.

And despite everything, despite the past and the battles she still had to fight, she felt whole.

—

June 27th, 2025 2:42 PM

Rhea stood in the kitchen, carefully assembling her sandwich. Her movements were slower now, the weight of her pregnancy making even the simplest tasks feel like a workout. Still, there was an undeniable warmth in her heart as she thought about how soon she would finally be holding baby Jeyson in her arms.

Taking a slow bite, she leaned against the kitchen counter, her eyes drifting toward the large glass doors leading to the backyard. Outside, a team from Shep’s Pool Perfections was putting the paint on the custom-built pool and waterfall feature.

Once Jeyson was here, she planned to start gentle water exercises with him. Nothing too intense—just small bonding moments in the water, a way to ease back into movement while also introducing her son to something she loved.

She placed her half-eaten sandwich down and rubbed her belly absentmindedly. “Not long now, little one,” she murmured, feeling a small but firm kick in response.

A deep chuckle came from behind her. “That boy is already active as hell,” Joe’s voice rang out as he stepped into the kitchen, eyeing her with amusement.

Rhea smirked, turning slightly to face him. “Takes after his dad.”

Joe leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “Or his mom. You were out here lifting weights until damn near five months.”

Rhea rolled her eyes playfully. “Had to make sure I stayed strong.”

Joe studied her for a moment, his usual playful demeanor softening. “You doing okay?”

She exhaled, nodding as she ran her fingers over the edge of the counter. “Yeah… just ready. Ready for him to be here. Ready to hold him.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Ready for Jey to be here, too.”

Joe’s gaze darkened just a fraction, but he didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he reached for a banana from the fruit bowl and peeled it slowly. “You know he’ll be here, right?”

Rhea looked away, focusing on the pool outside. “Yeah,” she said, though the uncertainty still clung to her words.

Joe chewed thoughtfully before speaking again. “That man loves you, Demi. No matter what’s happened, no matter what’s still gonna happen, he’ll always come back to you.”

Rhea swallowed hard, her fingers instinctively tightening against the counter.

She hoped he was right. Because as the days inched closer to her due date, the only thing she wanted more than Jeyson in her arms… was Jey by her side.

Galina appeared at the top of the stairs, her soft footsteps echoing as she descended to the main level. Her eyes sparkled with the same energy Rhea had come to admire, even in moments of exhaustion. She and Joe had decided to stay with Rhea for the next couple of days until Jey got back, and then all four of them would fly out to Texas for their Fourth of July trip. It was the light at the end of a long tunnel for Rhea—getting away with the people she trusted most.

Galina smiled warmly as she reached the kitchen. “Are you okay today, mamas?” she asked gently, noticing the slightly exhausted look on Rhea’s face.

Rhea, her hand resting on her swollen belly, gave a half-smile in response. “He keeps kicking me so much,” she sighed, her voice tinged with a mix of exhaustion and amusement.

Galina let out a laugh, her tone light. “Imagine, giving birth to twins. Double the kicks, mamas.”

Rhea’s eyes widened at the thought, and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know how you and Trinity did it. This little one is already giving me a run for my money.”

Joe, who had been leaning casually against the counter, smirked at the conversation. “I did all the work,” he quipped, a playful twinkle in his eye as he glanced over at Rhea.

Galina shot him a glare, her expression amused but also a bit incredulous. “You did all the work, huh?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s funny, because last time I checked, you didn’t carry the weight, literally.”

Joe shrugged, his grin widening. “Hey, I provided the right environment,” he teased.

Rhea couldn’t help but laugh, the sound filling the kitchen. “You two are something else,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Galina, still giving Joe a mock side-eye, turned back to Rhea, her face softening. “But seriously, how are you holding up? I know it’s been tough with everything going on.”

Rhea paused, her hand resting on her belly once more. “I’m managing. The pain’s there, but it’s nothing compared to the excitement. I just want him here… and Jey. I miss him so much.”

Galina’s expression softened. She stepped forward, gently rubbing Rhea’s shoulder. “He’ll be back soon, mamas. You know Jey’s got this.”

Rhea nodded, her eyes glistening for a moment before she blinked away the emotion. “I hope so.”

Galina squeezed her shoulder and glanced at Joe, who had been silently watching the exchange. “We’ll be here for you. Whatever you need. You’re not alone in this.”

Rhea smiled faintly, appreciating the support but still feeling that aching void Jey’s absence had created.

—

June 28th, 2025 01:21 AM

A loud, urgent banging on the front door jolted Rhea awake. Her heart pounded in her chest as she groggily pushed herself up, blinking against the darkness. Barry and Bella, her protective dogs, stirred beside her, their ears perked up at the sudden disturbance. Storm, her cat, remained curled up at the foot of the bed, unfazed.

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 1:21 AM.

“Who the hell—” she mumbled, rubbing her belly before swinging her legs off the bed. At nearly eight months pregnant, every movement was slow and calculated. She grabbed her robe, pulling it over her body before waddling downstairs.

Approaching the door, she peeked through the peephole and frowned when she saw an officer standing outside. Her stomach tightened with unease. Taking a steadying breath, she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The moment she did, a familiar figure lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her.

“Mommy!”

Rhea instinctively held onto Jaciyah, her stepson, as he buried his face into her neck. Confused, she looked up at the officer.

“Ma’am, is this your son?” he asked, though the answer was clear from the way Jaciyah clung to her.

Rhea exhaled. “He practically is, but technically, he’s my stepson. What’s going on?”

Jaciyah grinned, looking up at her with dilated eyes. “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!”

Rhea blinked, realization dawning on how the officer got into the property. Jaciyah’s assigned gate code.

She shot him a glare but turned back to the officer. “What happened?”

The officer sighed, adjusting his stance. “We found him and his girlfriend trespassing inside one of the model homes up the street. Seems they took some ecstasy before breaking in and, well… let’s just say they did quite a bit of damage.”

Rhea’s jaw clenched. “Are you charging him?”

The officer shook his head. “No, the homeowner isn’t pressing charges since the house was scheduled for demolition anyway. But ma’am, I need you to understand—taking ecstasy at his age is like taking ice cream scoops out of his developing brain.”

Rhea pursed her lips as she glanced at Jaciyah, who was now absentmindedly playing with the tie of her robe. His fingers tugged at the soft fabric, his expression dreamy.

“Mommy, it’s so soft,” he murmured.

Rhea resisted the urge to groan. She turned back to the officer with a tight nod. “Yeah, ice cream scoops. Got it. Believe me, my husband is going to handle this.”

The officer gave her a sympathetic look before tipping his hat. “Good luck with that. Have a good night, ma’am.”

Rhea shut the door and locked it before turning to Jaciyah, who was still swaying slightly.

“Alright, kid. You need to sit your ass down before you fall over.”

Jaciyah gasped dramatically. “Wait! The orange soda! Mommy, please!” His voice was desperate, as if the world would end if he didn’t get it.

Rhea pinched the bridge of her nose. She was too pregnant for this shit.

Joe and Galina came down the stairs, both looking groggy but alert. Joe was already pulling a T-shirt over his head while Galina rubbed her eyes, still in her satin robe.

“What the hell is going on?” Joe grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Rhea exhaled, gesturing toward Jaciyah, who was now sitting cross-legged on the couch, mumbling to himself about how good orange soda was for the soul.

“This one right here,” Rhea began, arms crossed over her chest, “decided to take ecstasy, break into a model home with his little girlfriend, and get himself escorted home by the damn police.”

Galina’s mouth fell open. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Joe slowly turned his head toward his nephew, his expression unreadable. He studied Jaciyah for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.

“Alright,” Joe muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I got this.”

Rhea arched a brow. “You sure?”

Joe gave her a look. “This is a Fatu boy. I know how to handle this.”

Without another word, he strode over to the couch and grabbed Jaciyah by the back of his hoodie, yanking him up to his feet.

Jaciyah barely reacted, still grinning. “Uncle Joe! I love you, man. You’re like, so big. Have you ever looked at your hands? Like, really looked at them? I saw on twitter that everyone is obsessed with your hands. Why is that? Is it a sex thing?”

Joe deadpanned. “Boy, if you don’t shut your high ass up—”

Rhea bit her lip to keep from laughing. Galina shook her head and muttered, “He is definitely Jey’s son.”

Joe dragged Jaciyah toward the staircase. “We’re gonna have a little talk, kid.”

Jaciyah gasped. “Is it about orange soda?”

Joe didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

“IT HAS TO BE ABOUT ORANGE SODA?!”

Rhea and Galina stood in silence for a beat before Galina turned to her.

“You sure you don’t want twins?” she teased.

Rhea groaned. “I think three Fatu boys is more than enough.”

—

8:42 AM

Joe and Galina stood outside near the driveway as Takecia pulled up, her expression already tight with frustration. Jaciyah, still groggy from the night before, let out an exhausted sigh as he stepped toward his mother.

The moment he was within reach, Takecia smacked the back of his head—not too hard, but just enough to make her point. “What the hell were you thinking, Jaciyah?” she scolded, her voice sharp. “Breaking into a damn house? Taking drugs? Are you out of your damn mind?”

Jaciyah winced, rubbing the back of his head. “Ma, chill—”

“Chill?!” Takecia’s eyes blazed. “Boy, do you know what could’ve happened to you? Do you even care? You could’ve ended up dead, Jaciyah! Or arrested! And here I am, getting a damn call in the middle of the night because my son wants to act like he ain’t got no damn sense?”

Joe crossed his arms, staying out of it for now. This was her moment to handle her son, and judging by the way she was going in on him, he wasn’t about to interrupt.

Jaciyah sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “I wasn’t tryna do all that—”

“Oh, so you just accidentally broke into a house?” Takecia snapped. “You just accidentally popped ecstasy? Explain that to me, genius!”

Jaciyah looked away, his jaw tight. He was in deep shit, and he knew it.

Takecia shook her head, her anger simmering into something else—disappointment. “I swear, Jaciyah… you ain’t got no idea how much we fight for you. How much your dad fights for you.” She glanced toward the house, knowing damn well Rhea was too drained to deal with this right now. “You got a whole family that loves you, and this is what you do?”

Silence. Jaciyah wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Takecia exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get in the car,” she muttered.

Jaciyah hesitated for a moment before finally sliding into the passenger seat.

Takecia turned to Joe and Galina. “Tell Rhea I said thanks… and I’m sorry she had to deal with this.”

Joe nodded. “She understands. She’s just tired.”

Takecia’s face softened slightly. “I know. She doesn’t need this stress right now.” She glanced at the house once more before sighing. “I got it from here.”

Without another word, she got into the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away.

Galina let out a deep breath, shaking her head. “Damn. That kid’s lucky his mom got him and not his dad.”

Joe smirked slightly. “Yeah… Jey would’ve torn his ass up.”

Rhea sat comfortably on the couch, her hand gently stroking Bartholomew, the guinea pig, who rested on her large, swollen belly. The guinea pig’s mews echoed through the room, his little body shifting with each sound, almost as if in sync with the gentle movements of baby Jeyson inside her. Despite the peacefulness of the moment, Rhea couldn’t shake the overwhelming exhaustion that had become her constant companion. The pregnancy, though a blessing, had drained her physically and emotionally.

Joe and Galina stepped into the room, their footsteps light as they approached Rhea. Joe’s face was etched with a quiet sadness, the weight of the last few weeks heavy on his shoulders. He looked at Rhea with concern, but also with a glimmer of determination in his eyes.

“How about I do something for all of us?” Joe suggested, his voice soft, almost as if he wasn’t sure if she’d accept.

Galina raised an eyebrow, her arms crossing in a skeptical but affectionate manner. “What could you possibly do that would make this day turn around?” she asked, her tone playful yet tinged with curiosity.

Joe smirked, clearly undeterred by her skepticism. “Just trust me.”

TWO HOURS LATER

The atmosphere had completely shifted. Rhea now found herself in a serene, private spa room, the soft glow of candles casting gentle shadows against the walls. The sounds of calm, flowing water mixed with soothing music, creating an atmosphere of complete tranquility. The air was riddled with peace, the worries of the outside world momentarily forgotten.

Rhea lay on a special table designed for pregnant women, her body sinking into the plush surface. The soft, heated warmth of the table began to relax her tense muscles almost immediately, allowing her to sink further into the comfort it provided. Her belly, round and heavy with the impending birth of baby Jeyson, rested comfortably on the pillow designed to support expectant mothers.

Joe and Galina had been ushered onto their own tables, their therapists already working on their tired muscles. Rhea closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift, the sensation of skilled hands massaging her feet and back a welcomed release. Each stroke, each press of pressure, seemed to ease the years of stress and strain that had built up in her body over the course of her pregnancy. It was a feeling she hadn’t realized how desperately she needed.

“I love you so much, Joseph Leati Anoa’i,” Galina whispered, her voice full of affection as she let herself relax into the massage. The words were simple, but the sincerity behind them was clear.

Rhea, still lost in the moment of pure relaxation, smiled softly. “I second that,” she murmured, her voice carrying the last remnants as the exhaustion and tension in her body melted away.

Joe, his body relaxed under the expert hands of the therapist, raised a hand in a quiet gesture. “No talking,” he said playfully, though his voice carried a hint of authority. It was clear that he was thoroughly enjoying the luxury of peace and relaxation.

Rhea and Galina shared a quiet laugh, the tension of their lives momentarily forgotten in the soothing atmosphere of the room. The therapists continued their work on all three of them, effortlessly gliding their hands over tired muscles, ensuring that each moment was filled with pure comfort.

—

After their relaxing afternoon, the trio made their way back to the house, their spirits lifted by the soothing massage and the calm of the day. As Joe approached the gate, he leaned in to input the familiar code. The large iron gate creaked open, and Joe slowly drove up the long driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel. Galina helped a very pregnant Rhea out of the car, her movements slow but steady as they made their way up to the house. Rhea’s growing belly seemed to be taking all her energy, but her smile never faltered as she leaned on Galina for support.

When they reached the door, Rhea’s eyes lit up as she caught sight of someone sitting at the breakfast bar. The warm glow of the kitchen light illuminated the figure, and the familiar sound of Jey’s voice reached her ears.

“Hey, button nose,” Jey greeted, his voice filled with affection.

Rhea’s heart fluttered at the sight of him. She hadn’t expected him to be there. Her exhaustion and pregnancy aches seemed to melt away in an instant as she smiled brightly. Jey, sitting casually at the breakfast bar, had a bouquet of sunflowers resting beside him, the vibrant yellow petals a beautiful contrast to the soft colors of the room.

He quickly stood up and crossed the room, his strong arms pulling Rhea into a tender kiss. The kiss was filled with relief and longing, the kind that only came from being apart for too long. Rhea sighed against him, her heart feeling lighter with every passing second.

“I thought you wouldn’t be back till next week,” Rhea said, a note of surprise and relief in her voice. Her exhaustion from the past few days faded as she sank into his embrace.

Jey grinned, his usual teasing nature coming through. “Rewrites in storyline,” he said with a wink. “Took a massive ‘chair assault’ from Dominik, and now I’m here with you, babe!” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, a mischievous glint in his gaze.

Galina, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines, chimed in with a grin. “Good, she was missing you!” She crossed her arms, an affectionate smirk on her face as she looked at the two of them.

Rhea laughed softly, her hands resting on her belly as she looked up at Jey. “It’s been too long,” she admitted. “I’m so happy you’re here.��

Jey smiled warmly at her, his hand resting gently on her rounded belly. “I couldn’t stay away, babe. Not with you and baby Jeyson here.” His tone softened, and he kissed her forehead lightly.

Galina rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. “Always the drama,” she teased, but it was clear that her words were filled with affection.

“Thanks for being here, Jey,” Rhea said, her voice softening. “It means everything to me.”

Jey nodded, his expression serious now. “Always, Rhea. I’m not going anywhere.”

With the sunflowers still resting on the counter beside them, the trio stood there for a moment, enjoying the calm, the comfort of being together again. Jey’s presence in the house filled the space with warmth, and Rhea felt a deep sense of peace she hadn’t realized she was missing until now.

Authors note: I realize that some of you don’t understand the trajection or my reasoning for writing the chapters that I write. What I am doing right now is establishing the life before everything stopped. I’m building up to the moment where everything comes into fruition and plays out. I always encourage questions if you can’t understand anything. I also encourage comments because they are essentially what drives me to write. But I hope you all are loving the story so far.!

Also here is a small character analysis I wrote for Rhea and why she lies: Rhea’s consistent lies about her past to Jey stem from a combination of fear, shame, and a need for control. She fears rejection or judgment if her true history is revealed, believing that it could shatter their relationship and the fresh start she desires with him. By concealing her past, she attempts to protect both herself and Jey from the pain that could arise, maintaining a sense of emotional safety and control. Her lies also reflect a deeper self-sabotaging fear of loss, where she believes that if Jey knew everything, he would leave. Ultimately, her lies are a coping mechanism to safeguard her relationship and shield herself from vulnerability.

#wwe #jey uso #fanfic #fanfiction #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #rhea ripley #rhea and jey #yeet #the judgement day #wwe jhea fanfiction #wwe jhea #jhea wwe #jhea fanfiction #jhea #jey x rhea #rhea ripley and jey uso #rhea x jey

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yj-polycule · 1 day ago

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Assigning the Batfamily Super Sentai (Power Rangers for my western audience) Colors and Positions based on archetypes in the series and my stupid amount of knowledge for a 50 year old franchise.

Bruce: Mentor Ranger. Think characters like Big One, DekaMaster or Ryu Commander. Been doing this longer than the main team and only really steps in when they need assistance, but isn't always on the battle field. I know a lot of people would default to Red for Bruce, but nah he's long outgrown that.

Dick: Red, but specially the archetype of experienced Red like GokaiRed, ShinkenRed or more recently BoonRed. He's been in the game awhile, definitely longer than the rest of the team and is someone knowledgeable and a natural leader. But also like, sometimes an asshole?? But It's fine he has a heart of gold

Jason: Black. Very much the architype of 'I don't need the rest of you, I can do this all myself' (BoukenBlack, Hachi-Ohger) But also is probably one of the most loyal to the others, even if they won't acknowledge it to anyone else. Typically working behind the scenes from the main team.

Cass: White (Think like Gao White / Shironinger). Very much the heart of the team and lowkey the moral backbone. Typically gets overlooked in favor of the others on the team, but genuinely the most important member of the team.

Tim: Blue but specifically the second in command kind of Blue ( DekaBlue, GokaiBlue, Tonbo Ohger) Very much Ride or Die with the Red, but also isn't scared to call them out on the red's bullshit and will take charge when needed. Probably the most likely to take over as Red in a moments notice.

Steph: Yellow, but the kind of Yellow that radiates 'I'm actually the main character' (OniSister, GokaiYellow, Kamakiri Ohger). She will make you remember her and she will kick your ass in the process. Probably a little unhinged but honestly, you have to respect it, because they are doing the most at any given moment.

Duke: Gold (On the nose I know). My Man Duke gives off Massive 6th Ranger energy, cuz he joins in a bit late but does this man CARRY! Probably a gold who is just doing his own thing but will help when asked, but honestly just leave the king to do his shit and we'll always win (Go-On Gold, Twokaizer, Beet Buster)

Damian: Green. Typically one of the younger members of the team and feels like they have the most to prove (ShinkenGreen, Patren 2gou, RyusolGreen) Can come across as cocky or arrogant but 9/10 times has the skills to back up their claims.

Babs & Alfred both don't fit a specific archetype for Sentai all that much, at least in terms of colors. They both do work well in support roles for the team, be it the civilian that gets their moment or the tech support who gets that one time really cool henshin to stand out and kick ass when needed.

#batfamily #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #cassandra cain #tim drake #stephanie brown #duke thomas #damian wayne #batman #dc comics #dc #xion rinbles

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lillaydee · 2 days ago

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The Unlucky One Part 6

Joel Miller (No Outbreak AU) / F Reader

When it comes to love, Lady Luck seems to have lost your address. After being left at the altar without so much of an explanation, you decided love is no longer something you are interested in. Not even meeting an unlucky-in-love-himself Mr. Grump could change your mind.

Right?

Let me know if you want to be tagged, or if you want to be removed from the tag list.

WARNINGS: Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Idiots in Love, unlucky in love, Child Abandonment, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us)

@peelieblue, @vickie5446, @harriedandharassed, @lovefreylove @martuxduckling @kikookii @liciafonseca

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 5

---

Fuck.

Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!

It’s him. Mr Grump. Joel. The man you had an extremely memorable night with. The man who gave you the best sex of your life. The man you cried so much about after he left, even more so than you did with Andrew ditching you at the altar.

The man you couldn’t stop thinking about, whose kisses, touches and caresses you still feel when you sleep at night.

And this nice woman, the woman who was so sweet and thoughtful she ran over when she heard a crash that she banged on your door to make sure you, a stranger she had never met was alright. The woman so lovely she offered her men’s services (she had more than one man?) to help you out with assembling your mountain of Ikea furniture so you could save some money.

The woman who Mr Grump cheated on. With you.

Oh… you were going to hell. You had bought a house next door to the man you had a fling with. The one he shared with his ‘baby’, Tess.

Joel took out a backpack from the passenger seat before turning around to close the door. He saw Tess and smiled at her.

“Come here, I want you to meet our new neighbour!” she waved him over.

Joel saw you and froze.

Oh shit, it’s her, he thought. It’s you. The woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. You’re here. You’re his neighbour. He swore his heart was about to leap out of his mouth and skip over to you out of happiness.

But then… that look on your face.

You didn’t seem too happy to see him.

In fact, you seemed to be panicking.

Why weren’t you happy to see him?

Why would you be panicking?

For the first time since he last saw you, after weeks of pining and reminiscing about you, going through one restless night after another wondering what he did wrong, if he was so bad in bed you had decided to ghost him, falling asleep only to dream of your naked body in his arms, a horrific thought came to his head.

He remembered seeing a man come by a few times these past few weeks. He thought the guy was the one buying the house, making a mental note to go over and say hi once he’s all moved in.

Fuck. Tess said you were the new neighbour. You were with him. You were married, weren’t you? But you were not wearing a ring. You had a boyfriend, then? At that moment he wanted to kick himself for not seeing it. Of course you were taken. Someone as great, as beautiful as you? What stupid man wouldn’t snatch you up?

And he slept with you.

And now you’d moved in next door. With your man. And he had to keep his mouth shut about that wonderful night, the one where he had the best sex of his life - fuck he could still feel your touches on his body, could still hear your moans - and just watch as you live your life with your man.

“Joel?” Tess’s wave got more aggressive.

He could see you fidget, as if trying to get away. But Tess kept waving, and try as he might to resist, his feet just moved on their own volition, his body drawn to you like metal to a magnet. But his face… his face just felt frozen. He couldn’t even smile. He wanted to, so badly. Wanted to show you how happy he was to see you again. But the thought that had just invaded his mind wouldn’t go away, and all he could think of was that you had cheated on this man, this very good looking man he saw going in and out of the house these past weeks, with him.

You cheated on your man. With him. He helped a cheater cheat.

Fuck.

He finally got to your doorstep, and Tess gave him the usual hug and peck on the cheek, his body stiff. He could see your face turn hard, eyes boring into his, as if you were trying to kill him by staring into his soul.

Little did he know, he was doing the same to you.

What the fuck was his problem, you thought. Why was he looking at you as if you did something wrong? Shouldn’t he be panicking at this point? You just moved in next door, and you had just met his Tess. He should be kissing your feet and begging you not to say anything to her right about now. And all you got was a death stare? Fuck you, Joel Grump.

“Joel, this is our new neighbour… I’m sorry, I’ve just realized that I didn’t catch your name,” Tess turned to you, a friendly smile on your face.

“Aria,” you said through gritted teeth.

Her expression quickly morphed into one of excitement. “Aria? Aria Grump?” she turned to Joel so fast her neck creaked. “Is this her?”

What in the world was she so fucking excited about?

Oh, God, he told her? Were they in some sort of a twisted relationship and you’d just been recruited in as some sort of a third-wheel or something? Was she expecting you to be in a throuple with them? Uhm… no thank you!

Joel didn’t react, but Tess turned back to you and asked, almost squealing, “It is you, isn’t it? From Bali? Oh my God, it’s so good to finally meet you!” she practically tackled you into a hug.

Okay, this was just weird now. Whatever their deal was, you didn’t want any part of it, you’d quickly decided. But Tess was so over the moon that you couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“Oh my God, we’ve been looking for you! You have no idea! Joel here hadn’t been able to stop…”

A quick jab from Joel stopped her. She looked at him, confusion on her face, about to retaliate, but seeing the expression on his face stopped her.

That, and the sound and sight of the truck pulling up your driveway.

Kyle jumped out, looking dashing in his suit, carrying what looked like a brand new battery operated screwdriver kit in his hand. He walked up to the house, gave you the usual ‘hi babe’ accompanied by a quick smooch on your lips and extended his hand to Joel.

“You must be the new neighbours, hi, I’m Kyle,” he said, a very cheery, real estate agent smile on his face.

Joel was taken aback, but quickly snapped out of it, taking Kyle’s hand, “Joel,” he said. “This is my… Tess,” he added, placing his hand on Tess’s waist. Tess shook Kyle’s hand, her face now less cheery than it was before.

There were a few awkward seconds of absolute silence before you told Kyle that Joel was one of the contractors that revamped the house.

“Really? Mac raved about you. Your work is excellent, sir,” Kyle said, “She was thinking of doing a bit of work on the house once the move is finished, maybe we could talk to you about that?” he asked Joel, honestly impressed with his work.

“Sure, just knock on our door and we’ll talk,” Joel said through gritted teeth.

The silence came back. Kyle placed his arm around you, uncomfortable with the sudden tension, not really understanding why. A car stopping in front of his driveway distracted all four of you, an older lady coming out and opening the passenger door. Tess muttered something about seeing you around, running over to collect the little girl who had just emerged from the passenger seat. Joel nodded awkwardly to you and Kyle and followed her, the little girl yelling at him telling ‘Daddy’ she got an A for her drawing.

You watched as he lifted the little girl in his arms and giving her so many smooches she squealed, telling him it tickles Daddy!

Daddy? Daddy?

Fuck. They have a child. You slept with a man in a relationship with a Tess, and they had a child together. You were officially a homewrecker.

You couldn’t watch this.

You pulled a still smiling Kyle into the house, slamming your door behind him.

**********

Kyle was sitting on the legless couch, watching as you paced your cluttered living room.

“Babe, what’s going on? What am I missing?”

“How soon can we resell?”

“What?”

“I can’t live here. I need to resell the house.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I thought you love the house!”

“Tell me, how soon can I resell? Fuck it. I’ll rent it out. I need you to find me another house. Like, yesterday.”

“Babe, you’re not making sense. What is going on?” he had you by the shoulders now, shaking you a little, worry and confusion etched all over his face.

You were hyperventilating. He quickly sat you down, going to the kitchen to get you a bottle of water. “Babe, breathe, head between your knees. Aria, you’re scaring me. What is going on?”

“That’s Joel.”

“The hot contractor neighbour? Yeah, that’s Joel. He told me his name.”

“No, that’s Joel. That’s Joel!”

“Am I supposed to understand what that means? Babe, are you feeling okay? Do you smell toast?”

“That’s Joel. That’s Joel!”

His face was still scrunched up, utterly confused.

A knock on the door startled you – you were prepared to just run upstairs and never come down, but Maria’s voice gave you a bit of an ease. You ran to open the door, pulling her in so quickly she almost fell headlong into Kyle. You quickly shut the door, blocking it with your body, that panicked look still evident.

“What’s going on?” Maria placed the newly bought screwdriver set she brought on the floor.

“She kept saying ‘that’s Joel’,” Kyle told her.

Her eyes widened – “Joel? Like, Joel, Joel? Bali Joel?”

You nodded frantically.

“Okay, what about him?”

“He lives next door,” Kyle told her.

Maria gasped, suddenly body-blocking the door alongside you, confusing Kyle further.

“I saw her. She came over. She’s so pretty. And so nice. They have a child,” you whispered, tears suddenly filling your eyes.

“Oh, babes, I’m so sorry!” she hugged you, and you sobbed into her shoulder. She held you long and tight, and once you let go, she turned to Kyle and asked, “How soon can she sell the house?”

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, completely befuddled.

“That’s Joel,” Maria hissed at him.

“So I’ve been told. Why is that important?”

“I slept with him in Bali, okay?” you shout-whispered at him.

He let out an enormous gasp, excitement clearly written all over his face, “You had a one night stand? Finally! Ooh… he’s very good looking, was he good? He looks like he might be very good, oh, we should celebrate. Would it be cruel to ask a man with only one good leg to grab champagne on his way over?” he took his phone out and began checking for possible deliveries for champagne and glasses.

You and Maria stared at him as if he’d gone crazy.

“Were you dropped on your head or something? You just met his girlfriend, and daughter!”

Kyle’s excitement morphed into one of horror. Oh fuck!

“You didn’t know he had someone?”

“Sure I do! And I chose to fuck him still, cause I make it a point to only fuck men in relationships all the time!”

Silence. You buried you face in your hands, sliding down to the floor, sobbing. “What am I gonna do? I really liked him, Kyle, how am I supposed to live here and watch them live their happy lives?”

He kneeled in front of you, rubbing your arm. He was clearly lost for words. Maria was sitting next to you now, your head on her shoulder, rubbing your knee.

“And her, his ‘baby’, or whoever she was to him, she was so nice, she came here because she heard a crash, all ready to help. I liked her immediately. She knew about me. I don’t know what he told her, but I struggle to think he told her everything. If so, what do I do? Do I tell her? They have a child together!”

There was a few minutes of silence as they silently supported you as your sobs began to cease.

“Oh, shit,” Maria suddenly said.

“What?” you and Kyle both asked.

“Does this mean Tommy is here, too?”

Your eyes widened, and in spite of yourself, you wanted to tease her. But the clear panic in her eyes made you stop. Instead, you shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask. It wasn’t exactly that kind of a reunion,” you said.

“Uhm, and who is this Tommy?” Kyle asked, a sly smile returning to his face.

**********

Tess came downstairs after putting Sarah down for a nap. Joel was nowhere to be found in the house. She went back upstairs to check his room, nothing. She came back out to the corridor, a very faint smell of cigarettes in the air. She went into Tommy’s room across the corridor, on the side of the house that was facing away from your house, smiling when she saw his window open. She popped her head out onto the roof, seeing Joel sitting outside next to the window, a cigarette in his hand. She climbed out, Joel immediately steadying her with his hand. She lowered the window enough and took the cigarette from him, taking a puff.

“So, that was really her, huh? I can see why you couldn’t get her out of your head. She’s pretty.”

“And has a Kyle. Fuck, I feel so stupid!”

“Don’t, don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t know.”

“How can I live here now, seeing them live their lives right next door? She cheated on him with me!”

“Maybe they just met?”

“And moved in together? After a few weeks?”

Silence. Joel hung his head, stubbing the cigarette out. He genuinely looked as if he was about to cry.

“What was the deal with you placing your hand on my waist? You’d never done that before.”

“I panicked, okay? She was right there, with him, and I just panicked. I don’t know why I did that,” he said, hanging his head low between his knees as if he was about to vomit.

“You really like her, don’t you?”

Joel rubbed his face, “I know you think it’s stupid, I know you and Tommy think I fall too fast, too hard, yeah, that’s right, I heard you two talking about me. But Tess, this woman, she’s something else. I felt like myself again around her. She made me feel… I don’t know…” Joel searched for the words that seemed to escape him.

“Whole.”

He looked at his cousin, who was now looking at him with a sad happiness in her eyes.

“Yeah,” he nodded, rubbing his face, trying desperately not to cry in front of his cousin, who might as well be the sister he never had.

“What do I do, Tess? Kyle was already talking about renovations. Wanting to talk to me about it. Do I tell him?”

Tess got all quiet. She shrugged. “I don’t know, Joel.” She held out her hand to him, asking for a cigarette. He lit another, taking a deep drag before handing it to her. “Look, you know where I stand on cheating. I mean, look at me, look at how I ended up living here with you in the first place,” she said. “But let’s be honest. You don’t know her that well. Tommy said you don’t even know her last name, and she didn’t know yours. The way I see it, she was definitely hiding something from you, but you don’t know what it is. It could be something else. Maybe they were on a break. Maybe they broke up.”

Joel took the cigarette back from her, taking a drag. “What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying, if there was a possibility that she withheld the fact that she had someone from you, there was also a possibility that she withheld another fact that could innocently explain why she slept with you. Maybe talk to her about it before you judge her?”

“Even if there was an innocent explanation,” he said, “She’s with him now. And come on, Tess. Look at him. There is no way I could compete with that guy. You know Mac told me they bought the place cash? Did you forget why Jen left me in the first place?”

“Not all women are like Jen, Joel.”

He took a deep breath. “I know.”

**********

You, Maria, Kyle and Ethan worked together to put the most basic of the stuff you need together that day. Your bed, after much struggling to carry the damn thing and the mattress upstairs, your cupboard, which somehow took the three people with uninjured limbs four whole hours to assemble. Ethan stayed downstairs, and without moving from his spot in the middle of the living room, bad leg out straight, managed to put all the legs to both your couches on, assemble your coffee table, TV cabinet, night stands, side tables and all eight dining chairs with no problem at all. He was working on your bar stools when the three of you came back downstairs, far too sweaty for your liking.

“Feeling better babes?” he asked, cocking his head at you in sympathy, patting the couch for you to sit down. You shook your head, plopping yourself on the plush sofa defeatedly, a sourpuss still on your face.

He faced you, “Look, I know you didn’t ask, but I think you should talk to him. Hear him out.”

“Are you mental? Hear what out? I saw everything with my own eyes! Heard everything in the first place with my own ears! He has someone!”

He pulled a face at you, “I don’t know… I just feel like… you withheld stuff from him, he withheld stuff from you, maybe it’s not what you think. I mean, think about it. What were your evidence that he’s with her? That he called her ‘baby’? So do I and Kyle. So does Maria. That she kissed him on his cheek? Babes, me and Kyle kiss you on the lips. Sure, not like that, but I feel like the kisses we give each other are more intimate than what you said she gave him. I don’t know babes. I feel like you’re reading way into this and freaking out because you like him. He was your first one night stand, and you overthought it. Just, talk to the guy.”

“Okay, I wasn’t gonna tell you this cause you told me not to,” Maria said, sitting next to you, “But back in Bali, Tommy told me Joel was single. He just got divorced. He didn’t say anything about a kid, but he definitely said he was single.”

“Oh, come on Maria. He was a man who was not exactly forthcoming with you either, you didn’t even tell him your last name, and he didn’t tell you his. He could’ve lied, just wanting his brother to get laid. You don’t even know if anything he told you was true!”

Maria’s confident looks faltered. You shook your head, hugging her, apologizing for your words. She hugged you back, telling you it’s okay.

Someone knocked on your door again, and Tess stood in front of your house, a dish in her hands. She was dressed in what looked like a nurse uniform.

“Figured you wouldn’t have time to cook or plan a meal with everything you needed to do,” she said, smiling. “It’s not much, just some baked macaroni,” Kyle immediately rushed to get the dish from her. Maria came to the door, introducing herself. Tess’s face lit up. “Maria? The Maria Tommy was telling me about?” she asked, her smile getting bigger as she did. She waved a hello to Ethan when he introduced himself.

“You’re off to work?” you asked, wanting to make up for the awkwardness you left her with earlier in the evening. Okay, maybe you just wanted to ease the guilt you’re feeling for sleeping with her man, what with her being so nice to you and all.

“Yeah, I’m on nights this week. I work at the Children’s Hospital downtown. Well, I’ll see you around? Just return the dish when you’re done. No need to bother with filling it. Nice to meet you two!” she waved a friendly goodbye and went off.

“Great,” you said, as you closed the door. “She’s a fucking paediatric nurse. She heals children for a living. I slept with the man of a fucking saint to comes to check on me when I might be in danger, cooks for me because she’s worried I might not have anything to eat and heals sick children for a living. Wonderful! Just, excellent!” You sat back down on the couch and rubbed your face, guilt eating you alive. God, why couldn’t she be a bitch?

“She’s a great cook too, this macaroni is excellent!” Kyle said, mouth full, Ethan and Maria nodding, having taken the newly bought Ikea forks you had bought out of its packaging, eating the macaroni from the dish, not even bothering to wash them.

Wonderful. Just, wonderful.

As the two of you were lying in your brand new bed that night, Maria told you that Ethan had a point. Talk to him. Ask him to tell you the truth, tell him what you heard that morning. If your hunch was right, then he’s a jerk. If not, go from there.

“What are you gonna do if you see Tommy?”

She suddenly got quiet. She shrugged.

“You like him, huh?”

“And you like Joel.”

You shrugged.

**********

“Look, brother, I know you said she’s with this Kyle guy,” Tommy said to Joel over breakfast the next day, “But I’m gonna tell you something Maria told me when we were in Bali anyway. She told me that Aria was single. That she had just broken up with her fiancé. So, maybe you misunderstood?”

“They kissed on the lips, Tommy. If they were broken up, they’re clearly back together now. Nothing I can do about it now, okay?”

Tommy looked at his brother, studying his body language, reading him in ways not many could.

“You really like her, don’t you?” he said slowly, realizing Tess was right.

Joel didn’t answer.

“You really like this Maria, don’t you?”

Tommy blushed, making Joel smile, forgetting his own worries.

“You know, you could just ask Aria for her number,” he said.

Tommy couldn’t help himself from smiling, but he shook his head. “I don’t know if she wants that. I’m not gonna go around her like that. If she wanted to keep in touch, she would’ve given me her number in Bali. I’ll ask Aria about her, though, if I see her.”

As the two of them left that morning, Sarah strapped in the back seat, Joel couldn’t help but glance at your place. It was early. Maybe you were still asleep. The truck Kyle came home in wasn’t in your driveway. Huh, he thought. He must have left very, very early. Joel didn’t hear the truck at all and he woke up around six that day, unable to sleep much, thinking that you were right next door sleeping in this Kyle’s arms.

He had trouble sleeping after he got back. The last good night’s sleep he had was in Bali, with you. God, all he wanted was to sleep with you in his arms again. Wake up and have a cup of Kopi Luwak with you. Go soap shopping with you.

But… you were with Kyle now. As much as he wanted to take Tess and Tommy’s advice, to talk to you, ask you everything directly, confirm things with you, if only so that you could live next door to each other in harmony, he didn’t know if he had the balls to do it just yet.

He had seen Jen around town and on social media in the arms of men after men, all hunks, all GQ worthy, all the while still being married to him. And he did feel upset. Sad, mostly. Angry.

But seeing you with Kyle, even in those few minutes, he felt something he had never felt in his life. Something he didn’t think existed in his bones.

Jealousy. He was jealous of the man you had cheated on. Jealous that he got to use the soaps you bought with him in Bali. That he got to sleep with you in his arms. That he got to kiss you whenever he liked. That he got to drink the bags of coffee you bought with him with you. That he got to share a plate of food with you.

He was distracted all day, so much so he nearly pierced right through his hand with a nail gun. Tommy noticed, telling him to go paint something instead before he killed someone from his lovestruck stupor.

“Come for a drink before we go home, brother,” he had said to his brother. “We don’t have work tomorrow, Tess will be home ‘til eight, Sarah will be fine. Maybe a drink or two will calm you.”

So, Joel went. And Tommy was right. He did feel a bit better, the music from the bar and talking to his workers and old friends distracting him from thinking about how you might be having dinner with your fine man as he sipped his beer.

“Joel? Joel Miller?”

He turned, a sweet looking lady smiling at him. She looked familiar.

“Lucy, remember? Tommy’s girlfriend introduced us a while back? I’m Sarah’s teacher.”

Right. The lady he refused to go out with. He was still married at the time.

“I heard about you and your wife. I’m so sorry. Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, a sweet smile on her face.

“Hey, Lucy, right?” Tommy suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Hi Tommy,” she said, hugging him. “You look good! How are you guys doing?”

“We’re okay,” Tommy said, eyeing Joel.

“So, how about that drink? You’re single now, you can’t use the ‘I’m married’ excuse anymore,” she said, looking at Joel, hope in her eyes.

She’s right. He’s single now. And she is pretty sweet. And you, the woman he had hoped to have a drink with was not available. Probably doing that cute couple thing where one of you were washing the dishes and the other drying, exchanging sweet kisses in between.

A drink wouldn’t hurt, right?

---

Part 7

#joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you

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glitchy-npc · 2 days ago

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Jumpscare

Series: Fallen Hero Pairing:@dogueteeth-fhr Cerrisa "Beck" Becerra(they/them)/Tegan Wells (he/him) Tegan's POV. Warnings: none Word count: 1339

Los Diablos is almost pretty at night. It’s mostly the lights, the glow softening all the dirty, ugly aspects of the city that can’t hide in broad daylight. Not that the nights are innocent, far from it, but the distracting lights and the deeper shadows they create make it easier for the kind of work I do. It’s messy, violent work but it's the only skill set I have, villainy isn’t that different from vigilantism at all. Or worse, what I did before. At least now I get to pick my targets.

I shift my weight to the other foot and flex my hands, the armored plates of my gauntlets gliding smoothly with the motion. The armor has practically become a second skin. How did I ever survive all those years ago, running around in a fucking skinsuit and jacket?

Oh right, I didn’t.

Sidestep had to die so Retribution could be born, or some poetic shit like that. My mind always wanders when I’m stuck waiting.

I’m waiting for Beck, or rather Heartbreak since we’re on a job. It's not that they’re late, I’m just early. I can chalk it up to post mission nerves, but really I just want to see them.

I shift back to the other foot and cross my arms, trying to go over mission details but it’s hard to focus. I don’t even know what their armor looks like, this is the first time we’ve met for work. Every other time it had been hangouts that turned into drinks that turned into…ok I’m really distracted. Focus, idiot.

I don’t have to wait much longer before I feel the growingly familiar brush of Beck's mind as they approach.

“Good timing, I almost left without you.” I say without turning around. Their chuckle, muffled by their helmet, confirms what my telepathy already told me. It’s handy like that, always knowing who is behind you.

There are some blind spots though.

I turn to face them, we need to go over the plan one more time.

“So, we need to - JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.” The swear is torn from my throat almost before I have time to think it but my heart is racing somewhere around my eardrums.

Heartbreak spins around reflexively, their mind lighting up as they search for the potential threat. “What, what is it!?”

“No, no, it's nothing, I just…” I try to return my heartbeat to normal and to think of anything that isn’t the truth.

Heartbreak’s armor is terrifying.

They turn back towards me and staring at that helmet isn’t any better than the first time. They place a hand on their hip and tilt their head to the side, the gesture a twisted combination of sass and nightmare fuel.

“Something wrong?” Their question is light but the vocal distorters are not doing me any favors.

“No just…nice design choice.” It's anything but nice but what do I know?

“Don’t tell me you got scared?” Their tone is teasing.

“No.” I lie. “But you could have warned me.” I should be getting used to it by now but it's still so disconnected with how I usually see Beck – warm brown skin and scar tissue and the smiles they try to hide from me while I pretend I’m not looking. It still feels like Beck, mentally, but how can I be sure? Maybe it's someone else, someone with super telepathy, making me feel like it's them when they’re not.

“I don’t have super telepathy.” They laugh, derailing my train of thought. Right, they still have the normal kind and I’m an idiot. “You know it's me Tegan.

“Do I?” I ask, closing the gap between us. “Maybe you should take off the helmet and show me?” And maybe I can regain a sliver of my dignity if I pretend to be smooth.

“Hm. You first.” Of course their response is a challenge but it's an easy one.

It takes only a second to find the connection panel of my armor's face plate and remove it. I've spent so much time tinkering with this armor I know every bit by heart and muscle memory. I blink a few times to adjust my vision.

“Ok, now do me.”

I can’t help the cough I try to pass off as a laugh, there’s no way they didn’t phrase it like that on purpose. Little shit.

“You want me to take your helmet off?”

“I mean, unless you don’t think you can figure it out…” Their voice trails off, another challenge and a harder one this time but there's no way I could back down from something like that.

“Oh I can figure it out, just give me a minute.”

It's getting easier to look at the helmet this close, though the design is meant to intimidate and inspire fear it's still just plasteel, paint and carbon fiber. Those I can deal with. I try to keep my face straight as I glide my armored fingers over the jaw portion of the skull, despite the teeth it seems to be one solid piece, no seams that I can see but then again Dr. Mortums work is flawless.

Heatbreak stands stock still as my fingers work their way over the hands and I swear they’re the worst fucking part, I don’t want to know why Beck chose them as part of the design. I could guess, but I don’t like that line of thought either. I tuck the faceplate of my own armor under my arm and with both my hands on either side of their helmet it feels intimate in a way that's hard to process, I just hope it doesn’t show on my face. Though I can’t see their eyes I know they must be looking at me. There's a vulnerability to it, my face bare, while theirs remains concealed. But its a small price to pay, not like the blow to my pride that will be if I can’t figure this fucking – oh. There's a small panel, tucked behind the hands and concealed by the hood. I press it, rewarded by the familiar hiss of depressurised oxygen. The top and jaw portion come away in my hands.

Beck's handsome face smirks back at me, cheeks flushed and green eyes glinting even in the semi darkness.

“Told you I could figure it out, now what do I wi-”

Beck kisses me before I can finish. It's not the first time, not by a long shot but it’s still exciting. If I had my faceplate on the interface would show my elevated heart rate for the second time tonight. How many years did I spend thinking I could never have something like this? That anyone would want to kiss me, or enjoy it? And from Beck's little hum against my lips, I can tell they enjoy it.

If my hands weren’t holding pieces of armor they’d be around them in a second but it's their weight that reminds me we're here for a reason.

“We…” I start, breaking the kiss and hating myself for it. “We do have a job to do.”

“True.” They sigh as I hand their helmet back to them. “Doesn't mean we can’t think about what to do when the job’s done.” They reaffix their helmet and suddenly it's not half as terrifying as I thought it was.

“I have a few ideas.” The distorters drop my voice a few octaves as I reaffix the faceplate to my own helmet.

“Then let's get this done and you can tell me all about it.” They saunter past me and I’m forced to turn and follow them.

“Count on it.” I never could let anyone else get the last word in. A bad habit, I know. As bad as daydreaming about “after” when I should focus on the mission. And I will, once the adrenaline kicks in I can focus on the fight and nothing else. But until then I just keep coming up with ideas that make me grateful my helmet hides my blush.

#fhr #beck becerra #tegan wells #ockiss25 #oc kiss week #my writing

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pascalislove · 2 days ago

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THE CALL: Han Jeong-Won x Fem!Reader~20

Summary: Your arrival would change everything, even if Jeong-Won didn't know it yet.

The afternoon was quiet in the recording studio. Jeong-Won was reviewing the final tracks of a new song, concentrating on the technical details. The soft sound of music filled the room, but his mind traveled to Y/N, remembering her laugh, the way it brightened even the darkest days of his life.

For the first time in years, Jeong-Won felt at peace. I didn't need more, I didn't want more. The door to the study opened suddenly, breaking his concentration. Looking up, his expression hardened as he saw Seo Yeon, elegant as always, with a calculating smile on his lips.

—What are you doing here?—Jeong-Won asked coldly, removing his headphones.—"I was just passing by the building and thought I'd say hello,”—she responded in a sweet tone, closing the door behind her. —You shouldn't be here—he said bluntly, looking back at the console. Seo Yeon ignored his slight and walked towards him with slow and sure steps, stopping next to him. —"Why this cold attitude?" —she asked in a whisper.— "You used to melt for me before"— Jeong-Won clenched his jaw but didn't respond.

She leaned towards him, her lips dangerously close to his ear.

—"Maybe you still do"—, she whispered before stealing a quick, teasing kiss. Jeong-Won froze for a second, not out of desire, but out of surprise and disgust. Calmly, he stood up from his seat and stared at her, his dark eyes filled with determination. —No. Seo Yeon —blinked, confused by his reaction.—"¿No?" —she repeated, incredulously.

—I'm not interested in you, Seo Yeon—,he said in a firm voice. —Not anymore. And I'm not going to play your games—. The contempt in his tone was evident, but so was the calmness on his face. Y/N had healed many of his wounds, and now nothing Seo Yeon did could drag him back into the abyss.

—Go away—,he added, pointing to the door.— I don't want you here—. Seo Yeon, her pride hurt, raised her chin haughtily.

—"Someday you will regret rejecting me, Jeong-Won."

—I'll get over it. You should do the same—.

Without further ado, she turned on her heels and left the study, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Jeong-Won let out a sigh of relief. He sat down in front of the console again, but this time with a slight smile.

He thought about Y/N, about everything they had built together, and knew he had made the right decision. The past could knock at his door, but he was no longer willing to open it.

This story does not follow the plot of the series, tell me if you like it and if you want me to tag you in the chapters🫶

Tag list:

@anamiad00msday , @czarinera , @beebeechaos, @muchwita, @otakusimp1, @aori-aka03-blog, @preppyfella

THE CALL MASTERLIST

#gong yoo #han jeong won x reader #han jeong won #salesman x reader #gong yoo x reader #gong yoo x you #the salesman x reader #the trunk #the salesman x you #recruiter x reader

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airandyeah · 2 days ago

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Gimme Gimme Gimme (God!Sukuna X Reader) Pt.7

My Masterlist Series Masterlist Makes me overjoyed that the taglist keeps growing, I love you all and appreciate the support!

As you watched the scene unfold, the rawness of it took your breath away. The once serene setting by the stream, where Sukuna had seemed almost human, now felt like a cruel illusion, shattered by the grim vision that followed. You couldn't look away as you watched your own body lying lifeless on the ground, surrounded by the haunting glow of flames.

Sukuna, in his monstrous form, was a sight to behold—his eyes wild with rage, his immense body casting an imposing shadow over the burning ruins. His fists were clenched, flames dancing along his hands as though they were an extension of his fury. He roared, a guttural sound that seemed to shake the very air, and it struck something deep within you. A sense of helplessness, as if you were no longer in control of your fate.

But the question echoed in your mind: Did Sukuna kill you?

You wanted to scream, to call out to him, to demand answers. But the words caught in your throat, and no sound came. You were trapped in this nightmarish vision, unable to move, to speak, to change anything.

His face—those fierce, unyielding eyes—met yours, though you weren't sure how, considering the world seemed to separate you from him. There was a strange emptiness in his gaze, a sense that something had shifted in him, something far darker and more unsettling than the godly destruction you had seen before.

But as his form loomed over your fallen body, his hands raised, a violent surge of power crackling around him, something in his expression faltered. It was a brief moment, just a flicker, but it felt like the weight of the world had shifted with it. His stance softened, his fiery energy pausing as his gaze locked on your motionless body.

No, you thought desperately, still unable to speak. Don't.

The flames in his hands sputtered, and for a fleeting instant, you saw something different in him—a kind of grief, or perhaps even regret. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced once more by the unyielding hunger for destruction that had once been his essence.

But just before the flames could descend, the dream shifted again.

This time, you were back in the present, standing before him as you had been in the waking world. Sukuna was still there, but he wasn’t the same towering figure. His form had returned to its more human state—his eyes still carrying that same unsettling weight.

He was staring at you, as if waiting for something. As if he needed something from you, though you couldn’t tell what.

“Do you fear me?” His voice was quiet, but the question hung in the air like a challenge.

You hesitated. The dream, the burning vision of your own death, had left a mark on you. But the answer—whatever it was—felt like a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment.

“No,” you finally said, your voice steady despite the tremor inside. “But I fear what you're becoming.”

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in the depths of his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost... uncertain. The god of destruction, the being who had once commanded the end of worlds, seemed less like an unstoppable force in that moment and more like a creature caught in his own storm.

“You’re afraid of me,” he murmured, the words slipping from his lips like a bitter truth. “You should be.”

You shook your head, pushing past the dread that weighed you down. "I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what happens if you keep going down this path."

Sukuna’s gaze hardened, but you could feel a subtle shift in the air between you both. Something was changing. Something was shifting in him, just like it had in the dream.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispered under his breath, so softly that you almost didn’t hear it. But you did. And it made your heart race with a mix of dread and something else you couldn’t name.

As you stared back at him, something shifted inside you too. The dream was a warning, a glimpse of a fate you couldn't yet escape. Sukuna was a force of nature, a god who had been scarred by loss and bound by an unrelenting need to destroy. And yet, as he stood before you now, the power in his presence was undeniable.

But in his eyes, you saw something else—a desperation, a longing, a desire to hold onto something that was slipping away.

And despite everything, despite the weight of his past, despite the endless cycle of destruction that seemed to surround him, you realized something that terrified you: You were drawn to him.

Maybe not in the way he wanted. Maybe not in the way he thought. But drawn to him all the same. Because, in a world filled with chaos and destruction, he was still the one thing that felt impossible to ignore.

But the question remained: Could you save him? Or would you be swallowed by the storm he was becoming?

You knew only one thing for certain. The cycle had not yet ended. The choices you both made would shape everything.

And it all hinged on what would come next. ~~~ Sukuna’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool earth beneath you, but his eyes—those haunting eyes—never left your motionless form. His lips parted, and for a moment, it almost looked as though he might speak, might offer some explanation or apology. But then, his gaze darkened, and all words seemed to evaporate like smoke in the night air. His hand curled into a fist, and the flames that had danced around his fingertips flared up in violent, chaotic bursts.

His voice was a low, guttural growl as it filled the air, reverberating through the very fabric of the dream. "You think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to see you… like that?"

The scene around you flickered, the world of chaos and fire shifting violently. You could feel the ache in your chest, the terror of being trapped in his fury—a fury he had never shown you in the waking world. This version of Sukuna was not the man you knew, the one who stood by your side, distant yet possessive. This Sukuna was raw, untamed, a god whose rage burned with an intensity that felt like it could consume everything.

"Why would you think I’d do this?" he spat, but there was no answer. Only the echo of his anger filled the air, and the flames swirled around you both like a vortex, threatening to pull you deeper into the nightmare.

Then, like a shift in the tides, the flames receded. The roar of destruction quieted, and in its place was the sickening silence that followed devastation. Sukuna stood over you, but now he looked… broken, a dark shadow in the stillness.

"You think I could ever… forgive myself for this?" His voice was softer now, almost as though the words hurt him. His fingers hovered above your lifeless body, trembling slightly, unsure. “For letting you die?”

It wasn’t just the devastation of seeing you dead that rattled him—it was the crushing weight of the fact that he, the immortal god, had been the reason your life was brought to an end.

The dream seemed to stretch on, each second a slow burn in your mind, as though time itself was fractured. And through the lingering haze of grief and destruction, Sukuna spoke once more, his voice barely audible now, but sharp with intent. “I would burn it all down. I would tear the world apart to bring you back. I would break everything, undo it all, if it meant I could save you. But in the end…”

His voice trailed off, like a broken promise, the words lost in the dark void between you.

The next moment, the dream shattered. You woke up with a sharp gasp, your body drenched in cold sweat, the lingering remnants of the nightmare fading like smoke. The room around you felt eerily quiet, as if the world had held its breath, waiting for something to happen. The moonlight that had once bathed the space now seemed cold, distant, and you could feel the pulse of something heavy in the air.

Sukuna was gone.

At least, you thought he was. You rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the lingering sensations of the dream. But then, just as you turned to pull the blankets closer, there was a faint rustle in the corner of the room—a shadow that seemed too solid to be a trick of the light.

Sukuna’s voice came, low and dangerous, from the darkness. "Did you dream of me, little one?"

You froze. Every instinct in your body screamed for you to say nothing, to act as if you hadn’t been pulled into that horrific vision, that dark descent into despair. But his presence, even from across the room, was undeniable. There was a weight to it, an almost suffocating pressure that settled around you. He was here. And the dream… it had felt too real.

You couldn’t tell him the truth—not yet. Not when you weren’t even sure of it yourself.

Instead, you pushed your fear aside, keeping your voice steady as you spoke into the silence. “No. It was nothing.”

There was a long, tense pause, and in that time, you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey. When he finally spoke again, his tone was as cold as it was commanding. "Lying to me won’t get you anywhere, little one. You know that, don’t you?"

You swallowed, your heart racing. You had never seen him so intense, so drawn into something that wasn’t destruction or indifference. There was a darker undercurrent to him now, one that made you wonder if this was the real Sukuna—if this was the man you had somehow come to know—or if he was something else entirely.

“Tell me what you dreamt of,” he demanded softly, the words carrying the weight of his power, the promise of a consequence you didn’t fully understand.

For a heartbeat, you considered lying again. But the image of him, his arms covered in blood, his eyes dark with regret, flashed in your mind once more. You had seen the agony in his eyes in that dream—the agony of someone who had already lost what they held most dear. Did you really want to provoke that darkness again?

“I dreamt… of you,” you whispered. The words tasted like betrayal, but they slipped out before you could stop them. "And I saw…"

His presence loomed closer, and you could feel his breath against your skin. He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, the words sharp and possessive. “You saw what, little one? Tell me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you met his gaze, the intensity of his stare burning through you. You had never seen him like this—this close, this vulnerable, and yet still so terrifyingly powerful. The darkness in his eyes was no longer a distant thing. It was right here, staring back at you, waiting for you to crack.

You had to tell him. You had to, or he’d tear the truth from you in ways you couldn’t predict. But as you prepared to speak, you wondered, with a chilling certainty, if telling him the truth would be your undoing.

"I saw you with my... Corpse.," you finally confessed, your voice barely a whisper, breaking beneath the weight of your fear.

The room seemed to hold its breath, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Sukuna spoke, his voice cold but trembling with a restrained fury. "So you have it figured out then.".

The air thickened with tension, and you could feel every fiber of your being on edge as his words settled like a weight upon your chest. There was a brief pause, a beat of silence that stretched uncomfortably long before he spoke again, his voice low and dangerous, laced with something almost… fragile.

"So, you understand, then?" Sukuna’s eyes darkened, his gaze burning through you with an intensity that seemed to strip away any pretense of safety you had left. "The power, the curse that binds us—how it always leads to ruin. How it was always meant to end this way."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing to make sense of it all. The dream, the truth you had glimpsed within that chaotic nightmare—it all felt like a trap, a sickeningly intricate design meant to unravel you.

You wanted to scream, to demand answers, to understand what this all meant for you, for him, for the twisted fate you seemed to share. But his presence was suffocating, pressing down on you like a vice, and you found yourself speechless in the face of it all.

"You think I don’t know?" His voice was soft, but there was a tremor in it now—a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to hear from him. "That I don’t feel it? The weight of it all? The destruction, the loss... it’s all part of me now. It’s always been."

His words hit like shards of glass, each one cutting deep. You wanted to argue, to tell him that he didn’t have to be bound by his past, by the curse of his existence. But in your heart, you knew the truth. Sukuna had been made by destruction. It was his nature, his legacy. And there was no escaping it—not for him, not for anyone who crossed his path.

But you couldn't let it end like this.

You took a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to speak through the fog of your fear. "What do you want from me, Sukuna?" The words came out almost like a plea, but you couldn’t stop them. "What do you want me to do with this knowledge? With this curse that we both share?"

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, like he was trying to piece together the fractured puzzle of his own existence. And then, his voice, softer now, though still filled with that unyielding power, broke the silence.

"I want..." he hesitated, his throat tight with something that seemed almost like regret, "I want you to understand. To understand that no matter what I do, no matter how much I destroy or build, I cannot escape what I am. I can’t escape this." His hand lifted, fingers curling into a fist, and for a fleeting second, you thought you could see the faintest shimmer of tears in his eyes—a crack in the godlike facade.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"You think you can save me?" He scoffed, his voice bitter, a laugh that was hollow and empty. "How could you save something like me? I am the storm. I am the end."

The words stung, but you didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. There had to be more than just this endless cycle of destruction. You had to believe that.

"You’re wrong," you said, your voice steadier now, despite the pounding of your heart in your chest. "I don’t think I can save you. But I think you can save yourself."

His eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity, and for a moment, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

"You’ve lived for centuries," you continued, slowly stepping closer to him, "You’ve destroyed kingdoms, brought down gods, and yet, here you are, still searching for something. But it’s not the destruction that will save you, Sukuna. It’s not the power. It’s… you. It’s the part of you that still cares."

His eyes flashed with something—anger, perhaps, or frustration. But there was also a flicker of something else, something far deeper, far more human than the monstrous being he presented to the world.

"You think that’s what’s left of me?" His voice was tight, a low growl laced with bitterness. "The part that cares? It’s been burned away by years of blood and fire. There’s nothing left but this—this endless hunger."

The storm inside of him raged, but you refused to back down. You couldn’t.

"You’re wrong," you repeated, your voice firm, a spark of hope kindling inside you. "Because I see it in your eyes. I see it in the way you hesitate. I see it in the way you look at me."

He stilled, his body tensing as if preparing for some kind of attack. But his eyes, those wild, furious eyes, held something new—something that scared him as much as it scared you.

He took a step back, the air thick with his uncertainty. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he said, his voice quieter now, almost dangerously calm. "You think I can change? You think I can just undo everything?"

"I don’t know," you said, your voice softer now, filled with an emotion that surprised even you—something close to tenderness. "But I’m willing to find out."

There was a long pause, and you thought he might leave, might retreat into the shadows like he always did. But instead, he remained there, his gaze never leaving you. A silence stretched between you, filled with the weight of everything unsaid, everything uncertain.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, rasping whisper that cut through the tension like a blade.

"You’re a fool," he murmured, but the words held no venom. There was something in them that almost sounded like acceptance.

And then, as if a storm had passed, the weight in the room seemed to lift, just a little. The intensity of his presence, though still overwhelming, seemed less suffocating, less destructive.

The cycle had not yet ended. The choices you both made would still shape everything, but for the first time, you felt like you might be standing on the edge of something new. Something that could change everything.

And maybe, just maybe, you and Sukuna could rewrite the end of this story.

Taglist: @rinkomei , @sleepycrybbylaiah , @queenmimis , @maellem , @after-laughter-come-tears Taglist is always open for anyone!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna ryomen

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