#just. got a very vivid image of it in my head

[loustilldraws]

Wow wow haven't been able to get this out of my head since I read it. Got me thinking a lot more about how each of these characters interact with their symbols in the game.

From the moment Markus enters the Manfred home, one of the first things he can interact with is the cage of robo-birds in the entry hallway. And what can he do? He can turn them on - he brings them to life in a sense. It's a microcosmic moment that encapsulates his entire role in the game as a change-maker and liberator. He sees through the cage and can reach beyond. And later when we get that cinematic slow-motion shot of him falling into Jericho, it's so clearly a flight in and of itself, calling back to the bird imagery that defines his experience with deviancy.

Of course, Markus isn't the only deviant android to be tied so intimately to birds. My boy Rupert comes to mind next, with the hundreds upon hundreds of pigeons he looks after, and how he takes flight all the same when DPD is coming for him. And then there's Ralph and the helpless violence inside of him bursting through not only with the dead man in the tub but the bird Kara can find. There's just so much. About deviancy - at least, typical deviancy - resembling that bird-in-flight emotional & psychological journey, even when the paths differ.

Then there's Connor and the fish, imagery that I have seen a lot but never thought quite so deeply about until now. How his atypical path toward deviancy is punctuated by a completely different symbol from the rest. What it means for Connor to either stop and save the fish or walk past it to fulfill his mission in the first chapter, beyond the surface-level. Yes, it's a gesture of compassion - or at least a thoughtfulness to life and living beings - that is not in his mission outline and causes software instability. But it's also the very first interaction you can have in the game that does this for him. And from that point, water is everywhere in pivotal moments in Connor's story, which I hadn't thought about before but it's so interesting to me! The fish in the tank is only the beginning. There's the moment with Hank and Connor at the bridge that forces Connor to confront mortality and whether or not he's alive. There's the pool at Kamski's where he has to either see a soul in the Chloe or kill her for his mission. All of the rain and the moody weather during the investigations, and how that rain eventually follows him inside his mind to the Zen garden as tensions mount...

Oh I'm talking myself into another playthrough, aren't I?

And that's not even diving into how Connor and Markus are connected to each other's symbols, albeit less directly. (This point is much less developed in my head, so I'd love to hear anyone else's take here!) I'm still thinking about Connor and his pursuit of the deviants, especially Rupert in The Nest; how his role is to capture those "birds" as they try to fly free, not seeing himself in them or realizing the depth of his own confinement. Something about seeing the startled pigeons flying away just before the chase sequence has always been such a striking, vivid image that latched onto my brain since I first experienced the game. Now, I feel like I'm beginning to understand why.

Then there's Markus and the water, with Jericho at the docks, and how in the end, this nest of all the deviants is the place Connor is fully confronted by the path be needs to choose for himself. He's finally over that bigger body of water and understanding his confinement, with Markus the liberator on his home turf and ready to push him to see it. Just. The confrontation between deviant leader and deviant hunter taking place over the water is the perfect example to me of how that save-the-fish moment becomes symbolic of Connor's deviant path entirely.

I don't know. Some of these ideas are probably only half-baked but I'm thinking about parts of the game that never stood out to me so much before, and I'm so jazzed about it! Analysis is one of the biggest things I love about fandom, so I hope some of what I said might add a little something to it too.

The Pets

[somelazyassartist]

I don't know why random bursts of nostalgia happen but I am very very suddenly sad that the bowling alley my grandma used to play at got shut down a few years ago. And that I will never be 7 years old again, sitting in the backseat of her car at 11pm on a Wednesday, half asleep because it's far past my bedtime, with a box of half-eaten tater tots and burgers in my lap (which the cook always cut into a heart shape for me when I tagged along after school) and my backpack full of homework and the whole A Series of Unfortunate Events collection next to me, sleepily crunching my way through a box of Boston Baked Beans (given to me by a now long gone family friend), listening to the oldies rock station and the soft rumbling her car makes and trying not to fall asleep so I can ask mom to read me a story before bed when I get home. I miss the bowling alley so much sometimes.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[of-buzzing-melodies]

Now that he's out of the hospital, he's recuperating. Yes, that does mean he's laying in the grossest corner of his home, covered entirely by bugs, mind your business.

[kitimeq]

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ better than revenge 🤍 rafayel 祁 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ࿔pairing: lads rafayel x reader

ೃ࿔summary: rafayel did not come home to me three banners in a row so i gave him a mommy kink and delayed gratification out of pure spite. how about this u shrimp i’m so mad.

ೃ࿔word count: 1.9k

ೃ࿔tags: 18+, smut, pure smut, let him suffer the consequences of his actions, i wrote it in like 20 minutes don’t take this seriously, p in v (because i’m a good person at the end of the day he should be grateful), delayed gratification, mommy kink, i love my men a little bit pathetic, pure filth i’m sorry, argument, but they love each other of course they do!!! begging, it somehow got angsty??? What the HECK is going on in my head i’m not sure anymore. i freaking hope i will get that god of the tides or else…….

NOT checked for errors, i’m sorry!! It is a crime of passion this time.

!!DON’T you DARE read if you’re not 18+!!

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel was so regretful and you could see that—in the way his brows furrowed, his arms holding your frame tightly, his eyes never leaving yours, tears already glistening on his eyelashes. You could also hear that— in his whimpers and mewls, soft moans and whines that were leaving his lips uncontrollably at this point. And you could definitely feel that—in the way he was desperately kissing at your cheeks, neck and shoulders, leaving wet skin behind; in the desperate rutting of his hips against your closed thighs.

And this one time you allowed yourself to feel satisfaction because of the state you managed to put him in.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, please.” He whined against your skin, his face nuzzling into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. His arms held you tightly, his hips never stopping its erratic movements against your leg, sliding your skirt up in the process, desperate to feel your bare skin against his hard member. “Cutie, please. I already apologized so many times, just—please. Please, cutie? Let me in, yeah?” He looked into your eyes again, his gaze full of pleading and desperation, and you forced yourself to stay indifferent.

“Raf, no.” You answered, even though you wanted him too. But you couldn’t give in yet, not when you wanted to mess with him more for the way he treated you not so long ago. “First you scolded me for not talking to you, even though you knew that I had a rough week at work. And then, when I visited you, you called me, and I quote Rafayel, irritably clingy.” You answered, keeping your face turned away from him.

You still remember how you came into his home today, ecstatic to see him because you missed him the whole time you were away, hugging him and kissing at his mouth and cheeks happily only for him to push you away. The image of him turning his head away from you, his hand slightly pushing you away, a pout on his lips, is still vivid in your mind, making your heart squeeze painfully.

He didn’t care that you were truly busy, your legs aching from a whole week of fighting SSS-class Wanderers, your head begging for some rest. And instead of comforting you, he gave you his attitude, rejected your affection, called you clingy. You knew that most of the time he was not speaking seriously, and that he was prone to exaggeration and dramatics, but this time, you knew that you didn’t deserve such treatment.

You decided to give him a taste of his own medicine: you waited until he calmed down, then proceeded to seduce him, and when he became desperate and ready to get down to business, you were the one who pushed him away this time, refusing to let him in.

And he wasn’t taking it very well, especially after your time apart. Your previous touches ignited a flame within him, filling him with desire so tangible it was practically pouring out of him.

“So, let’s see who the clingy one really is now.” You added, and squeezed your tights even tighter, his hot breath warming your left cheek.

“Nooo, no, no, no. You know that I didn’t mean it, cutie. It was just, just a bad joke. A mistake I really regret. I really do.” His face nuzzled your cheek, hips still moving against your leg. His whimpers never-ending. “I love when you touch me. Kiss me. Hold me. I love it, you know that, you do.”

“Well, sometimes it would be great if you actually showed it to me instead of being mad at me for having a job.”

“I will! I promise, I will. I promise. I’m sorry.” He brought your body closer to himself, his arms going up and down your waist in a comforting gesture. “Let me in, please, you—you riled me up and—and left me, and I can’t, I can’t, I need to be inside you, please.”

“Rafayel…” You breathed out, your hands going to cup his warm cheeks, his pleading eyes meeting yours. You couldn’t give in that easily. “No.”

He choked out a cry.

And you saw how he snapped, his jaw tightened and eyes closed, one tear slipping away. Then another, and another, until he completely broke down, his face now wet, a pout on his lower lip, his hands touching your whole body erratically.

“Please. I’ll be good. I will.” He whimpered, completely out of control. You knew that until you gave him your consent, he would not force you to do anything. And the way he respected your wishes, although his whole body was trembling while he knew, he felt that you wanted him too despite your negations, was starting to made your resolve wither. “I’ll make you feel s’good. S’good like I always do, just—please. Open up for me?”

You shook your head and his lower lip trembled in response, his head going to rest on your shoulder, his hair wet and cold, making you shiver. He was sweating so bad. His hips were still rutting against your leg, but you knew that it wasn’t nearly enough for him; the friction only made him feel more impatient.

He choked out another broken cry, took your hand in his, kissed your knuckles, and continued kissing up your arm. You didn’t know how long you’ll be able to keep denying him, it was the first time you saw him acting so desperate, so pathetic for you and your need to comfort him was starting to become unbearable.

His glossy eyes met yours and you saw how red his lips were from how much he had been biting them. He leaned down and placed a soft, wet kiss on your lips. One. Two. Three kisses. All of them gentle, all of them apologetic.

“Please.” He whispered into your lips. Another kiss came, as soft and warm as the ones before. “—M—Mommy, please. I’m sorry.” The word that slipped from his lips was new, your eyes widening, your core squeezing on nothing but air.

Oh, god.

“Will you forgive me? Mommy, please, w—will you?” You looked at his face between his soft, gentle kisses and you’ve noticed how red he was, the embarrassment spreading up from the tips of his ears, down to his chest. “L-Let me make you feel good. I’ll be a good boy. The best boy.”

Your head was spinning, your cheeks turning red too. You couldn’t find it in yourself to hide how much you liked when he called you that way. God, what was he doing to you?

“Mommy, let me in. I need you. I need you s’bad I—” He opened his eyes and pressed a kiss to your brow and eyes, his hands shakily caressing your hair. “Don’t be mad anymore, okay? I just—I just can’t live without you that’s why I—That’s why I said these things. I always worry that you’ll forget about me and that’s why I’m gettin’ so defensive and mean. But I know you won’t, because you love me, and I love you and��i’m sorry.” He looked into your eyes and you had a feeling that if he won’t stop talking he was going to make you cry too.

You hugged him to yourself tightly and he reciprocated the hug immediately, his head resting on your chest. He sniffed and started to calm down, his body no longer shaking.

“I do love you, Rafayel.” You said into his hair, and you made him look up again, your hands going to grab his wet cheeks. His eyes glistened with hope, his lips swollen and wet. He looked so adorable that you couldn’t be mad at him anymore. “Next time you’ll miss me, just text me okay? Tell me how you feel, and no matter how busy I will be, I will find time to at least send you a voice message. And I will try to keep you updated when I’m away on missions.” He nodded happily, and you swiped the tears off of his cheeks. “But please, don’t push me away when I miss you just as badly. I get hurt too.”

“Yes. Yes, I won’t, I promise. I do.” He answered and kissed the palm of your hand, nuzzling into it. “I’m really sorry. I will never do that again. I swear.”

“Okay.” You answered quietly and then loosened up your thighs, making a place for him between your legs. His breath came out shakily, his cock immediately landing on top of your panties. Your skirt had been pushed up long ago, the material now resting on your stomach, giving him an easy access to where he wanted to be buried in from the very beginning.“Now come to me, my little fishie.”

He pressed a wet kiss on your mouth once again, and before you knew it he quickly grabbed your panties to the side and slid right into you, making you gasp both in surprise and out of pleasure.

He slipped the tongue between your lips and kissed you without mercy, his hips snapping quickly and erratically, the rhythm uneven, the force of the thrusts relentless.

Suddenly, he cried into your mouth, his whole body shuddering and then going completely still. You felt the reason why a second later.

The warmth spread inside you, overwhelming your senses.

“F—Fuck, sorry, I—I didn’t mean to…So fast…” He managed to utter, his body still shaking in the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm. Your hands went up to his hair, stroking the strands gently, showing him that you didn’t mind, wanting him to calm down and let himself drown in the pleasure.

“Shh, it’s okay. You did so well.” His face was red, his eyes avoiding yours, and you smiled gently at him. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and swiped your hand on his chest affectionately. “My sweet baby boy.”

“Yeah, yours.” His hips started to move again, making you moan in surprise. You wrapped your legs around him and he put one of his arms under your back, lifting you in order to make his thrusts reach deeper. “Always, yours. Only yours.” The pace was getting quicker, your moans mixing with his grunts, your heartbeats although unsteady, seemed to match each other’s tempo.

“M-mommy can I—Can I come inside again? I—I can’t stop.” He almost whispered into your ear, and you shuddered, the pleasure spreading throughout your whole body in the form of goosebumps. His lips were not leaving your body, pressing kisses on any patch of skin he could reach. “I missed you too much. You’re so warm. So safe.”

Rafayel’s beautiful eyes met yours, the purple somehow standing out in the darkness of the night. He send you a gentle smile, his thrusts slowing down, the movements becoming more precise and controlled.

“I don’t want the night to end, cutie.” He said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret. His hands cupped your cheeks and he studied your face, searching for any sign of pleasure. He wanted to know if he was making you feel as good as he promised he would. “Let me make it all better. I will show you how sorry I truly am, my love.”

The night was just getting started. And after several hours of moving rhythmically against each other, loosing yourselves in your passionate embrace, the sunrise was a witness to Rafayel’s vow; your wet bodies and tangled limbs a good enough proof of his fulfilled promise.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

GOD i’m so embarrassed. I wrote it in like half an hour and it SHOWS forgive me. I’ve never in my life written something so short and filthy. If u liked it screenshot it bc i’m not sure i will let it haunt tumblr for long 💀 UPDATE: OKAY I HEAR U I WON’T DELETE IT I SWEAR!!!! I had no idea it would be SO therapeutic for all of us thats actually so sad dndbsb ENJOY!

Better hope i’ll get that god of the tides or else rafayel will not know peace…. I will continue to bully him with my pen i swear to god.

[esote-rika]

𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: Bringing your boyfriend to a lingerie sale causes some big problems to arise. Luckily, you’re always down to take care of him, regardless of when and where. Content: 3.3k words, established relationship, Spencer is so so so down bad, reader is a menace, lots of banter, semi-public sex, hand job, improvised gags, unprotected p in v, needy sub!Spencer, kinda switch? Idk they’re both horny for each other, size kink, reader wears lingerie and is shorter than Spencer. a/n: not proofread + am sick, pls forgive mistakes. I just needed something light and stupid after reading THG prequels and rewatching all the movies back to back so here we are. Same girlfriend reader as the last fic. Based on my darling lover’s request.

He’s not sure how he got here.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, why he’s here, and it’s because every single atom in his body seems to become irrationally unable to say no to you. It’s pathetic, really. You don’t even have to plead anymore—though you still do, of course, pretty eyes widening just so, lower lip pushing out into a slight pout, and it makes his heart clench and his heart swell in ways that distress him. (You’re dangerous for his health, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t even matter. If his life is cut short, he can’t think of a better way to go than being loved by you.)

Today, you hadn’t even done that. Just words spoken in a soft little whine, “My favorite store has an ongoing sale.”

How is he to deny you? The boutique isn’t too far away, and while he’d had plans to read for his day off, he can put those off for you. He can read anywhere, at any time. In pockets of vacancy at work, idle minutes during his commute. Time with you is precious, and if you want him to accompany you to a store, then that’s precisely what he’ll do.

There’s just one problem: you hadn’t really specified what kind of store.

Would he have been able to say no if you told him from the beginning that he’d be accompanying you into a lingerie store? Survey says no, probably not, but still, the heads up would have been nice. Kind, actually, because now he’s trailing behind you like a lost puppy, surrounded on all sides by flouncy, see through fabric in suggestive cuts. Lingerie. You brought him along as you went lingerie shopping.

Here’s the thing: Spencer Reid is no prude. He has studied the human body and anatomy extensively as a young boy, and has such a vivid, graphic memory of them from his time working at the BAU. But those had always been under the guise of science, where he could step back and assess things objectively. Often, the human parts are injured, devastatingly mangled. Viewing them requires compassion and intelligence, not lust. 

He has no idea what to do with the thought of bodies in this way—scantily covered by pretty patterns and thin fabric. Your body specifically. The very idea causes a shudder through him, the familiar heat. Focus, he tells himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, balled into tight fists. His nails bite into his palm, and he welcomes the sting, focusing on that instead of the image of you in that navy silk slip… or in the pretty purple lace set… or—

“Spence?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m gonna try these on, okay?”

A panicked look must cross his face, because you laugh, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek.

“I won’t be long, baby. None of these clothes can hurt you, and the sales people don’t bite.”

He’d feign offense if he were in a better state of mind, but he’s a little too panicked to come up with a response. You don’t understand. The very idea of you trying on lingerie is sending some very dangerous images to his brain. Images that, in turn, are causing very physical problems. Specifically in his crotch area. Still, he’s in public. He’s a grown man with working functions and impulse control. So he nods, forces a smile on his lips. 

Satisfied, you press a quick kiss to his jaw, and hurry off to the corridor on the far corner of the boutique, where a line of fitting rooms await. He watches the bundle of lingerie in your hands. He hadn’t even noticed what you were choosing, but Spencer decides that’s for the best. It’s easier to fight his imagination if he doesn’t know the details of your choices. Easier to sit on one of the lounge chairs and fiddle with his hands, gnawing on his lip anxiously, patiently, waiting for you to reemerge with a smile that tells him you’ve made your choice. 

Still, being alone while other women mill about is making him restless. He stands, wandering over to the fitting rooms, “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t like being impatient, he doesn’t even mind waiting for you but god he can’t get his mind to focus. “You almost done?”

“Not yet!” 

He nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “All right, I’ll be right here then.” he answers, leaning on the wall and staring at his feet so he doesn’t seem like a random creep. But then you’re calling out to him again.

“I want to show you.”

Oh, you really are bad for his health. 

“Don’t come out!” he says quickly, looking around. The store isn’t busy, but still, the idea of other people catching sight of you makes something in his chest tighten.

A giggle, and then your head pokes through the heavy curtains, “Okay, then you come in.”

Once again, he is powerless to say no. His feet move, one in front of the other, even though his mind is telling him no, this is a bad idea, turn back. Still, he finds himself in the enclosed space with you. A full length mirror greets him, and that’s where he sees you first. Swathes of artfully arranged black lace and soft mesh fabric that barely cover your body, fastened only by thin straps over your shoulders. 

So very dangerous.

“What do you think?” your eyes meet his in the mirror, deceptively, infuriatingly innocent.

“It’s-uh-pretty.”

“Just pretty?” your head cocks to the side, lips pulled into that pout and Spencer swears the room has no more oxygen. He’s about to pass out.

“Gorgeous,” he manages to say, “Stunning, radiant, angel it fits you perfectly.” his eyes drop to your chest and the words stop abruptly, though his mouth remains slack.

You twist to the side, examining your reflection. The fabric floats around your body, giving him a view of your perfect ass underneath. The panties you have on are a baby blue, not matching the sultry, inky ivory of the slip you’re wearing, and he wants to ask why don’t they match, but no words come from his open mouth.

“Spence, baby, you’re gonna catch flies.” your teasing remark wrenches him from his reverie. You whirl around to face him, half naked and mused, the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. He manages to tear his gaze away from the mirror and focus on the real thing, and how did he ever get so lucky with you?

“No flies anywhere.” he replies, hands finding your waist. His grip is shaky, but firm. Your eyes flash with mischief and he knows he’s a goner. 

“It’s just a saying.”

“I know.” he dips his head, unable to help himself. Soft lips latch onto your jaw, open and warm, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“In this slip?” Your giggle goes straight to his groin. 

“In anything,” he pulls back, trying to reign in his desire, “In nothing.”

Your brow raises, and he lets out a soft sheepish laugh. 

“Sorry, it’s just…” he trails off, his hands rubbing your hips through the flimsy dress. Mind absolutely devoid of any thought except for how beautiful you look in this tiny piece, how it clings to your breasts and shows teasing hints of your nipples through the thin lace.

“What was that, Spence?” you murmur teasingly, stepping into his personal space. Bodies flush. The lack of distance between you, the familiar softness of your body melting into him brings his attention to the growing tightness at his crotch.

“Mhm? N-nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.” There’s that sparkle in your eyes again, devious as you sway your hips against his carefully. The action makes his steadily swelling cock twitch with even more want. 

He has to swallow a moan, but the warning still comes out strangled, “Angel.”  Really, you’re closer to the devil right now, tempting him like this. He tightens his hold on your hips to steady you, brows furrowed as he tries to calm down. 

It’s too late though. You’re both well aware of the growing tent in his pants.

“All right,” you step back, wearing a mask of mock surrender, “Fine, no more teasing. You can go back out now, I’m gonna change again.”

“What?” 

One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk, “I was being naughty, I’m sorry. You can go back out, I just wanted to show you this slip.”

Evil. You’re evil and dangerous and Spencer Reid is so utterly in love with you. And a little turned on by it.

“Angel, I can’t go back out there!” he whispers, tugging his tight pants. It’s no use. He’s so worked up his cock is beginning to ache in its confines. 

(Okay, so more than a little turned on.) 

Your eyes fall to his crotch, widening comically as though you’re seeing it for the first time, “Oh, would you look at that!” You step back into his space, hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He leans into your touch, welcoming your sweet mockery with his usual, eager docility. “Got worked up for me, hmm? All from seeing me in this slip?”

He nods, hands finding your hips again, holding you to him. “You knew what you were doing.” There’s absolutely no hint of accusation in his voice. You both know it’s true anyway.

“Mhm. And I can’t let you walk back out there like this, can I?” you lift yourself to your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Not after you’ve been so patient with me.”

A sharp inhale as he feels your hands on his belt. What he would give to just be completely buried in you right now, to lose his mind in your tight heat, but— “We’re in public.”

“We’re in a room.”

“A fitting room.”

“Still a room.” you’ve pushed his pants just enough to free his cock. Even being out of his pants eases some of the tension, the length springing out and jutting from his body. Long and embarrassingly red. Your hands close around it, one hand at the base and stroking up and down, the other at the tip, squeezing gently, thumb running over his slit and spreading his leaking pre cum. 

He fights back a moan and promptly loses.

“Spence.” Your voice is low, but stern, “Keep quiet.”

He nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip to contain his moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the vision of you in nothing but a flimsy slip and panties, in this well lit, public room, giving him a hand job. No, he can’t watch, he’ll bust then and there, but he knows you’re only getting started.

Your hands work up and down his length, twisting just the way he likes, all while continuing to thumb at the tip. Unable to help it, his hips buck into your hands, shamelessly fucking your palms while his cock twitches in them. 

“Look at me,” you croon, breath hot against his neck. Once again, as though his body is wired to obey your every command, his eyes fly open. He moans immediately at the sight of you, which makes you tut disapprovingly. With a shake of your head, you stop, and he can’t help but let out a whine in protest.

“Why’d you—” “You’re too loud, baby, they’ll catch us.” 

He watches with a dazed, glassy eyed confusion as you hook your fingers through the waistband of your panties and tug the lacy blue material down your legs. Crumpled between your lovely hands, it turns into a small ball of fabric which you hold up to his mouth, “Bite down on this.”

His brain seems to snap at attention. “I-I can’t, isn’t that store property?” Leave it to his mind to worry about logistics and practicality.

You chuckle, pulling his collar down for a kiss. When his lips meet yours, he wonders why he ever questioned you.

“It’s mine,” you mumble against his mouth. A nibble at his lower lip sends tremors whispering down his spine, “We’re not allowed to try on panties in this store. Something about sanitation.”

Sanitation. The very thought makes him chuckle. It seems so insignificant now, with what they’re about to do.

Still, he accepts the explanation, and allows you to slip the crumpled panties into his mouth. He bites down, tasting hints of your arousal as the fabric meets his tongue. It becomes very clear that he needs this gag, because he immediately moans at the taste.

You giggle soundlessly, the effort to keep silent making your shoulders quiver from your laughter. “You just can’t help yourself huh?” You give his cock a few more strokes, lazy and playful, before walking over to the mirror and bracing yourself against it by your elbows. The panties nearly fall from his mouth as he watches you push your hips back, the slip riding up to expose your ass and the wet, swollen folds beneath. 

Is this heaven? It must be. Just him and his angel, who’s offering herself up and watching him intently through the reflection in the mirror.

“Come on, baby, before the sales people get suspicious.” you murmur. Your eyes flash dangerously in the mirror, but he knows it’s not a mere trick of the light. You’re getting a kick out of this too, the same way he is. 

With a choked sound, muffled by the lace, Spencer steps up behind you. Cock in hand, he lets the blunt tip glide across your soaked folds, letting your arousal mingle with his precum and coat his length. Normally, he’d use his fingers first, coax your walls into a more relaxed state, but you’re right. There’s no time for that. Someone could check up on the two of you any time. The thought makes his cock twitch, and he finally eases into your entrance, slowly pushing into the familiar warmth of your pussy.

He sees your mouth fall open from the stretch. It never gets old, this initial penetration, the way your body always seems to yield to the sheer size of him, no matter how long it has been. He knows he’s moving on borrowed time, only moments to bring you ecstasy, but still he allows himself to savor this first entrance, the tight grip of your pussy around his cock. 

And then he moves, rocking his hips back and forth, watching the mirror for your reactions, trying to make sure he’s not hurting you. But the mirror only reflects pleasure on both your faces. Your face lax, a vision of bleary eyed bliss. His own brows are furrowed with concentration as he shifts his hips, trying to hit the spot from this new angle, one where you’re upright, but bent slightly and anchored by your arms against a wall. 

One of his hands grip your thigh, lifting it up so that your knee is braced on the mirror as well, opening you up to him a little more. His cock sinks another inch deeper, teeth biting down on the panties as he feels you clench.

“Fuck!” you groan, and he knows he’s found the spot. He moves both hands on your waist, holding you steady, marveling at the way he towers over you in this position. A sense of power fills him, warm and glowing from the trust you’ve put upon him. His thrusts grow firmer, steadier, as he feels your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him. Spencer has to fight the urge to bury his entire length in you; you’ve never done that before and he doesn’t want it to happen on some random quickie.

Still, even though he’s not all the way in, he knows he’s doing a good job, judging by the increasing gasps that leave your perfect mouth. The looming threat of being found, the promise of people beyond the heavy curtains excites him, alarmingly so. And it seems like you’re on the same boat, as you keep glancing over your shoulder, half keeping watch, half daring people to yank those curtains back and expose the debauchery happening within the tiny space of this dressing room. 

He shudders at the thought, thrusting into you more roughly than before. It sends him deep inside your walls, and a cry escapes your lips. Your gazes meet in the mirror, equally mortified, nervous, and excited. 

Spencer continues to move, fucking you in this position. If someone heard, they must have opted to ignore the sound instead, and he’s going to take advantage of that fact, bending his body over yours so that his chest is flush against your back. You clench around him in response, your body greedily eating up every inch he’s allowing himself to give you. 

“God, you’re in so deep.” you gasp, “So, so deep, feels so good.”

He recognizes this state, mindless and vocal from pleasure and he knows you're close. 

“Spence, oh my god baby, so big, you’re - oh fuck, yes!”

It makes him proud, his chest filling with a warmth only you can seem to produce, the very act of reducing you to this babbling, nearly incoherent mess but it also poses a problem. You’re becoming too loud. Too risky. In the heat of the moment, and without stopping the rhythm of his thrusts, Spencer yanks your panties out of his mouth and transfers the fabric into your own. Crumpled up, damp with his saliva, they stop the silly, pleasure drunk stream of words that have been spilling from your lips.

Your eyes meet in the mirror again, his own amused and slightly apologetic, yours barely comprehending.

“Gotta keep quiet, angel.” he murmurs, voice gravelly from disuse, “We wouldn’t want an audience.”

A whimper, smothered by your own panties, perks up his ears and goes straight to his cock. “God baby, you’re so good, letting me have you like this.” he gasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. 

His cock feels sensitive, ready to burst at any given moment. His thrusts become sloppy, erratic, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you tethered to him because he can feel your legs and thighs quivering under his weight. Spencer uses his other hand to brace against the mirror, staining the once clear glass with sweat and condensation.

“Angel, ah!” he’s aware his volume is increasing as the pleasure intensifies, so he bites down on the closest possible thing—your shoulder. As teeth sink into flesh, your pussy tightens around his cock in response, and he’s done for, unraveled, spilling his cum deep into your being. He continues to thrust, recognizing the way you’re squirming against him, the nearly vice like grip of your walls on his thick length.

“That’s it,” he gasps soothing the bite with his lips and tongue, talking and fucking you through your own orgasm, “That’s it angel, come for me, please, need to feel you, that’s it, there you go.”

Normally, he’d bask in the afterglow, hold you to him until neither of you can breath and the lack of space becomes claustrophobic. But not right now. He has to remind himself you’re still in a public store, separated from people by mere fabric—heavy, curtains, sure, but still fabric. So he holds out his hand in front of your mouth, allowing you to spit out the wad of lace into his palm, and pulls out of your fluttering cunt carefully. His cock still throbs but is slowly softening. He helps you stand up.

“God, that was—I can’t believe we did that.” Spencer whispers. Unable to withhold his affection, he peppers your temple and forehead with kisses, relishing in the sweet sighs of contentment that leave your lips, now no longer cushioned by the panties.

“‘Twas so good,” you bury your face in his chest, and he holds you, supports your weight by wrapping his arms around your waist, “‘M so sweaty.”

He laughs, “Yeah, this fitting room got a little heated.”

“Ruined the slip.” you peek up at him, eyes no longer flashing with mischief but cloudy with pleasure.

“Good thing I’m buying it for you then,” he presses his lips to your sweat stained forehead, “There’s no way you’re leaving without it.”

Thank you for reading! Part of the big useless dick chronicles collection.

[max1461]

I'm really scared. Somebody please help me. I don't know what's going on, I don't know if it's in my brain, my head/neck, or somwhere else in my body.

Recap so people can help me:

Go to dentist nov 12 for fillings (upper teeth), after one particular anesthetic shot (front teeth) start to feel extremely weird

start to have crazy cognitive and physical symptoms which are too many to list. Some include:

facial pain, mostly from the cheeks up, throbbing pain in eyes, nose, and roof of mouth

inability to recognize other people's faces from cheeks up (only chin looks familiar)

eyes no longer in sync, left eye seems to move more slowly and not track things right

extremely vivid almost-hallucinations. I can tell they aren't real and that they're in my head, but they're right on the verge

almost-hallucinations are visual, auditory, smell and emotion. it's sort of like a mix with flashes of a bunch of different memories and thoughts at once, it's not coherent. many different smells, images, etc. flashing through my perception too fast to keep track of. kind of like a soup of different stuff. very scary and distracting

feels like every time I have a thought or memory, it comes up correctly in my mind at first, then it mixes into the soup and I can't get it back. it just becomes part of the soup

the imagery and so on often feels like it is "coming in from the sides", like coming in from both sides of my body/FOV/etc. it's happening all the time but when it gets really intense and starts to get "closer to the middle" I start burping continuously and uncontrollably. almost feels like I'm swallowing air and burping it back up again, but it's totally outside my control. sometimes I'm burping back to back for hours

when it gets REALLY bad it makes me throw up. sometimes just into my mouth and sometimes full on projectile vomit. would say this happens about every two or three days and the frequency has been increasing.

inability to do the following correctly: sneeze, swallow, vomit, orgasm. all feel like the same weird issue. like they start but don't really finish. so e.g. when I vomit it's like the top part of my throat is not involved? it feels very weird but like the muscles are only actuating part of the way up, and it's a very odd sensation. same when I swallow, like only part of the swallowing motion happens and the food is hard to get down because of this.

my factual recall and grasp of factual information seems to be 100% fine, no delusional beliefs etc. Even though I can't visually recall my memories (because the soup of imagery gets in the way) I can easily factually recall what happened. But I can't visualize anything correctly, I just get these crazy visuals instead

feel like I am not sleeping properly. feel like when I "go to sleep" it's just more of the visuals ALL NIGHT and I don't get any rest. basically feel like I am in a half-asleep half-awake state all the time.

I've gotten an MRI, nothing abnormal. Got an EEG, it was slightly abnormal with temporal lobe "sharp waves" but no seizures. Went on seizure meds for 4 months and it had no effect on symptoms. Got another EEG when my symptoms were really acting up and EEG was normal, at that point doctor decided to take me off seizure meds since the didn't seem to be doing anything and symptoms didn't seem correlated with EEG. Seeing another neuro next week. Intuitively it feels like something is wrong in my face, throbbing pain is CONSTANT and has been resistant to all pain meds, and that maybe if it went away I could think straight. not sure though.

Feels like there is a "hole", it's hard to explain but it feels like there's this gaping hole in my mind's eye, that's blocking my from thinking correctly and causing all this shit. And I feel it on my body to, idk where but I can feel this "hole" too. Maybe some kind of fucked up nerve in my face or something? If anyone has any thoughts or could help me with any of this please let me know.

[jensthwa]

a very show & tell christmas (SMG x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

It's been a few months since you and Mingi got together. It's your first Christmas as a couple but not your first one together. As he watches you re-organize the tree in his living room, he can't help but reminisce on the key moments that made him realize you're his person.

PAIRING: mingi x afab reader.

GENRE: stablished relationship, holidays special!

WORD COUNT: 7k.

WARNINGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI), mingi's pov, a loooot of fluff and love talk, pet names (love, my love, babe), mistletoe kisses, heart felt gifts, messy kisses, mingi and reader briefly discuss something that i've come to learn is called sweater fetish but i don't know if the scene counts as that but just letting you know, oral sex (f receiving), reader asks mingi to 'use' her, hard but romantic sex, unprotected sex (booo, wrap it up please), marriage discussion at the end omg?

NOTES: happy holidays everyone! I've been wanting to write mingi's perspective of everything that went down in s&t for a while so I took the chance to write it for the holidays because what better time to reminisce about everything you've ever lived than december am I right? [nervous chuckle]. I hope you're having a wonderful month and i hope next year treats you even better! THIS IS PART OF THE LOVE'S AN UNCHARTED PATH SERIES BUT CAN BE READ AS A STAND ALONE. this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: december 25th 2024.

Mingi remembers the first time he saw you like it was yesterday. It's an image so vivid, so impactful in his life that there's no way he could ever, ever forget. 

He was playing soccer on the street, with two friends who moved away that same year and he doesn't really remember them all that well now. He kicked the ball so hard it landed in your yard as you were doing something else. Playing with dirt? He doesn't really remember, you might've been but it didn't matter because it was also the first time he realized he could fall in love.

Granted, he didn't fall in love immediately. He was, after all, just a fourteen year old boy and he didn't understand those feelings just yet. It was that transitional period of a kid’s life where the desire to connect with someone else was strong but definitely not a priority. 

Besides, he didn't realize, until many years had gone by, that the first time that he saw you and he felt time stop, he also saw a life with you: the five seconds it took for the ball to roll over to your feet after almost punching you in the face and he sort of assumed you were going to be in his life forever. 

And you are going to be in his life forever. In one way or another, but he promised you that forever a while ago, in his head, in his dreams and in the way he cares about you, for you. In the way his heart hurts when you're not around, when you two fight. In the way his heart sings when he kisses you, the way it dances and beats against his chest when you smile at him, because of him, around him. 

And when he hears you laugh? Pfft. He melts at the sound. 

He's melting even now, after being officially together a little over a year, as you laugh with your mom and his mom while decorating the Christmas tree at his house. 

Well, not decorating it exactly. You three went shopping earlier today and somehow your mom convinced his mom that the old ornaments did not go with the living room aesthetic anymore and she bought new ones for them. 

The only ones that are old now, that the redecorating party is finishing with the tree, are the ones you and him have shared over the years. 

The one you got at fifteen, that resembles a snow globe with two snowmans inside of it, holding hands and with your names engraved in wood underneath it. The one he got at seventeen that's a little simpler but you say it's your favorite: two gingerbread cookies holding a heart sign with your initials in it, one of the cookies kissing the other’s cheek. 

You two have been alternating years of getting each other ornaments and deciding which house they're staying at. This year, however, you went for a different approach to the tradition. Each of you painted an ornament, a traditional one, with something festive that alludes to one another. 

He, seeing that you've been talking snoopy for half a year, tried his best to paint the character on top of his dog house, decorated by Christmas lights and with a red ribbon to tie it to the tree that illuminates your living room up the street. 

Now, he watches carefully as you hang near the other ornaments, the one you hand painted to look like a chicken. Initially, you tried to convince him it was a penguin but it can't possibly be. It's more yellow than black or white and even if you tried to tell him it's a specific type of penguin you saw in happy feet there's nothing that indicates that it's not a chicken.

“Oh, well, it fits him.” His mother says at your explanation, hugging your mother tightly as she fondly watches you hang the ornament up. You turn around when you finish, tongue out at him childishly. 

He pretends to be annoyed, rolling his eyes and getting up to playfully tug at the tongue you're sticking out to him still “Mom, you're supposed to be on my side.” 

“I am!” She defends herself, smiling like she's totally not on his side. “It does look a little bit like you, dear. Even your little mole here.” 

You take the opportunity to press on your tippy toes and kiss the mole his mom is pointing out, only to get more aws from them. 

“I win.” You whisper to him, proud of yourself and he can't help but smile at you as you pull away. 

Mingi remembers the first time he realized he was in love with you. It was the first time he called you by his favorite endearment: love. 

He remembers the ice cream shop you both were at, he remembers the conversation being more of a confession that you had a crush on a friend of his, he remembers the guy serving the ice cream complaining about the fridge hardly working and he remembers the blush on your cheeks as you admitted to want to be called love because…

“That's what good boyfriend's do,” you said, ice cream on your fingers that you quickly wipe away with an already sticky napkin, “So we're going to get together and I'm going to be called love from that moment on.” 

He knew you were talking about his friend but his heart skipped a beat anyway. He had to focus on what you were telling him, not on the pretty smile you gave him or the relief he felt when he realized the one thing that would lead you straight (or not so straight) to disappointment. 

His friend was a very proud but not that  out gay man. 

But Mingi decided to not mess with it, he always let you fight your battles alone if those battles ended up with you learning a lesson and without a scratch, anyway. 

“Good luck with that, love.” 

“Ugh, no, you don't get to call me that!” 

The nickname stuck either way. Even if, at the time, he pushed those feelings down deep inside of him. 

Because you were his love, but you were also his best friend ever and he was just a dude. A boy, even. 

He didn't know better and so, eventually, you got a boyfriend. Great dude, worshipped you like you deserved and all.

Mingi remembers the way he felt when you told him you loved Han. He hated the guy, hated the way he made you smile, hated the fact that he trusted him of all people because, well, there was and there will never be someone who loves you more than Mingi. 

Han thought he was the one, you didn't. But even after breaking up with Han, Mingi stood still. He understood his feelings, his protectiveness over you, as something platonic. But he didn't really have time to think about it with your head on his chest, on his bed, over the sheets and with the door wide open because it was a school night after all. 

School night meant no sleepovers, but his mom didn't ask you to leave when she saw you with tears in your eyes at their front door. Mingi didn't ask you to leave as you soaked his sweatshirt with said tears, either. 

“I don't know why I did it, Mingi. I don't… He did nothing wrong.” 

“You said you felt he was not the one.” 

Your regretful eyes looked up at him “But what if he was?” 

“He's not,” he whispered back to you and, at the time, he didn't know why. He had no reason to tell you Han wasn't the one for you, but his subconscious knew things he didn't accept back then. “You wouldn't be doubting it at all if he was, love.” 

You ended up sleeping over that night, door wide open still, your mom texting him when she couldn't reach you on the phone. 

He helped you through that breakup, just like you helped him with his first breakup as well. 

He helped you mend your own wounds, he saw you grow stronger after the pain went away, he felt proud of you when you started showing up to your first uni parties without him having to convince you to go. 

Mingi remembers the first time he realized he wanted to kiss you. You two were laying under the stars, a little hazy and on a rooftop you definitely shouldn't be up in. 

That probably wasn't the actual first time he wanted to kiss you, just the first time he admitted it to himself. Your friends were on the rooftop as well, dancing around, yelling, being silly, just as drunk as you two were or worse but, for a moment, it was quiet. Now that he thinks back to it, he probably imagined it. 

The noise quieting down, that is. 

Mingi remembers that he had turned to you to ask what you thought was going on but your eyes were closed. He remembers the breath he took in as he traced the side of your face with his eyes, carefully, like the staring alone would get you out of whatever peace you were enjoying at the moment.

Have your lips always been so perfect and inviting? He answered himself immediately: Yes, of course they are perfect, she's perfect. 

He doesn't really know how he didn't realize it right then and there. When his heart soared at the thought of it, of disturbing your peace only to kiss you. 

And then the noise came back, laughing and screeching and something alarming came out of Jongho’s mouth. 

“Shit, shit. Security!”

You opened our eyes and found him already staring at you. He should've felt embarrassed to be caught, but you smiled at him before rushing to your feet, offering your hand and shaking it for him to take it. 

“Can you get up or should I stay and be escorted out with you?” 

No one got caught that night except, maybe, his heart. 

Because he realized he loved you around a week after that, as he saw you do the most mundane task ever: washing your teeth in front of your bathroom sink, still trying to rant about something that pissed you off in one of your classes. He remembers pressing his shoulder against the doorframe and looking at your and your frown through the mirror. He also remembers the frantic beat of his heart as he realized he wanted to do just this with you every day of his life. 

Going to bed together, waking up next to you and listening to you rant about things you're going to forget the next day. He never wanted that with anyone else, only you. 

You, you, you. He got so lovesick the next year after that he tried desperately to cover it up. With different activities, with people kissing his neck at parties after dancing for a while, with anything and everything that could distract him from the fact that he was utterly and irrevocably in love with you. 

Not because he didn't want to explore but because every single time he tried to say something, the words would die down under the weight of years of friendship and loyal companionship. 

He couldn't lose you, he didn't even know how to make sure you liked him back! 

And so the yearning got unbearable enough for everyone in your friend group to notice it, except for, well, you. 

“At some point you have to tell her about it, right?” 

No one in the group presses on things. Woo and Gyuri (Woo’s ex girlfriend who, somehow, is still his friend and everyone's friend as well) maybe, but when it comes to matters of the heart, they let everyone be. So it surprised him when Seonghwa, of all people, spoke on it. 

“You can't keep looking at her like that from a distance and waiting for it to pass, Mingi. It's not going to pass.” 

He remembers sighing and then giving you one more glance before turning to his friend.

“She probably doesn't feel the same.” 

“Who cares? You're never going to find out keeping it to yourself.” Seonghwa gave him a tiny smile before bumping his shoulder against his, both teasingly and reassuring. “Besides, she loves you too much to allow some romantic feelings to get in the way. Just… Think about it, yeah? Not forcing you here,” he shrugged, “but we all do, kind of, maybe, want you two to kiss.” 

Snorting a laugh, Mingi remembers shaking his head no and then thinking about it for, at least, three months after that before actually making a move. 

He remembers feeling humiliated by one of his attempts to put his feelings for you to rest, he remembers confiding in you and your friends, he remembers when you agreed to tell him how to make it right the next time he slept with anyone else. He doesn't really remember asking you to show him. 

His mind disconnected after he saw the blush painting your cheeks beautifully, his heart took over him when he kneeled in front of you to kiss you that first time, when he allowed himself to give in and touch you like he had wanted to for so long. 

And then the days and the months blended so gracefully after that summer that he doesn't really recall when the weather started getting cold, just that the color of the snow contrasts against your winter coat when you both go outside after having Christmas dinner at his house, with both your parents and his present. 

They were friends before, but now? They see each other more than you two. 

Well, that's a lie, but almost. And, like all best friends do when spending the holidays together, they get lost in good conversation and company, in a bubble made out of wine and laughter, cozy enough that it allows you and Mingi to slip out of his house hand in hand easily. 

You have a little smile as you look around the street like you don't know the houses you pass on the way to yours. He wants to indulge you, but the words slip out his mouth without even thinking about it. 

“Am I walking you home because you wanted to change into something more comfortable or because you want to give me an additional Christmas gift, love?” 

“Stop ruining it! You know I'm not good at hiding things,” you click your tongue, pretending to be disappointed and kick the snow with your boot when you stop and pull him close, “We haven't got alone time in forever.” 

“Two days,” he says with a nod, arms going around you and head going down to kiss your lips tenderly for a quick second, “Three, if we count today.” 

You pout “That's like… A lifetime.” 

“I know,” he gives in, chuckling against your lips, “I'm going through withdrawal symptoms and all.” 

He watches as you close your eyes and lean in. He gets ready for it, inhaling cold air that hits his lungs as a reminder where you two are, what he's allowed to enjoy in public, and closes his eyes as he waits for your kiss that never comes. 

Instead, your nose nuzzles his softly, barely nudging the skin and you take a step back, taking his gloved hand and intertwining it with yours “I also may or may not have a gift for you.” 

Smiling in victory, Mingi fakes an annoyed gasp “I knew it.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you're so smart,” you scoff, rolling your eyes and entering your front yard without letting go of him. “Hurry, I'm freezing!” 

“This was your idea, love.” He deadpans but hurries anyways and afterwards, as the warmth of the foyer allows him to shrug off his coat and leave it in its designated spot by the door, he laughs at your clear enthusiasm. 

You're already shoeless, coatless, gloveless and scarfless and waiting at the third step of the stairs, impatiently blinking at him as a signal to hurry up, again. And when goes upstairs with you, you make him promise to keep his eyes closed as he walks towards your room. 

“You're too tall, I can't cover them with my hands so promise, Song Mingi.” 

“My eyes are literally closed!” 

He hears a door open. It has that creaking sound the door to your room has and when the smell of your perfume hits him as you press your hands to his chest to stop him, he doesn't have to open his eyes to know where he is. He knows his way around these halls anyway. 

You turn him, so that his back is probably facing your room, and then instruct: 

“Look up and open your eyes.” 

Mistletoe. That's what he sees when he opens his eyes: mistletoe that is badly tape to your door frame, just above him. It makes him smile and then the best friend in him takes over when he looks down at you and your blushed cheeks. 

“Love… That's so chees—” 

“Just kiss me, you idiot.” 

And he does. He lifts you up from the floor and you bury your fingers in his hair before securing your legs around his waist and he walks the room he knows like the back of his hand until he reaches the bed. He doesn't sit down or puts you down yet, lazily opening your mouth with his tongue when you sigh against him. 

“Wait— Mm,” you speak against his mouth, words silenced by his eager tongue a second later. He has to physically throw his head back to stop himself from kissing you further, but when his eyes return to his face, his will almost falters. “That was not the gift.” 

“Okay.” He breathes out, smiling. 

“Sit on the floor.”

He does and the carpet is soft under his fidgeting hands as he watches you move around the room. You go into your closet (literally, you disappear behind the closed doors) and when you come back with a large box he blinks a few times in astonishment.

Huge box, really. It almost doesn't fit the space between you when you sit down in front of him and glance at him excitedly, a shy color to your voice when you speak again “Open it!” 

There's no way he can help the smile that curves his lips when he opens the box and finds an assortment of handmade things. Yes, the ornament that you made may have looked like something else entirely, but he starts to believe you made it on purpose when he pulls out the first gift: a bouquet made out of candy, his favorite sweets. 

“This is beautiful, love…” 

He lets out a chuckle when you steal one immediately and he promises to dig into it once he goes through all the gifts. 

There's a box with a card underneath that he goes to pick up but you stop him with a trembling hand “Save that one for last.” And he notices you're a little bit nervous, so he does, his own heart skipping at what might've inside the box, a similar yet smaller one weighing on the pocket of the coat he left downstairs. 

The other things left on the box are a few bills in the shape of hearts and a wooden sphere that he finds out, seconds later, it's a picture museum. 

“I couldn't fit every important picture we took together in a regular shaped box so I had to get this one.” You explain as he looks at the inside of the sphere. It looks like a miniature museum and Mingi feels like crying a little, so he takes your hand in his and gives it a kiss to ground himself “They're in chronological order, too, I had to consult the ancient texts to get them all right!” 

He laughs, confused “The ancient texts?” 

“Yes, my Instagram story archive.” You return, nodding and he gives your hand another kiss before letting it go to set down the museum next to the bills and the bouquet.

You let out a shaky breath when he returns his attention to the box and picks it up. You pick up the card. 

“Before you open it, let me read this to you.” 

“Of course,” he returns softly and takes the trembling hand you're extending in his direction. 

“First of all, look at how cute this is,” you turn the card and inside of it, it's decorated with kisses. Your kisses. Mingi would recognize them anywhere and he tries to take the card from you but you bat his hand away with it. “Later, let me read this to you. Um… 

“Dear Mingi,” he giggles at the formality of your tone and then forces himself to stop at the look you give him. “Dear Mingi,” you start again, “I don't have a way with words and I've re-written this letter a thousand times but I think I have come to terms with the fact that there are no words invented, no language discovered, that can accurately immortalize my feelings for you. The love I hold for you transcends everything and everyone, every concept ever created and every new idea future generations come up with. And, as I try to come up with a joke that can give this overdone confession any lightness, I have also come to terms with the fact that you're it for me. I already knew this, of course,” you laugh and he has to laugh a little, heartbeat on his throat and eyes full of tears and all, “I already knew how much I loved you. Platonically, romantically, it all has just blended into one because it doesn't really matter how I loved you, it just matters that I have the opportunity to do so, my love. I love you.” 

When your eyes catch his, the tears are already wetting his cheeks. 

“And now what didn't fit in the letter, because I chose this tiny ass card,” you laugh again, eyes already wet even though he can see you're telling yourself not to cry. “Our first Christmas together was the time I realized I wanted you in my life forever. It just felt right, like we belonged somehow and we do, Mingi. So I— Open the box.” You quickly say and when he does, the whole thing falls apart. 

Kind of. 

When he pulls the rope tied in a bow at the top and the sides fall he makes a noise of surprise that makes you laugh.

The sides have more pictures of you two and in the middle of the box there's another tiny box that he opens to find a necklace. 

With a ring that could fit him as its charm and a silver chain that's not too delicate but not too rough, just like the one he uses on a daily basis. 

The ring has your initials engraved on the inside and his initials engraved on the outside. He lets out a sob that prompts your tears to flow freely down your face and he catches you wiping them.

“I didn't want to give you this with the rest of your gifts this morning because, well, I'm shy and—” 

“You are not shy.” He speaks over you, wiping his tears. 

“And I didn't want our parents to scream marriage at us. I don't want to scream marriage at you either, my love,” you say before he gets any ideas. And it did cross his mind a second ago, but he's far from terrified of it. “But I wanted you to have something to remember me by, with our initials in it, as a token of how much I love you, Mingi.” 

He doesn't even know what to say. 

“A lot. I love you a lot, if you couldn't tell.” You add and he laughs and manages to scoot around the box of gifts to wrap his arms around your frame. You laugh into the skin of his neck, hugging him back. 

“I love you too,” he whispers, his lips close to your ear and his heart beating fast still. When he pulls back, you try to give him a kiss and he stops you, which prompts a confused look on your side. “You know that they say that overtime couples start to think alike?” 

“Look alike,” you correct with a tilt of your head and he gives you a look, so you backtrack, smiling. “No, yeah, couples start to think alike.” You nod and then let out a noise in protest of him getting up. 

He points his finger at you “Wait here.” 

And then he bolts downstairs, to his coat. 

It really does say something about you two, about the way your minds sync up at most needed time. Because as he enters your room, box in hand and knees hitting the carpet in front of you, he can tell you got his point immediately. 

“I'm not screaming marriage at you yet, love and I also didn't get you a letter or a chain to go with it, but—” He hands you the box and lets you open it, head immediately trying to paint into his memory the way you gasp at the ring, the way you take it delicately into your hands and examine it with care. “But I bought this months ago, in that antique shop you like so much because it reminded me of you and how could it not? Do you see how beautiful it is?”

It sparkles under your bedroom light, but he can see it from a distance: all the delicate details that make it look like there's two hands holding the pearl in the middle. In a way, it looks like two hands holding a heart. 

Just like you hold his heart. 

“As a token of your much I love you, Y/N.” 

You pout as he takes the ring and puts it on your finger. 

“You can't just steal my speech, Song Min—” 

He kisses you again. He can't not kiss you, he can't help but get you into your arms and thank you for choosing the ground to present your gift because he's anything but careful as he stands up, drags you with him, and sits on the bed with you on top of him. 

“Shit, hold on—” 

“Hm?” There's concern in the way your eyebrows crease and Mingi gets briefly distracted by how kissed out and breathless you look for a second before reaching for the floor. 

“My necklace,” he explains, reaching for the box and successfully getting it in his hand without having to take you off his lap. “Put it on for me, love?” 

“So you liked it?” You ask nonchalantly as you take the necklace, legs opening a bit more so that you're sitting further into his lap.

“You literally made me cry, Y/N. Tears,” he says, making a face that you catch before closing the clasp behind his neck. 

“Of joy?” You return in a whisper, eyes so sweet and smile so shy it makes him want to cry all over again. 

“I love you.” He says instead of answering the question, lips touching yours again, softly, wanting, forgetting you don't have a lot of time before your parents wonder where you went. 

There's no way careful thoughts can get through the fog your sighs against him create, in the way your teeth sink into the plush of his bottom lip and pull until he's moaning, the sting of pain passing by as your tongue caresses his. 

You've been getting a little bold lately, the nature of your encounters is always passionate but, somewhat, normal. Mingi loves every second you decide to give yourself to him but he also fucking loves when you do shit you like. 

Like taking control of the kiss, pulling his hair so his head can fall back and you can slowly make it messier, sloppier, even after the sweet moment you two just shared. 

Hands start to roam freely and, by the time you pull on his hair to detach your mouth from his fully, he's already breathless and hard against the fabric of his pants, mouth wet with shared spit. 

He's sure his pupils are blown, he's sure he's red on the face and fucked out already. He knows his expression mirrors yours as you take him, and the necklace, in, eyes scanning his frame before you roll your hips against him. 

He moans pathetically. 

You smile at the sound. 

“Like anything you see?” He tries to tease you to no avail. 

“You look so hot like this…” The hand tangled in his hair moves and he closes his eyes to welcome the feeling of your nails softly digging into his skin as they make their way into his neck, over the necklace and the ring resting against his collarbone. 

“With the necklace on?” 

“And the sweater.” 

He glances at his beige sweater with an arched brown and then he looks at your sweater, a warmer tone of beige than his, the neck a little high but not high enough to be considered a turtle neck, with the same expression. 

He puts the pieces together and then scoffs out an impressed laugh. 

“Where did you learn this kink, love?” 

“It's not a kink,” you defend yourself immediately, laughing when he looks at you like he doesn't believe it and then he leans in again, peppering your jaw with slow, open mouth kisses, “I just saw a video the other day and…” 

“And?” He encourages you with a shift of his hips of his own, gaining a curse that slips past your lips. 

“And then I saw you today in this.” The palm of your hand slips from his neck and into the fabric of the sweater, thumb passing over his nipple with purpose. He hisses in response. “So… We could leave it on, hm? What do you think?” 

He raises an eyebrow, trying to bite his smile back “What did they do in the video, love?”

“Oh,” you giggle into his shoulder as he kisses every inch of skin available to him, “it was a homemade video. I don’t watch anything super produced, you know that. They, uhm… Fuck, babe,” he licks his way up the side of your neck, successfully making you melt against him. “She was looking at her phone and he was eating her out,” you manage to get out. “And then she got on her stomach, legs straight a-and closed while he fucked her. Used her, kinda.” He pulls back at that, both intrigued and wanting to see if that’s what you actually want. 

“Used her to get off?” 

You nod and he leans in, nose brushing yours. 

“Is that what you want me to do with you?” 

“After you get me off,” you whisper back, smiling without any shame at your request “yeah.”

Mingi takes his time to think about it. On purpose, letting the tension linger as he presses both palms against the mattress, leaning back just enough so you can catch him checking you out unapologetically. Truth being told, his dick is twitching in his pants at the thought of helping you explore. This has always been your dynamic in bed: exploring, searching, discovering new things that make you wet, researching new ways of making you come and there’s nothing that gets him off more than the idea of you getting away with what you want. 

Even if that means sweating the fabric of this expensive sweater through. It’s okay, he has a washing machine. The way you wait for an answer, with eyes so bright and expectant, makes him bite his lip in return. 

Yeah, there’s nothing he enjoys more than pleasing you. 

He also knows you enjoy this. 

The anticipation. The teasing, the way his hand returns to your legs and slides the material of the sweater up slightly, only to neglect the idea a second after and, instead, turning his hand and letting his knuckles brush against the fabric of it deliberately, with laced intention into the touch even though his expression remains pensive at the proposal. 

A proposal he accepted, like, the second after you said it outloud. 

“Do you know how much I love your tits, love?” 

You let out a sigh as your answer and one look at you is enough to encourage him to keep going. Knuckles brushing upwards, he catches your firm nipple through the fabric. It's a little hard to do; considering you're probably wearing two layers underneath to shield you from the December cold; but he manages and you let out a needy whine. 

“Do you know how much I love you if I’m going to fuck you without taking one look at them?” 

Damn. He doesn’t really mean for his voice to sound so raspy but it does and the way your lips curve in mischief let’s him know that you catch it for what it really means: He’s so lost in it, in the sensual bickering, that he can’t help but show how affected he is, one way or another. 

And then there’s the urgency of getting on with it because you don’t know how much time you get alone, until someone calls your phone and asks for you or until your parents get tired of the wine and come back home. 

So it really does happen in a flash when you grab the collar of his sweater and smash his lips against yours with need, with a newfound spark that excites him. He practically rushes to take your bottoms off, to slide down until they pool at his ankles, to turn on the bed until you’re laying on your back and his mouth is marking your inner thighs, adding new color to the bruises already lingering there. 

You’re twitching under his touch and he has to press your hips down to keep you still when he takes your panties off and dives into your folds. Usually, he would be prepping you to make a mess. You teached him how to make you squirt months ago, the day before you officially got together and he has had the pleasure of making you see stars since then. 

Today, there’s not enough time. 

So he wastes no time in devouring you like he knows you like it. Your leg thrown over his shoulder, the sweater and the shirt underneath rising just enough for him to thrust his hips against the bed at the image of your skin. 

You try to keep it down, he sees you trying to contain yourself and under any other circumstances, he would scold you for depriving him of the sounds you make. But this time around, the view edges him. He wonders briefly what other scenarios he can propose to have you gulping down your moans, to make you gasp for air after pressing the palm of your own hand over your mouth so no more whines slip out of your lips.

He doubles his efforts, just to see you trying to contain yourself and failing to do so, again. It makes you double your efforts as well, probably just to spite him as you thrust your hips and chase your high, but it doesn't bother him. 

If anything, it makes him harder than ever. The way you ride his face, the tongue that flattens out and then curves around your clit and your conviction falters, hips falling still at the way he sucks into your sensitive nub. Your hand in his hair pulls a little and the sting of pain almost makes him come untouched. 

Chuckling into your heat, Mingi catches the exact moment your eyes roll to the back of your head. He feels your limbs locking, he tastes your release when your orgasm hits you, he helps you ride out the sensation while pleased moans fill the room. 

And, usually, he would kiss his way up to your lips. He could right now too, over the sweater, the idea of the fuzzy material mixing with your orgasm it's tempting but he remembers you have to see people after this as well. 

He remembers he doesn't have much time. 

And your words are ringing on the back of his head when his mouth latches onto yours again, when you moan after tasting yourself on his tongue. 

He pulls away to silently ask the question: Do you want to keep going? 

You nod, nose nuzzling his briefly before he turns you around. Harshly, like he knows you like it. He sees you grasp the comforter and a pillow between your fingers when he sinks himself into your wet heat, he hears the muffled cry when he adjusts a little and when you close your legs to lie flatly on the bed and in-between his, he all but sees stars at the feeling. 

You're not tight. That's good, that's a sign that you're comfortable with him, trusting of him, a sign that you want you. This position makes it a snug fit, though, and when you purposefully squeeze around him he presses on his hands on your lower back with a groan.

“S-stop stalling, baby, we're running out of ti— Fuck, Mingi!” 

Pulling out and then slamming his hips back down with measured force, he marvels in the feeling of you genuinely squeezing around him, out of pleasure and not to tease him. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks, forehead connecting with the soft material of the sweater when he leans over you, on your shoulder and smiles when you moan at the way he picks up the pace. 

“Yes, yes, yes, f-fuck,” you mumble in response, head turning and breath fawning on his cheek that you attempt to kiss a second later, so he complies and turns his head to kiss you sweetly, a complete contrast of the way he's thrusting into you.

He falters when he notices just how hard he is going but your hand shoots back, attempts to grab his hip and your head shakes in disapproval. 

“Don't stop,” you ask, breathless, eyes scanning his face to see if he's not into this but he assumes you don't find that because he is into it, “use me, my love. That's what I want.” 

You don’t have to repeat yourself. He leans back up, hands finding a secure spot on your hips and uses you like you asked. He’s hardly the one to seek his own relief so soon. He likes to take his time with you, even when you don’t have much, and that means making you come undone at least twice before he even allows his dick to be touched, but now? 

With how turned on he is? With how full of love he is for you? 

He remembers the time, the years he didn’t allow himself to see you in nothing but platonic light. He remembers the feeling of your lips on his for the first time, he remembers the love you professed to him today and the way you make him feel so wanted, so adored, so—

“Oh— fuck.” 

His pace falters, his orgasm so close he’s unable to keep chasing for it with the same measured force he was using before. 

“Yes, Mingi,” you encourage, somehow managing to move your body upwards, meeting his own, “don’t stop, baby, please, I want to feel you inside of me.” 

He vaguely registers himself moaning, babbling nonsense as his movements pick back up. He hears your voice distantly, like he’s underwater, like the way you tell him to come inside of him and that you love him it’s what’s pulling him back up. 

And when he releases inside of you, his ears ring slightly and his forehead meets your back, eyes closed and chest heaving. He feels his heartbeat on his throat, he feels your heartbeat on your back and its rhythm matches his beautifully. 

No one says anything for a few minutes where you both try and recover from the intensity of what you just did. Something new, something that leaves you both exhausted and he can see it on your sleepy and content smile when he pulls out and you turn around, not giving a fuck that you’re bedding is probably going to get sticky with his cum. 

He throws himself besides you and your nose touches his cheek immediately. 

“That was…” 

“So good,” you say and he hugs you close, breath still ragged, “and we should definitely look into sweater fetish or whatever it’s called. I think you enjoyed it more than me.” 

He gasps in feign offense. 

“Stop projecting, love.” 

“Am not—”

“Yes, you are,” he sing-songs back and you weakly hit his arm with your fist. You don’t say anything afterwards and Mingi stops staring at the stars in your ceiling to look at you. 

You’re staring at your ring. He smiles, all the emotions that your words brought to him coming right back. 

“I want to marry you, Y/N.” 

He says it without really thinking it through. He doesn’t regret it even when you look up at him with a little panic behind your eyes. 

“Now?” 

He laughs “Someday,” shrugging, his lips connect with your hairline and you sigh, snuggling up to him a bit more “There’s going to be two more rings that I’m going to give to you and only you.��� 

“Good thing you got my ring size right.” 

Your joke makes him laugh and you lean up against his chest a bit to look at him. 

“I’m going to say yes, Mingi,” you whisper and he melts against the pillow, his hand on your cheek a second later. He sees your eyes go down to the ring on his necklace and the smile that brings to your lips makes his heart pick up again.  “And then I’m going to show off my ring to everyone and I’m going to be insufferable as a wife. I hope you’re ready.” 

You fall back down on his chest, cheek just above the beating of his heart and eyes closed. The smile lingers on your lips and, as he brushes your hair back with his hand and smooths his hand under your sweater, he can’t help but smile back.

“I don’t want it any other way, love.” 

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH and happy holidays! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

© jensthwa, 2024.

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: What are your most alluring qualities?

🂺 "Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." ~ Edgar Allen Poe~

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is meant to help uplift your spirit and highlight qualities about you that transcend space and time and manage to energetically get picked up by lil ol' me. Who then tries to put that inexplicable beauty into words. :)

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

☀︎ Pile One ☀︎ (nine of cups, magician rev., moon rev.,hanged man, page of cups, queen of cups)

⇾ Pink. Yellow. Fuzzy. This feels so warm, there's heat around my waist. Maybe you’re a dancer? Do you like to wear very big pullovers or extra garments around your waist? Corsets? I’m getting a strong emphasis with an attraction toward your waistline. Also, a very airy feeling in my ribs. ⇾ You’re fucking hilarious. Your ability to uplift any room’s vibe is extremely attractive. Strong water energy, Cancer, Pisces, Scorpio, 4th, 8th, 12th house. But not as emotionally heavy. Not the thunderstorm but the sunny, dewy morning after. Literal sunshine. You may have a signature scent. Coconut, vanilla, brown sugar. Before shuffling your cards, my nose was congested but while I was channeling, I had these moments where air would pass through the room, clear my sinuses, and the tingling feeling in my ribs came back. ⇾ You’re a high. A nice clean, mellow high. The brief moments in time when your body completely relaxes and you start flowing with the wind. People are addicted to how you make them feel. Your energy feels like the first hit of that oui. wink wink. People get a hit of your energy and it feels like an escape. This is my intuitive and sensitive dreamy pile. There is a lot of emotional depth here, you’re enigmatic. Being in your presence transports people to a simpler time in their lives. A period where the sun shined brighter, the air was cleaner, and all the color in the world felt more vivid. People can sense the storm raging in the back of your head but can visually see your perseverance and ability to not let darkness rot you, keeping this light and airy energy. It’s almost superhuman, you almost seem not real. You’re impossibly infectious. ⇾ You have a lot of natural inner abundance, you attract a lot in life even if you don’t realize it. I’m getting moksha house energy, a strong wheelhouse of influential power. The duality of your sweet, caring but reserved introspective nature is sexy as fuck, to be honest. It is hypnotizing and ignites people. I also see you have attractive skin, whether it’s clear, glowy, or cute moles, I'm not sure. But something about your skin people just can’t help but want to trace and admire. Jupiter/Pisces energy. Sugary sweet and in your own world, I feel like I have a toothache. Rare kind and light energy. Your attractiveness and romantic influence on people is one of your natural talents pile 1. I can see that with the Jupiterian energy I'm getting. You got 3 major arcana cards back to back. You’re a light in the dark and people are moths to a flame.

"You're pretty like a memory"

☀︎ Pile Two ☀︎ (ace of swords, the tower, knight of swords, 6 of swords rev, the magician, 3 of wands)

⇾ Well for starters, you’re SEXXXYYYY. Not just physically, but your wit, intelligence…people’s attraction to you gives me the image of Joan of Arc’s admirers. People perceive you as gorgeous, brave, and intimidatingly capable. ⇾ I’m getting Uranian energy, Yes, something about you is very mercurial, but this is next level. In modern astrology, Uranus is a higher octave of Mercury and symbolizes putting these higher-level ideas into action. Your ability to think of a goal and go after it is attractive. Or have a belief and fiercely defend it. I don’t know if you’re aware, but you have an innate ability to monetize or profit off of your ideas and skills. Especially with all this sword energy, the 3 of wands, AND the magician. Mane, you make shit HAPPEN. You make shit shake. A lot of people say they’re going to do things they have no intention of starting or say things they don’t actually believe. You are a rare exception to that. You put your money where your mouth is, and the amount of willpower and intelligence you possess is intimidating yet so very very attractive. ⇾ There’s gotta be some major concentration in your natal chart, a stellium, a reoccurring modality, sign, not sure but your energy is uniquely focused and intense. You may sometimes battle with excess mental energy. Anxiety, overthinking, etc. You’re a harbinger of change. Wherever you go, major changes follow and there is something very important about your energy. Your footprint in this world is larger than the average person’s. Your sense of self and your loyalty to your authenticity and values is highly admirable. *whispers* maybe even enviable, watch out for negative intentions and trust your discernment. ⇾ Whether you’re a man or woman watching this, you intimidate a lot of men. You’re the creme of the crop so to speak. You are the human embodiment of a warrior. Strategic, brave, and your fire cannot be dimmed. You have this eternal energy to you. Your name will be sung long after you leave this Earth. There will be tales and songs about you. There is an emphasis on making a change and legacy here, 10th house/ Capricorn Energy. Solar and Jupiterian energy is possible too, there's a lot of king semblance here. I feel like your frame is very attractive. Defined muscles especially around your neck and shoulders. Fox attractiveness. Sharp features, or some special emphasis with your lips, jaw, and teeth.  There is a lot of sexual attraction in this pile. I was shuffling and getting flashes of old Wattpad enemies to lovers and dark academia rivalry fanfiction 😭😭. I’m getting a headrush. Maybe you feel like a headrush to people at times.  You might look good in darker, cool-tone colors or have dark hair. ⇾ You make people aware of their shortcomings and that triggers them. You trigger strong emotions in people. People see you as superior to many, you’re either singled out in a crowd positively or negatively. People either love or hate you but it is undeniable that you are sexy and very fucking capable. You also have the ace of wands at the bottom of the deck…like I said…sexy and capable.

"Don't look at me with those eyes"

☀︎ Pile Three ☀︎ (The tower, queen of swords, three of pentacles, queen of wands, 9 of wands)

⇾ This is my dark feminine pile. 🎶Sheee’sssss a maaaann eeeaaatttttttuuuhhhhhhhh🎶, Ironically, the black cat got chosen for this pile. The tower paired with the two queen cards screams shadowy feminine to me, but balanced. The three of pentacles create a bridge between your intense fire and air energy. You balance your shadowy, detached and your fiery, passionate nature and it creates this intoxicating dichotomy that people can not get enough of. ⇾ You also are reserved and guarded, people can tell it is hard to gain your trust and gain access to your inner world so people subconsciously try hard to earn your favor. When I was laying out your cards my eyes got heavy and I felt like I needed to go to bed. You have a very sultry sluggishness to you. Think about Corpse Bride, how her eyes were always low, she moved slowly, and her voice was low. You have a dark veil over your character that is very alluring. There may be an 8th house or Mars emphasis in your natal chart. Make sure to check your planetary midpoints. ⇾ I am getting a Gabriette Betchel vibe. There's a darkness around the eyes of the man standing in the nine of wands. There is a draw to the shape of your eyes, especially if they droop a little or you have sunken eyes. Maybe you like dark makeup if you’re into makeup. This pile definitely had a crush on Morticia Adams growing up. You ARE Morticia Adams. Pretty Rave Girl is playing in my head, I don’t associate your energy with the rave aesthetic but I get the sense that people fantasize about you. You’re naturally mysterious and detached and most people only have an idea of you rather than a one-on-one connection. You may face a lot of projections, there’s fog around people’s perception of you. Plutonian-type power, insanely magnetic, with Neputinian-type glamour, veiled and shapeshifting. There may be some WLW baddies in this collective. ⇾ I feel like a very small number of people truly know you, you are reserved and selective with your energy and let me tell you, that is the most attractive practice a human being can implement. You are a once-in-a-lifetime personality that people dream about embodying. YOU ARE AN AESTHETIC. Well not exactly, I’m not limiting you down to your appearance. But you are the ideal embodiment of the dark feminine, man-eater aesthetic. The other three piles felt like concepts that I tried to piece together to paint a picture, your pile feels like a tried and true timeless dark sexiness that we've seen in cinema and music videos throughout the years. There is range here though, I’m feeling anywhere between Morticia Adams to Effy from Skins. The allure of Hollywood’s bombshells mixed with the angst and self-guardedness of America’s outcasted teen icons. I’m seeing an emerald snake, if you’re into sidereal astrology you may have ashlesha placements. I could write an entire essay about the fucking bullshit you've endured and THRIVED FROM but this is already getting a lil lengthy lol. Just know that you are living testament to the saying “I get knocked down ten times but get up eleven.” Stay sexy pookie.

"You got your HP Lovecraft... your Edgar Allan Poe"

☀︎ Pile Four ☀︎ (high priestess, two of swords, 4 of pentacles, the empress, knight of pentacles, 10 of cups)

⇾ UHHHH THE DRAAMMAAA. Bae, the high priestess FLEW out. You’re angelic. No mf backtalk. I don’t know about the stereotypical angel, but something about your presence is otherworldly. So intense but hard to conceptualize, can’t classify your energy as anything less than angelic. People see you as something holy and righteous. A theme of fairness and divinity is strong here. I’m seeing the virgin (Virgo, purity) and a gavel (libra, balance and fairness.) Your energy is always in a state of balance and harmony. Temperance did not come out, but I’d bet my top dollar that it would have if I kept pulling. ⇾ I’m hearing a steady water stream and the flaps of bird wings. People come to you for peace and tranquility. Your aura is serene and healing. Being near you is like transporting to a haven with clean water, a sustainable garden, fresh air, and BUNNIES. An image of a ton of white bunnies just came to me. This is not an 18+ reading, so I won’t go into detail but bunnies represent fertility and high sexual energy. You have an abundance of creativity. The best representation of people’s attraction to you I can put into words is like seeing raw energy. There’s this movie that came out in 2017 called Annihilation and there’s a scene where the main character comes into contact with pure energy and is so entranced by it that she just stares at it head empty, blankly in complete awe. THAT is how people see you. Like c’mon high priestess, the empress, 10 of cups, don’t ever fucking question yourself. You have an undeniably divine aura. ⇾ You’re a big deal, you're energy is very enlightening and calm but there is a heavy weight to it. Everything you do in life makes an impression and holds weight. Your thoughts matter, your conversation changes lives, and your very presence makes an imprint on people’s souls. Virgo 6th house, libra 7th house, Scorpio 8th house, Pisces 12th house. ⇾ You also have a very stable, Earthy nature to you with the 4 of pentacles and the Empress. To me, this is pure wealth. You will see a lot of luxury in your lifetime. You are a giver, you have a lot to offer the world. You are the epitome of “fill my own cup and let it overflow to those around me.” You share your abundance and prosperity follows you. You have the divine understanding that life is all about balance and what you give, you receive tenfold. ⇾ People think you look really good in white. Blonde hair could be a good look on you. Any aesthetic that involves purity or innocence really suits you. Personally, I’d say you look fucking killer in red hair. ⇾ With the ten of cups, I’m getting major wish-fulfillment vibes. When suitors see you they hear an angelic chime in their ear (I hear it right now) and music starts playing. DREAM GIRL. By the strictest definition too, you’re very dreamy and your allure is cloudy, people are afraid if they touch you, you’ll float away. You could have prominent Neptune placements. Do you like to sing? Harmoney and melodic sounds keep popping up. I'm thinking of Euterpe, the muse of music. ⇾ Your abundance leaks into your appearance (look for aspects to your ascendant, especially Neptune, Jupiter, and the Sun), you look very youthful and hydrated. It’s going to sound creepy but from a biological, primal-lizard brain perspective, you look fruitful and like you'd bear many blessings and children. Your skin is well hydrated and plump, your hair is strong and luscious, and you look overall very healthy.

"Be Not Afraid."

ahhh that was so much fun! to those who resonated with a pile, thank you for giving me the pleasure of experiencing your energy and reading for you. if you liked it let me know :)

[theanimeroom]

NSFW UNDER THE CUT

💎 bf!toge inumaki who uses his cursed speech on you while eating you out. this wasn’t the first time you’d requested this out of him, but alas, he was too worried about hurting you. he’d seen the things that he was capable of when he got too reckless, and the last thing he wanted to do was turn you into a vegetable.

“bonito flakes,” his voice was stern, shaking his head adamantly as you stood in front of him with a pout. you could tell by the look in his eye that he wasn’t willing to budge on the matter, but you weren’t very keen on giving up. you asked him day after day, only to be met with the same response.

you’d understood inumaki’s concern completely. even you had gotten a glimpse of the destruction he could cause if he ever said the wrong thing, but you couldn’t help the way that your thighs instinctively squeezed together to relieve the pressure building between your legs every time.

you’d linger in the back of the group at the end of every mission, eyes staring holes into the back of the man’s head as you tried not to get consumed by the rather scandalous thoughts that plagued you.

the constant stream of images kept you from being able to let go, growing more insistent and vivid every time he ended up between your legs.

the knot in your stomach would strain, the brief thought of his husky voice filling your ears never failing to send you spiraling.

“toge…” the gasp slipped from you before you could stop it, eyes rolling as your back lurched from the bed. your fingers found purchase in the strands of hair that covered his eyes, giving you a full view of the violet hues. he peered up at you, marked tongue swiping between your folds as you tried to keep your body still, per his request.

"bonito flakes," he said as he pushed your trembling thighs open once more. you muttered out an apology as you tried to remain still, but you just had too much trouble following the man's instructions.

your hips launched off of the mattress as his lips curled around your engorged bud, sucking lightly before his hand reached around to tuck itself under your leg. a firm press on your lower stomach followed by a soft “tuna,” left you whimpering.

“m’ trying,” you whimpered, yet you couldn’t stop your body from jerking each time his lips connected with your puffy clit. it was too much, it felt like you’d been close for hours. a soft moan from inumaki went straight to your cunt, hips instinctively rolling into the warmth of his mouth. you wanted to come, wanted to coat his face in your arousal until his lips and nose were glistening. a brief dip of the man’s head allowed him to lick at your sopping entrance, a firm lick upwards sending the tip of his nose bumping into the sensitive bud. “oh my fucking-”

desperation seeped through your veins as you squeezed your legs together so tight your knees grazed each other, effectively trapping the purple eyed man in your heat.

his hand grasped your thigh tightly, groaning as his source of oxygen was suddenly cut off. another throaty moan slipping into the air at the vibration, you rocked your hips into the man’s face. foregoing his ability to breathe, you chased your high with fervor, the feeling of needles pricking at your skin a telltale sign of your impending orgasm. inumaki’s mouth slipped open, licking a fat stripe against your cunt rough enough to make your legs shiver, the grip loosening just enough to force them back open.

your brows furrowed deeply as he finally managed to pull away, breathing labored as you chased the feeling of his lips and tongue against you. a desperate whine was the last thing you heard before toge’s usually soft hands dug into the back of both your thighs, pushing the limbs as far apart as they could reach until-

“don’t move.”

the words flooded your system, eyes shooting open to bulge as wide as saucers when your body froze in place. with a heavy pulse your cunt leaked against the bed, arousal covering every last inch of your being as you attempted to curl your fingers, only to be met with no movement. your gaze shot down to the man between your legs, breathing growing even more labored when you immediately met his eye. he was observing you, trying to make sure that you were okay, but the sight of those violet irises and marked tongue left you with limited vocabulary.

“please,” was the only thing you could manage, eyes begging silently for him to drag you over the edge and into the depths of pleasure. at your approval inumaki dove back in, eyes never leaving your face as you watched him eat you out to his hearts content. where your legs would usually shaking and body convulsing, you could only mewl as you were forced to take it, eyes glazing over as two fingers slowly traced your entrance, collecting your arousal around the digits before easing their way inside of you.

another moan permeated the air as they reached the second knuckle, inumaki once again wrapping his lips around your clit before curling his fingers in your warmth.

the pressure would have launched you off the bed had you not been compelled, expletives leaving you left and right as you felt the knot in your stomach starting to unravel.

“gonna… gonna come!!” you’d moan, face contorting as that was the only part of your body that you still had control over. you felt him pull his face away for a moment, eyes peeling open just long enough to watch him stare up at you. he curled his fingers until they were fucking your g-spot, gaze never leaving you as he flexed his jaw. it looked like he wanted to say something, contemplation written on his visage until he seemingly made his decision. holding your attention as he pressed soft kisses along your inner thigh, you held your breath when his swollen lips parted slightly.

you briefly wondered what would come out of his mouth; tuna? salmon? or maybe he would just say-

“come.”

the word was firm and commanding, your mind barely having time to comprehend it before immense pleasure crashed through you in waves. his tone ran. straight between your legs, his usual tone being replaced by something deeper, darker. it reminded you of all the times you'd heard him during battle, forcing his words into their mind before they could even react. you could barely breathe with the way his fingers prodded against you, the pace only quickening as you cried out for him. “toge!”

“harder.”

it felt like his voice was echoing in your mind, it permeated your senses, leaving your body as a vessel for him to take advantage of. the thought made your head spin and pussy throb.

“FUCK,” you could barely keep up as the world started rotating around you. your body felt like it was cracking under pressure, mind and body numbing from pleasure. your legs shook instinctively, tears staining your waterline when his tongue started to lap against your clit once more. you pleaded softly, begging your arms to move so you could wrap your fingers around his soft tufts of hair. "s'too much.."

his movements slowed when your breathing started to sound too labored, you staring at the back of your eyelids until inumaki's voice broke through your haze.

“mustard leaf?”

there’s your sweet boy. you whimpered as he lowered your legs back down, a surprised grunt escaping when you tried to shift your body, your mind actually taking over control of your limbs once more.

a small, fatigued smile crossed your face, looking down at him with drowsy eyes. “i’m okay, baby.”

inumaki watched you for another few seconds as you caught your breath, making sure that you weren’t just trying to placate him before climbing towards the top of the bed. you gazed at him as his eyes ran from yours all the way down your body, a brush of his lower half against your upper leg reminding you that you were in fact not done for the night.

inumaki grinned as he took in your expression, placing a soft kiss against your lips before peering back at you.

“salmon.”

[sarqhsstuff]

Very Good - Ellie Williams

College AU Ellie Williams x AFAB (assigned female at birth) reader. There is no use of Y/N, or a chosen name for the reader. 3.6k words

Content includes: fingering (reader receiving), oral sex/cunnilingus (reader receiving), kissing, cursing, pet names (babe, baby, lover, love, ex), sub!reader + dom!ellie, and overall vivid descriptions of sexual activity.

The moon shone brightly in contrast to the inky sky. The light passed through the window, and lit the room a sparkly gray. I bounced my knee against the wooden desk as I rested my head against the cool surface. My eyes drooped with exhaustion as a result of my long study session. 

A loud knocking suddenly shocked me, causing my head to fly up. I begrudgingly stood up, and walked over to the door. Upon opening it, my face deepens to a blood red. 

“I need a distraction.” Ellie states, pushing past me into my dorm. She flings herself onto my bed, and pushes on her elbows to sit up. “Are you busy?”

Her words echo in my head as I bite down on my lip. Truthfully, I was behind in a few of my classes. I desperately needed to study. However, her sweet honey tone and wide begging eyes tempted me. “I’m not sure Els, I kinda need to work on more of my assignments-” Her groan cuts off my words. Brown soft strands stuck up in random directions atop her head, and her eyes now drooped with similar exhaustion to mine. My lip remains between my teeth as I turn my head away from the scene. If I had any hope of going back to studying, I could not look anywhere near Ellie. 

“But.. I need you.” Ellie begged further, her words almost coming across whiny now. Her brows furrowed together, and her eyes were no longer pleading. With lids half open and a pouty lip, Ellie made me powerless. My pulse hammered against my temples, and a rush of blood traveled to my face. I curse internally, knowing that I could not possibly say no. 

“Need me for what?” I try to play dumb, hoping that there was still some way I could get out of this. But as my eyes traveled over her outfit, I was not sure if that would even be humane of me to do. She wore a thin black shirt, decalled with a band's name I did not know. The fabric clung to her upper arms, only further displaying her muscles. Her collarbone peeked out the stretched collar, and begged to be marked with sin. Cold air blows out my burning throat as I pathetically attempt to calm myself.

Ellie’s face changes into a smirk, and it's obvious she can read my thoughts. “Come here babe, let me touch you.” Her demanding tone forces my feet to drag me over, and all of a sudden I was crawling on the bed towards her. Sage green eyes met mine in an instant, and her arms opened to invite me in. My skin trembled as I finally reached her. Hands flew to my waist, dragging me further into my company's lap. I raise my arms with hesitance, and wrap them around her neck. 

As Ellie reads my nervous expression, a brow raises inquiry. “Why are you so tense? It's just us, love.” I feel as she drags a hand slowly over my shirt before pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. We are so close that I can feel her breath against my face, and it only makes me blush more. Her hand falls back to meet the other at my waist as she whispers, “You’re so pretty when you’re flustered.” 

My heart flies into my throat, preventing me from responding. All I can manage to do is move a slight bit forward towards her. Her lips enticed me, all pink and soft. Ellie’s freckles dotted her skin like stars, only making her all the more beautiful. “I can’t help it.” I mumble, though I am barely aware that I even spoke. My thoughts were plagued with images of her lips on mine, and all over my body. 

“I know.” She chuckles, her chest rising and falling quickly with her laughter. My cheeks impossibly got darker, now a deep crimson red. Ellie notices this right away, as she knows my own body better than myself. A calloused hand moves again from off my waist, and now slides under my shirt. It moves dangerously slow, causing goosebumps to raise all over my touched skin. Her fingers glide over my stomach, the motion going straight to my core. 

“Ellie.” I breathe out, my breath wet and hot. Her existing smirk only widens, and her head tilts.

“And I thought I was the one needing you. Hm?” She teases, though her tone is warm and sultry. Her eyes bore into mine, causing a shiver to pass over my spine. My spread thighs tremble on top of hers. The warmth passing between us was making my head even fuzzier, coherent sentences becoming nonexistent. As if Ellie sensed this, she moved her lips daringly closer to mine. Just as I think she’s going to lovingly close the gap between us, she bites down on my lower lip. A whine escapes me as she does so, only fueling her further. I see sparkles shine in her pupils, her lust obvious. Her teeth now graze over the sensitive skin, pulling yet another whimper from me. Desperate for more I push my lips onto hers, the motion hurried and sloppy. I wasn’t too sure of what I was doing, since I could barely think at all. It was really pathetic how quickly Ellie could get me riled up. 

Ellie reciprocated the kiss almost immediately. Her hand resting on my stomach began to climb up my body, the heat arousing me. Rough fingers gripped at the nape of my neck, holding me still as the kiss deepened. She moved with skill, her lips perfectly mashing with mine. The embrace was slow yet sensual. Low rumbles came from her throat as her brows narrowed together in focus. My mind and hers alike were solely focused on each other. 

Struggling, Ellie ripped her lips off mine. The skin was wet and puffy, her face similar in color. Her lip quivered as if it missed mine, and she bit down aggressively on it. “Mm need you now, babe.” Her voice was deep and scratchy, sounding as if her throat dried from the loss of my body. 

I nodded enthusiastically in response, that being all I could muster. In an instant, Ellie moved to lift me off her lap, and pushed me to lay down. The bed was warming up as our bodies were, the fabric temperature only dulling my mind more. She climbed over me, and moved to straddle my waist. Her thighs melted around my sharp hip bones. They were only shielded with thin shorts, and my hands flew to grip the fabric. Her face frantically came back to mine, our lips colliding again. The kiss started fast and needy, but soon changed into something more slow and brain numbing. I tug on her shorts desperately, trying to ground my souring head. One of Ellie’s hands grasped harshly on my hip, her fingernails imprinting crescents into my skin. A pleading moan leaves me at the sinful thought of her grip creating marks. Her other hand was wrapped around my neck, not preventing me from breathing but increasing my blood flow. I took deep sharp inhales as Ellie squeezed harder. She took this opportunity to slip her tongue into my mouth. Our tongues wrapped around one another, the movement very familiar. 

“What do you need from me?” I croak out. My voice sounded whiny, and my eyes were wide and pleading. Our lips brush against each other as I speak. Our eye contact is intense, and I feel myself shrinking beneath her. 

Ellie chuckles as her hands explore my body, worshiping all of my curves. “I need to..” she pauses to lift her body off mine and blows out an exasperated breath, “Please let me taste you- you’ve been busy all week- I need it.” She takes awkward pauses as she speaks, her tone begging. Her voice sounded as if she hadn’t drunk in years, and I was the only thing which could clench her thirst. Suddenly, her fingers loop around the crown of my pants and tug on them. 

I nod frantically, unable to speak. Her face spreads into a lopsided grin, and she swiftly moves down my body. In one rough push, she separates my thighs. I whimper at the stretch, and momentarily throw my head back onto the bed in anticipation. Ellie stares intently between my thighs, and her mouth almost begins to salivate. My pants slide down over my thighs as Ellie brings them down, and the cool air hits my burning flesh. She enthusiastically pulls them from off my ankles, and tosses them somewhere on the floor. As the soft fabric hits the floor with a thump, my brain runs wild with thoughts. It was not foreign for Ellie to want to please me like this, but this time she seemed so much hungrier. 

Her starved eyes trace my thighs, her lips following in pursuit. Soft kisses press against my skin as she explores. Every freckle, every scar, and every stretch mark were being given attention. Slowly, her face moves closer and closer to where I want her most. Her expression changes into something sinister as she blows hot breath onto my panties. My neck curves backwards as I once again toss my head back. As I try to calm my rapidly moving chest, I stare at the ceiling above. However, I can distinctively imagine the smirk Ellie undoubtedly wore. 

Her hands meet with my thong, and she yanks it down my thighs. I use my legs to kick the fabric the rest of the way off, and Ellie chuckles with amusement. “Eager, are you?” Her laugh echoes inside my brain, rattling around chaotically. Her eyes trace over my features, moving tauntingly too slow down my body. They snapped to mine after a moment, and her pupils were blown. Her normal green eyes were now just a tiny sliver of iris around her enlarged pupil. Lost in a trance with her adoring glare, I fail to realize when her mouth moves down to my clit. In one long stripe, her tongue slides from my clit, down through my slit, and to my hole. The leathery muscle traces along the rim, and a low groan leaves Ellie’s lips.

“I always love when you’re on my tongue.” She confesses. This draws a small whimper from me, my eyes squeezed shut in desperation. I helplessly grind my hips downwards in a sad attempt to make contact with her tongue again. Ellie only laughs in response and the warm damp air hits my heat. “Have some patience please, Babe. I want to take my time with you. I’ve missed this.” Her needy tone adds to my pooling wetness. 

“O- Ok.” I stutter, my brain malfunctioning. I try to calm my hips, but they shake subconsciously. My chest rises and falls rapidly as I attempt to clear my fogging mind, though Ellie practically fought against my efforts. Her tongue returned feverishly, and lapped at my cavern. My hands move frantically as my body looks for something to ground myself with. They quickly find Ellie’s hair, and tug on the strands. Her auburn hair was half pulled back, though some pieces fell to frame her face. The hair ended at her shoulders with a blunt cut. Her eyebrows matched the rest, now wrinkled together as her face was buried between my legs. Calloused hands grip onto my thighs, the plush skin melting between her fingers.  

My fingers tighten around her hair as her mouth travels higher. She licked my clit repeatedly, her effort never wavering. I feel as my thighs try to pull back together, caging her head. One of her hands on my thigh harshly spread it open to give her more access. A small gasp passes past my lips as Ellie’s other hand moves to my core. One long finger circles around the rim, almost as if she was teasing me. I whimper as a plea, however she roughly pulls away tongue and all. 

“I said be patient.” Ellie demands with a cold scowl. Her palms pushed down on my hips, preventing me from obtaining any self inflicted pleasure. My body writhes from loss of stimulation, and a groan deep from my throat escapes. Ellie’s expression remains unmoving, and she does not move. My breathing increases in speed, as I begin to panic. My senses were abruptly met with absence, and the sensation was uncomfortable. 

As if Ellie sensed this uncomfort, her hands begin to gently caress my thighs, Her expression morphs into a more caring one as she keeps moving to soothe me. A warm tingle passes over my spine, effectively calming my frantic stature. “Shh everything is okay. I’ll take care of you, alright Babe?” Her loving words smooth the goosebumps on my thighs, and the muscles stop spasming. Ellie’s lips stretch into a wide smile as she sees my calm demeanor. She leans down to lay a kiss on my thigh, and then rests her head on the plump skin. Her eyelashes tickle my skin, causing me to quietly giggle. If even possible her smile brightens more, lighting up the entire dorm. The setting sun shines warm yellow rays through the windows. However, the sun could never brighten my world as well as Ellie’s smile could. 

“I love you, remember? I just want you to feel as much pleasure as possible.” She mumbles into my thigh. Her eyes looked up at my face, and I could clearly see her pupils searching sporadically to understand how I was feeling. The freckles which scattered her skin stood out against the smooth skin of my thigh, only making her appear more ethereal. 

I take a deep inhale, fully stretching my lungs. The air flows from my lips as I exhale, and ruffles Ellie’s hair. “I know.” I breathe out, my lungs now exhausted. Ellie quickly sits her body up, and kisses my lips. It is short and sweet, a strong contrast to earlier. She ended the kiss as soon as she started to feel it increase with intensity. Her lips stretch to smile as she lowers her head back down towards my center. 

I gasp out as one of her fingers press against my entrance. She moves carefully as she inserts a digit, allowing my body to stretch with the intrusion. My walls fluttered around the warm perpetrator. I look down to see Ellies’ eyes wide open. Her pupils swelled as she realized just how wet I was. Already a single finger was sliding easily, her knuckles hitting my sensitive folds. 

Ellie understood my body far past what I could understand, so she knew I was ready. Another digit presses against my somewhat widened cavern. It slides in next to the other finger, my wet slick allowing the process to be painless. I groaned out into the air as my back arched, and my knees rose. My head falls back onto the bed, and pushes up my neck and shoulders. Ellie saw this and began to slowly scissor her fingers. The digits would push apart to stretch my walls, before meeting back together. She repeats this process for just too long, and I begin to whimper. Her smile transforms into a smirk, and she finally begins to finger my arching core effectively. The fingers slide in and out with a steady speed, and they curl to rub the spongy area of the flesh. I cry out and frantically move my hands to grip Ellies’ hair again for stability. My hips rock rhythmically with hers, but this time she allows such. As her fingers dig deeper, the curling presses against my sweet spot harsher. My breathing increases as the pleasure invades all my sensations. 

Without warning, Ellies’ tongue returns to my clit. The muscle circles the pulsing mound feverishly, successfully dragging a loud whine out of my throat. My hand grips on the tiny pony tail of her half-up-half-down even harsher. However, the girl between my legs seems to give no care. If anything this devilish pain fueled her actions even further. The fingers inside me slow down, but now slide deeper into my core. Her digits still for a moment, then the tips start to swipe over my sweet sponge repeatedly. My hips uncontrollably seize away, but Ellie is quick to slam them back down. The hand not being used to plow me grabs my ass, and fondles the skin. I clamp down on my lip in hopes to muffle my pathetic whimpers. However my efforts are useless as the sound of wet sliding fills the room. As I try to center my focus, my teeth grind on the fragile feature. 

I release my lip as Ellie unexpectedly drags her tongue through my folds. She laps up the arousal and groans. One thing I could never be insecure about is Ellie eating me out. She constantly ensures me that she finds pleasure and enjoyment in the action, possibly even more than I did. It was not uncommon for my lover to barge into my dorm to demand intimacy.

My mouth falls open and desperately brings air to my lungs. The organs cause my chest to rise and fall just as frantically as they were. Ellie undoubtedly notices, and takes it as a sign to pleasure me more intensely. Her tongue muscle works hard to slide up and down my slick, and occasionally spin around my clit. My walls shake deliciously with every pressured stroke. The bedding now envelops me in an overwhelming warmth, the heat from our bodies changing the temperature. Yet in contrast my skin erupts in goosebumps. Every nerve tingles in a mind numbing pleasure. My core muscles contract, which pressurizes the growing pit in my stomach. Ellie tilts her eyes up from my lust to watch my stomach spasm with a wicked grin.

Her tongue pressed flat against my clit for a moment to say; “Come on Baby, make a mess on my fingers.” Her sensual words fly straight to my sex, causing the attentive flesh to pulse more rapidly. Ellies’ tongue teasingly flicks my clit, some drops of saliva and arouse propelling into the damp air. The fingers inside me move with the intent to drag an orgasm from me. The tips caress my skin quicker. This sensation becomes entirely overwhelming, along with the attention being given to my clit. A pressure grows substantially within my stomach, and threatens to explode. Ellies’ eyes flutter close and my skin vibrates as she moans against it. Her brows are furrowed in concentration as she begins to drag me over the edge.

The throbbing, tingling pressure in my arousal intensifies as my core snaps. A full body sensation travels over me, blocking my system from experiencing any other feeling. My back arches higher, and my thighs clash together. Ellies’ auburn locks get tousled as her head is crushed between my thighs. My clit feels electrified, and my nipples harden. My breasts stretch with my back, which makes my buds buzz with static delight. I taste Ellies’ spit from when her tongue was in my mouth instead of torturing my clit. My sight is blinded as my eyes squeeze shut. My lovers’ hair is yanked once more, this time harsher than the others. 

Ellies’ eyes remain close, and sweet enticing moans leave her soft plush lips. She drinks the lust spilling from my cavern with joy. Her facial muscles release their tension and relax as her tongue works to not miss a single drop of my orgasm. 

I moan in ecstasy. She had made me cum countless times, however this time infected my senses stronger than any other. My thighs violently quiver around Ellies’ head, though she makes no effort to escape. Her tongue still moves to happily swallow my arousal. The reddened flesh now hums with a simmering sting. I attempt to pull her away by tugging on her locks more aggressively, but she doesn’t move. My nerves scream with overstimulation and loud guttural groans bounce about the dorm. I release a hand from her hair, and it shakes as I move it towards her shoulder. I tap the freckled skin twice, and Ellie immediately pulls her face away from my heat. Her chin drips with evidence of my orgasm, and her shiny lips reflect the light of a lamp in the room. My eyes snap to hers and her love for me is obvious. Her pupils consumed the iris, and the skin around them was softened and relaxed. I watch her lashes brush against her lids as she stares up at my lustful face. I can feel the heat in my face, primarily in my cheeks. 

Her hands leave their current positions on my body, and are placed down on my thighs. The skin twitches occasionally, but the nerves have mostly calmed down. Her thumbs stroke atop some of my stretch marks with a soft kindness. “How was I?” She inquires, and the usual cockiness in her tone is absent. Her eyes traveled over my face, trying to understand how I was feeling before I was able to say. 

My exhausted body is limp on the bed. I can just see Ellie in my sight, as my head was barely propped up by the disheveled comforter. The hand still in her hair slowly slides down her neck and to her hand. I interlock our fingers lazily, my grip loose and relaxed. “Very good.” I emphasize while my expression morphs into a warm smile. 

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic for someone I no longer will support once he leaves my club. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 13- 'Stillness & Sun' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.5k

“So… Do I get to see any of your photos?” Trent gently broke the silence of the darkroom. You hesitated, your breath catching, because he wasn’t asking to see your work—he was but whether or not he knew it, he was asking for a piece of you. A window into your world, the way you saw things, the way you framed light and shadow, the way you captured the moments that felt too fleeting to hold onto any other way. 

“I can show you my work instagram.” You smiled softly, your voice low, avoidant. 

“Nah, I’ve seen that.” he cooed and your heart faltered. Trent let his eyes flutter shut for half a second feeling like he just outed himself but he didn’t care, not here. Not in the quiet dark of the room with you. “I mean,” he continued, an easy, teasing smile tugging at his lips, “I don’t think Instagram would do them justice after all this. And an iPhone?” He shook his head. “Not the same.” Your chest ached, something tender and raw unfurling inside you. Because he got it. He listened in a way so few did. He listened to you, like the first time he used your film camera in his bedroom and you explained that very same thing. 

“Yeah…” You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll show you.” His smile was slow, curling at the corners, something boyish and sweet and so incredibly genuine that you had to look away before you did something reckless. Before you let yourself fall even further. You turned, leading him past the drying rack where fresh prints hung in the soft glow of the safelight towards a work table. He followed without question, without hesitation. Your fingers brushed, magnetized, neither of you moving away. His touch was barely there, but it burned.

The film developed behind you, the images forming slowly, unseen until they were ready. But the chemistry happening in those trays had nothing on the way Trent looked at you now. Nothing on the slow, inevitable pull between you. And you knew, with a certainty that terrified you, that whatever was happening here—whatever was growing between you and Trent—was developing just the same. Slowly. Beautifully. Unstoppable.

—

[Here With Me - D4vd]

The darkroom hummed with quiet, the red safelight casting a warm glow over the table where your world lay spread before you. A beautiful mess of memories—black-and-white prints curling slightly at the edges, red chinagraph pencils rolling idly across the surface, boxes of time preserved in matte and gloss. Trent stood beside you, his fingers ghosting over the photographs, careful, almost reverent. He wasn’t just looking—he was seeing.

“Wow… these are beautiful, baby.” His voice was soft, almost awed, as though speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate in the air between you. You swallowed, brushing a thumb over one of the images—a hazy, sun-drenched frame of your childhood street you took when you visited last. 

“Thank you… these ones are just my life in silly little photos.” You shrugged, downplaying what was spread before you. What you never showed anyone. These weren’t the glossy, polished editorials that graced magazines or ones that lurked in corners of the internet racking up likes. These were yours. Snapshots of passing time, the things you didn’t want to forget. You rarely even looked at them yourself. Every January, a ritual—develop, box, tie shut. Archive the past. No peeking. Keep moving. But now, they were laid bare, vulnerable beneath Trent’s gaze.

“Nah, serious. These are amazing.” He picked up a photo of friends gathered around a restaurant table, flipping it over. Inked in your precise, slanted handwriting: names, date, location. A moment etched in time. “So what’s with all these red pens?” He smirked, placing the photo down then picking up a red pencil, holding it up between his fingers.

“Chinagraphs,” you corrected softly.

“Chinagraph?” He echoed, amused.

“Chinagraph,” you repeated, a little laugh spilling out, unable to hide your fondness for his curiosity. “I’ll show you one that isn’t so battered. Hold on. Fresh out the box is best.” You cooed, turning away from the table. He watched you move, eyes following as you crossed the room toward a cabinet. The low red light caught in your hair, in the soft lines of your body. “I just write little notes sometimes,” you continued, pulling down another box of pencils. “Names and dates, things like that, maybe a thought, just… for me. Things I want to make sure I remember.” Your voice carried softly, fading into the stillness of the room. And Trent, left alone in the quiet, let his fingers drift over the scattered prints, photos of your life this past year to date, idly picking one up. His fingers grazing the glossy surface of the film photo before noticing another clinging to its back. As he peeled them apart, the ink stuck for a moment, the faint, tacky resistance breaking with a soft, almost imperceptible pull—like a whispered secret between the two images. He held the print closer and a sharp breath caught in his throat.

The image was grainy, the contrast stark—his own figure, illuminated by the amber glow of a Parisian streetlight like a memory. He remembered the moment instantly. The alleyway. After the Louis Vuitton show as he watched you scamper down the cobblestones. The weight of something unsaid lingering in the cold night air. A photo he never knew existed of a moment he knew he’d never forget. Before everything changed. Before you got to know each other in ways that were irreversible. His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned it over, the breath in his chest locking as he read the words etched into the back in red. There was no name, no restaurant to remember, only your thoughts because this photo was different, he was different. He wasn’t a person to remember, he was a feeling that you knew could never rid your heart of. 

‘I think I’m in love with someone I don’t know. I feel like I could love him in a way that even when he breaks my heart, I’d thank him for it.  But I think I’m in love with someone I don’t know. I know it.’ -  Paris, Rue Perrault.

The room blurred for a moment, his vision tunneling. ‘Love.’ His chest tightened. Before he could even process the weight of it, curiosity tugged him toward the one that had been hidden, glued to the moment held in his hand that made his heart ache. He reached for the other, his thumb brushing over its edges as if unveiling something private, something waiting just for him. It was you. You, draped in soft sheets. His sheets. The harsh spill of light leaking across the frame, marring the image where film had been damaged from when you dropped your camera outside the Burberry event when he stood you up. 

The two photos had been kept together—bound in the quiet way that meant something, even if you had never spoken it aloud. Like you had kept the two photos together on purpose. And you had. You wrote your heartbreak on them, unable to even pencil his name, but wanted them to disappear together so you could be 85 of age and look back on something that could’ve been. And then Trent turned the photo over with hands that suddenly didn’t feel like his own. His throat was dry as his eyes narrowed on your handwriting, no name, no place to remember, only your thoughts again, his heart hammering against his ribs.

‘Even if he was fleeting, he was perfectly mine if only just for a moment. A deluded dream where my love for him might’ve been returned.’ Hale, His House.

A breath shuddered out of him. He felt like he might black out, the air around him suddenly too thick, too heavy.

“Any good ones?” Your voice broke through the fog, light and unsuspecting as you approached. Trent jolted, panic seizing his limbs. He scrambled, picking up another print at random, clearing his throat.

“Uh, yeah, yeah… This one of you and Cam’s nice.” His voice was tight, too sincere to be suspicious, but his pulse was still racing, his grip tightening slightly around the paper in his hand. You smiled softly, stepping closer to glance over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, was her birthday.” You sighed looking at you and Campbell smiles cemented and printed into a memory. Then your gaze flickered downward. The breath in your lungs vanished. There, half-hidden beneath the prints, was the photo. That photo Trent had just discarded too fast. The one you thought tucked away to never be seen by you again and definitely not by him. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Coyly, you leaned forward, your hand moving with the kind of practiced ease only someone used to hiding their own secrets possessed. With a feigned air of distraction, you placed your palm over it, fingers pressing into the soft texture of the paper as you smoothly reached for another, a careful sleight of hand. You didn’t look at Trent. And he—hands frozen at his sides, mind reeling—didn’t look at you either. Because if he did… he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

—

“You wanna grab some dinner?” he asked after a long while later,  his voice calm, easy, like this was nothing, like his pulse wasn’t skipping as he waited for your answer. You hummed, nodding, and just like that, the two of you—friends, like you told yourselves—went to dinner the way no two friends did. He stole bites from your plate without asking, and you wiped your thumb over the corner of his lips without thinking. He made you try a sip of his drink, grinning at your scrunched-up nose when it was stronger than expected. You split dessert, your fork scraping against his as you both went for the last bite, laughing as he let you have it, nudging your knee with his under the table. It was natural, too natural, like you were something inevitable, like this thing between you wasn’t something fragile, held together by the unspoken. And then, like all good friends, you went back to your apartment.

The city hummed softly outside your window, the golden glow of streetlights filtering in through the curtains, casting shifting shapes against the walls. The quiet rhythm of cars passing below, the occasional distant laugh of strangers returning home, the familiar creaks of your apartment—it all felt muted, insignificant compared to the warmth that stretched between you and Trent. The floor was softer than it should’ve been beneath you, or maybe that was just because you were pressed against him, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours. His warmth seeped into your skin, through your clothes, through your ribs, into the parts of you that you didn’t let anyone else touch. His arms rested lazily over your lap, fingertips grazing the silk fabric of your printed trousers, [ref index] featherlight, absentminded. You reached for the stack of magazines beside you, pulling one onto your lap, flipping through the glossy pages, leaning your head back to see his reaction.

“That’s yours?” Trent murmured, tilting his head as you landed on a familiar spread.

“Yeah,” you said, voice soft with something like pride, something like vulnerability. He asked to see more after the dark room but the only ‘more’ left were the things that you shared with the rest of the world, everything else, you’d already bared to him whether or not he knew it.  He traced a finger over the image, over the way you’d framed the model in the perfect light, over the composition that felt so distinctly you.

“Wow,” he exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re unreal, you know that?” Your face grew warm, and you tipped your head back against his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“It’s just a job.” You murmured.

“Nah,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s not just a job. This—it’s like art… it’s like you.” You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just leaned further into him, letting the silence wrap around you. You pulled out more prints, some from old shoots, some never released but he still asked for more. Everything Trent did was captured in front of cameras, and everything you did was behind it. He liked the anonymity of your job, maybe he envied it, or maybe he just loved that it was yours. You eventually pulled your computer onto your lap, clicking through folders, pointing out shots you loved, campaigns you hated.

“That one—she was incredible,” you mused, nodding toward an image of a model with striking eyes, the kind that burned into you. “She moved like she wasn’t even real.”

“And him?” Trent asked, nodding at another frame—one with a famous footballer, someone he knew on the pitch, sleek and controlled, the picture of cool perfection. You wrinkled your nose. 

“Bit of a dickhead.” You smirked. 

“Yeah?” Trent laughed, a low, rich sound that vibrated against your spine, and you felt it everywhere. 

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Wouldn’t take direction, acted like he knew better. Actually has shit style unless someone does it for him. Some of you footballers are the worst.” You giggled teasingly. He tsked, shaking his head dramatically. 

“Not me though, right?” You turned your head just slightly, just enough to see the teasing glint in his eye, the dimple in his cheek. You let the moment stretch, let your silence play with him.

“Jury’s still out.” You murmured. His breath hitched, barely, but you felt it. And you felt the way his fingers tightened slightly over your knee, the way his chin dipped, nose grazing the curve of your jaw like he couldn’t help himself. Too soft. You let your gaze drift to the photos on your wall, ones you had taken for yourself and some that were for the world. “I like that they live here,” you said, quieter now, as if sharing a secret. “It’s like I get to build my own world. I spend so much time capturing things—moments, people, colors, light—and they all exist out there, in the world, for everyone. But here, in my apartment, it’s all curated, just for me. Just the ones I like. Just mine.” Trent looked at you with a soft smile, patient. He was listening. You knew he was because you could feel it in the way he held you, like he was scared to break the moment. “I don’t know,” you sighed, tilting your head to rest in the crook of his neck. “Sorry. I sound so dramatic today.” You giggled a bit embarrassed. “It’s stupid I just like having my photographs… they come to life in this place that’s so—”

“Still,” Trent finished for you. His voice was thick, deeper somehow. “Not stupid. Not dramatic either.” He hummed as you turned slightly, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, like he was looking at something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. And you felt it, that unbearable truth pressing in on you from every angle—this wasn’t friendship. This had never been friendship. Not with the way his fingers brushed over your skin like a whisper, not with the way his breath fanned over your cheek, not with the way your heart ached with something terrifying and sweet when you looked at him. But neither of you said a word. Because saying it would make it real. And if it was real, it could break.

So you stayed there. The carpet soft beneath you, but not as soft as him. Trent was solid where you leaned against him, his legs staying around yours, his warmth seeping into your skin, steady and sure. Your laptop balanced on your thighs, the screen casting a cool glow against your fingers as you scrolled, images flickering past like memories trapped in the stillness he understood. His chin rested against your shoulder, the weight of it familiar now, something that no longer startled but settled. The faintest scrape of scruff ghosted against your skin each time he shifted, and you could feel his breath, warm and steady, as he took in the images with you. He didn’t rush. Didn’t push. He’d simply lift a hand, point at one, and wait. You could feel his curiosity in the way his thumb traced absentminded circles over your hip, his fingers brushing over your trousers like he wasn’t even aware of it. You’d pause, letting your fingertips skim over the trackpad as you pulled the image up, letting him study it. The quiet stretched between you, unhurried, easy.  His breath fanned against your skin, slower now, deeper, like he was steadying himself. Like he knew as well as you did that if either of you moved, if either of you acknowledged the weight of this moment, you wouldn’t be able to take it back. But you could feel it. The way his grip had changed, no longer teasing, no longer playful, not tentative but something else—something solid, something dangerous. Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, pretending not to notice how his other hand had found a home against your thigh, his thumb brushing idle circles, too gentle to be innocent, too light to be ignored. The city pulsed beyond your window, neon flickering against the glass, faded car horns, voices, life moving in endless rhythm. But in here, there was only this—the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the scent of him wrapping around you, something clean, something warm. You shifted slightly, leaning into him without thinking, the curve of your spine fitting into the hollow of his chest like a key slotting into place. Trent made a sound—low, barely there—but his hand slid a little firmer over your hip, as if holding you there, as if making sure you weren’t going anywhere. He tilted his head, his jaw grazing your bare shoulder as he peered at the screen, his focus unshaken. But yours—yours had already started to slip, caught up in the way he felt against you, the way he smelled, the way his touch lingered, featherlight but constant. 

—

You continued to scroll through your photos, the glow of the screen flickering over your face, casting soft light over his. Trent’s fingers flexed slightly where they rested against your hip, absentminded but grounding, his touch light, like he didn’t even realize he was holding you closer with each second. Then you remembered. The darkroom. His words ‘Nah, I’ve seen that.’ Trent’s had seen your instagram. The way his voice had gone quiet with regret but followed with certainty in the way his hands had traced the edges of your work like he was afraid to disturb something sacred. The way he asked questions and listened to their answers. His presence settling somewhere deep in your chest, tangled with the low red glow of the room, with the scent of chemicals and old film, with the way he’d watched you—not just looking, but seeing.

“T?” Your voice was soft as you broke the quiet, and he hummed in response, his fingers still absently drawing patterns over your side. “So, you’ve seen my Instagram?” The question was light, teasing, but laced with something more. Something layered beneath the words. Trent hesitated for only a second, but you felt it—the warmth creeping up his neck, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly. Then he chuckled, low and sheepish.

“Erm, yeah. I’ve seen it.” His voice dipped, smoothing into something softer, something knowing. “I mean, you’ve worked with a lot of ballers. I never knew what was behind the lens looked this good, but yeah, I’ve seen it.” You turned slightly, shifting in his hold to meet his eyes, feeling the way his gaze settled on you, something unreadable swimming beneath the surface. “You ever see my Instagram?” He asked, his smile was easy, teasing, but there was something else in the way he asked it—something almost nervous, almost hesitant. You smiled, that kind of close-mouthed, cheek-aching smile that betrayed you completely. Yes. You had seen it. All of it.

“I’ve seen it.” You admitted, bashful, leaving out the part about zooming in on that photo of him shirtless on the exercise bike. Trent grinned, like he knew anyway. “I don’t have anything clever to say though.” You giggled, deflecting. “And that’s not fair. Mine’s for work.”

“Mine’s for work,” he mimicked, laughing, squeezing you a little tighter, playful. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away.

“No, not the same. Your face is on your page, mine isn’t.” He tilted his head, considering, then smirked.

“Nah, it’s the same. ‘Cause I’ve seen that other Instagram of yours…” His voice was different now, low, amused—but there was something else behind it too. Your stomach flipped, butterflies fluttering wildly at the thought—Trent, scrolling through your personal page, seeing the version of you that wasn’t edited, wasn’t polished, wasn’t meant for him. And yet, he had seen it. And he’d especially seen you stretched out on that lounger in Ibiza, back arched, sun dripping over you in a way that should be illegal in only a tiny tiny string bikini… maybe it was meant for him. 

“Really?” You managed, tilting your head, trying to stay composed. Trying not to betray just how much that affected you. “And you didn’t want to follow me?” You asked and he smirked, tilting his chin, watching you closely.

“You didn’t follow me…” He countered. You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head. You leaned back into his chest, settling into the warmth of him, moving your laptop and picking up your phone, resting it lightly in your hands. The air was thick with something unsaid, something you could both feel but neither of you dared to acknowledge. Your fingers moved slowly, typing his name into the search bar, as if drawing out the moment would keep reality at bay a little longer. His profile loaded instantly—the familiar blue check, the carefully curated grid of photos, the snapshots of his world. Your world, too, in some ways. But that wasn’t the thought that made your stomach tighten.

“There,” you murmured, hitting follow. “Got yourself a new follower. Twelve million and one.” The words were meant to be light, playful, but they settled strangely between you. For a second, the room went quiet, too quiet. You tensed, suddenly aware of how silly you felt—like you’d made something too obvious, cracked open something too fragile. It felt like you were asking for a transaction he wasn’t going to complete. You could already hear the self-reproach in your head. So stupid. And then— A deep chuckle, the kind that started in his chest and rumbled through you like a slow-moving current. You didn’t just hear it—you felt it. The way it vibrated against your back, the way it warmed the air between you. Trent couldn’t move, you were caging him in between your body and sofa. “Stop. Now I’m embarrassed,” you whined, dropping your phone to cover your face with your hands, but that only made him laugh harder, squeezing you a bit tighter in reassurance.

“Baby, my phone’s charging in the kitchen,” he said, still amused. “I’m gonna follow you back. Relax, beautiful.” You huffed, still embarrassed, turning and peeking at him through your fingers. He shifted behind you, still wedged between you and the sofa still attempting to get up. But as much as you wanted that follow, you also didn’t want him to move.

“Don’t move,” you whined, reluctant to leave the cocoon of his arms.

“Alright,” he relented, the humor still lacing his voice, his hold on your gentle but reassuring. But then, a smirk. “How about I stay right here if you go get my phone, hmm?” He purred. You paused thinking for a moment weighing the stakes. “I have something important to do. Time-sensitive.” He teased you. You narrowed your eyes at him but climbed up anyway, shaking your head as you padded toward the kitchen. His phone sat facedown on the counter, the sleek device somehow carrying the same weight as a loaded question in your hands. When you returned, he was exactly where you left him as promised—easy and unbothered, draped against the sofa on the floor still sprawled out, open, waiting. The moment you nestled back in between his legs, he pulled you against him again, one arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing briefly to the top of your head in a way that felt far too natural. “Thank you,” he murmured, unlocking his phone. His fingers moved with purpose, navigating to Instagram. “What’s your handle?” He asked. He felt your breath hitch before he laughed—a full, delighted, caught red-handed kind of laugh. Feigning like he hadn’t ever seen the instagram he’d searched for too many times.

“Oh, fuck you!” You giggled twisted, swatting at his chest as he tried to dodge you, his grin wide and teasing. He was so obnoxious making it out like you were alone in your pining, that you knew his handle and he didn’t know yours. Albeit a lie.  

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He admitted through laughter, his hold on to you tightening, sitting up a little more as his lips brushing your temple in a fleeting, absentminded kiss. He typed the handle he did in fact know and pressed follow. And when he did, it felt like he had wax sealed something. “Gotcha self a new follower too, baby.” Your heart tripped over itself at the way he said it—baby—like it belonged to you, like he hadn’t even thought twice about saying it.

“Knew that username awfully quick, y’know,” you teased, though your voice was softer now, a little breathless.

“Shhh. Don’t worry about that.” He smirked, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His voice was a low rasp, rough in a way that made your stomach clench. And then he leaned back again, sinking into the baseboard of the sofa, taking you with him, his arms locked around you, holding you in place. His hands—broad, warm, familiar—slid beneath your little cream colored tank top, fingers spreading over the bare skin of your stomach. You shivered, but you didn’t pull away. Didn’t want to. The touch wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was just him. Just you. Just the two of you pretending that nothing had changed, when in reality, everything already had. “For the record, I’ll take the one over the 12 million.” He whispered against your skin. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker, humming with something you couldn’t name—or maybe just shouldn’t.  His warmth wrapped around you like a second skin, his arm firm across you, fingers splayed, pressing into the softness of you like he needed to commit the feeling to memory. But reality loomed, you hesitated before saying it, before shattering the spell. Before forcing yourself to remember what this was supposed to be.

“It’s getting late…” You whispered, staring at the walls of your apartment but seeing nothing.

“I know…” he hummed, but he didn’t move. Not even a little. And neither did you.

—

It was a mistake—crawling into bed with him again. You both knew it. But mistakes never felt this warm, this right. Trent’s arms were wrapped around you, his hands splayed against your back like he was trying to hold you there, keep you from slipping away. But the grip was hesitant, unsure, as if he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or let you go. His heartbeat was erratic beneath your cheek, a quiet betrayal of the calm he was trying to feign. His fingers twitched against your spine, the only real sign that his mind was racing. He wasn’t calm, not even close. But you? You melted against him so easily, so effortlessly, like slipping into something familiar. Something that felt like home. And maybe that was the part that scared him the most. The weight of the night settled over you both, thick with the things you wouldn’t—couldn’t—say.

He didn’t know Cassie had told you anything, didn’t know if you caught his almost-slip the other night when he fucked you like he loved you, the word almost leaking out. He only knew that you were here now, draped against him, your breath fanning against his neck, your fingers curled lightly against his skin like you belonged there. But did you? That was the question eating at him, clawing at the edges of his restraint. Because earlier, in the darkroom, he’d read something in your voice etched in hand writing—something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to see. It was in the way you spoke about him, the way your words danced around the idea that you maybe loved him just the same. 

The possibility clawed at him, wrapping tight around his ribs. Did you love him? If you had, if you still did—why could you be here now, nestled against him like it didn’t matter? Unless… unless it didn’t anymore. Unless you didn’t. Was the absence of hesitation tonight proof that you didn’t anymore? That you never did?  It had lingered in his chest, gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Had you meant what was written on those photos? Had the moment passed? And all this ambiguity allowed him to get in your bed. To hold you the way he was holding you now.  But his chest ached at the thought, a dull, throbbing pain he didn’t know how to soothe. He didn’t want to hurt you. He’d already hurt you once—whether you admitted it or not. He was terrified of doing it again. So he said nothing.

He didn’t want to know the answer to all those questions swirling around in his brain. He wasn’t ready. If he asked, if he cracked this fragile moment open, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to piece it back together. He didn’t want to know that you’d possibly moved past something he was permanently stuck on. And in the silence, your body pressed closer, nuzzling deeper into him like you were drawn by something unseen, something unspoken. He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening for just a second before smoothing over your spine, a touch too light, too reverent, his lips barely brushing the crown of your head.  And then—stillness.

And in the stillness, you pressed closer, your body curling into him like instinct, like something your heart knew even if your mind refused to speak it. No words. No confessions. Just the quiet hum of the city beyond your window, the warmth of your limbs tangled with his, the silent scream of love neither of you could say aloud. You fell asleep like that, sinking deeper into him, into the feeling. And no sex was needed.

—

The morning sunlight stretched lazily through your apartment, golden streaks casting warmth over the space Trent had made himself entirely too comfortable in. He lounged on your sofa like he lived there, legs spread, remote in hand, scrolling aimlessly through channels on the telly as if he had nowhere else to be. You smirked from your place against the kitchen island, stirring the spoon idly in your cup of tea, watching him in nothing but the shirt he’d peeled off last night and draped over your shoulders this morning. It still smelled like him—clean, fresh, with the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the fabric. Everything felt too charged, too heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. So you did what you always did—made light of it, pushed at the tension with blunt humor, hoping to defuse it.

“So you didn’t want to fuck last night?” you teased, voice lilting, sweet like honey, though your stomach twisted slightly even as you said it. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe you wanted to test him, to see if last night had rattled him as much as it had you. Maybe you just wanted to hear him say it, confirm what you already knew. But as soon as the words left your lips, a teasing lilt masking the ache underneath, you regretted it.

“Nah,” he said smoothly, gaze unmoving from the television. “Not interested.” It was a tease but you didn’t hear it. The casual dismissal landed like a slap, your smirk faltering as your heart dropped into your stomach. Stupid. So stupid. You never should have said anything. Of course he didn’t, you forced him into being your ‘friend’ like an idiot.  Trent caught the shift in your expression from the corner of his eye, the way your body stiffened, the subtle dip in your shoulders like you were retreating.  Of course, he did. He knew you too well, read you too easily. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips as he stood, stretching a little before making his way toward you. When he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, he tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Y/N,” he laughed, his voice low, rich, playful. “What kind of question is that?” He asked incredulously, almost amused, but there was something else underneath it—something fragile

“What?” You shrugged, feigning indifference, even as you felt heat crawl up your neck.  He tilted his head, looking at you like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. How you couldn’t see it. How you didn’t know the restraint he’d practiced last night for you was something out of this world.

“You’re playing with me,” he murmured, exhaling with a shake of his head like he couldn’t believe you. Your fingers tightened around your mug. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t playing. You had no idea what the game even was anymore. Trent sighed, running a hand over his face before looking at you again, and this time there was something raw in his expression. “You didn’t move to me all night,” he said, voice lower now, slower. “You said we’re friends.” We are friends. The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but they felt like a lie. A cruel one.

“We are friends,” you whispered anyway, though it sounded weaker than before. The words barely made it past your lips. His eyes darkened, the smirk fading as he took another step closer. 

“We’re friends.” he repeated, voice quieter now, testing, resigned. “So…” One word, and yet it held so much. So—that’s why I didn’t touch you last night. So—that’s why I didn’t say what I wanted to. So—that’s why this is fucking killing me. Your throat felt tight. 

“So… nothing,” you whispered, but it wasn’t nothing, and you both knew it. You turned away under the guise of putting your mug in the sink, looking for anything to ground yourself, to avoid his gaze, to pull yourself out of the mess you’d just created. Needing something, anything, to break the moment. Trent didn’t let you. You heard him move before you felt him—He moved behind you with quiet ease, closing the space between you, his body flush against your back as his hands braced the counter on either side of you, caging you in, his breath warm against your ear. You swallowed hard, pulse thrumming as his warmth enveloped you, his breath fanning against your neck.

–

The air between you crackled, thick with something neither of you wanted to name. Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, soft and golden, illuminating the space between you. The kitchen smelled of tea and toast, but all you could taste was the heat of Trent’s breath behind your ear, the weight of him standing too close.

“C’mere,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. It sent a shiver down your spine, a traitorous reaction you tried to ignore. His voice was low, heavy with something dangerous. He didn’t need to say it louder. You felt it everywhere. “You think about fucking me last night?” He whispered.  A sharp inhale caught in your throat. He wasn’t touching you, not really, but his presence was everywhere—his voice curling around your spine, his body heat seeping into you, his scent settling deep in your lungs. Your lips curled before you could stop yourself, a smug smirk tugging at your mouth. He felt it. He knew. “Mmm,” he hummed, and the sound alone sent a shiver down your back. His fingers skimmed your bare hip beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt. “Yeah? How’d you want to take my cock?” His hips pressed against your ass, slow with an aching deliberateness, and a traitorous heat coiled in your stomach. Your breath hitched. For a second, just a second, you considered giving in. Letting the inevitable happen. But the panic clawed at your ribs, because you couldn’t—this wasn’t—

“T,” you whispered, shaking your head, trying to will away the heat curling low in your stomach. “We’re friends.” It was the wrong thing to say.  It was meant to be light. A tease, maybe? Protection? Surely. Nevertheless, a playful reminder of the line you both refused to cross. But you struck a nerve. Trent jerked back like you’d burned him, running a frustrated hand down his face. His jaw tightened, his eyes dark with something unreadable.  

“Y/N, you’re barely wearing clothes!” He snapped, voice rising ever so slightly. “You’re only in my shirt!” He yelped exacerbated, his frustration filling the space where his warmth had just been.

“Well…” You fumbled, suddenly unsure, suddenly feeling bare in a way that had nothing to do with your lack of clothing.. His head fell back for a second before he exhaled, hands on his hips, eyes trained on the ceiling like he was trying to keep himself from saying something reckless, like he was trying to stay calm, trying not to let whatever was simmering beneath the surface boil over. You could see it in the way his fingers curled tensely, in the way his chest rose and fell too quickly. But when he looked back at you, his restraint was fraying. And then his voice dropped, quieter now, but no less intense.

“Do you want me to be attracted to you or not?” His voice rougher now, raw with something dangerously close to desperation. 

“I–” Your lips parted, but nothing more came out.

“Baby,” he continued, a helpless sort of exasperation in his voice. His eyes shut annoyed at himself that the pet name even came out. “If not, then you gotta sort this.” He gestured to you, to the way you stood there in his shirt, looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. Like he didn’t know the curves of your body hidden beneath the fabric. “And this.” Referring to your face, the one that was too pretty to process. His hand reached out to you, his fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You gotta sort it out.” He looked at your face and the way you looked at him like you already knew the answer to his question but wouldn’t say it hurt. You bit your lip, heart hammering. You felt dizzy. Unmoored. He exhaled, stepping back as if he needed space, as if being too close to you was suffocating him. And then the words started tumbling out, fast, unchecked, raw.  “I don’t know, maybe plot and plan to blind me because I’m sorry, but at the minute—yes, baby. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about you.” His hands flew into his tight curls, tugging once before he dropped them. “I think about fucking you a lot.” His words were too honest. “I thought about it all last night, I thought about it this morning. I thought about your ass two minutes ago while you strutted around like I’m not supposed to find you attractive.” His voice cracked slightly, frustration leaking through. He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I’ve got you so deep in my brain I can’t escape you. Your lips, the way you taste——it doesn’t go away, not even when I sleep.”

“T…” you interrupted softly. Your voice was barely above a whisper, your heart pounding. His breathing was uneven now, his eyes locked onto yours like he was trying to find an answer, like he needed you to just tell him what the fuck you wanted from him.

“What, Y/N,” he said, voice sharper than he meant it to be. His voice was rough, like he was tired, like he was pleading. He was trying to put his guards back up to brace for impact but he couldn’t not with the way you looked back at him..

“I’m sorry.” You swallowed hard.  His whole body sagged with the weight of it. And as much Trent wanted to be mad, wanted to be mad, he couldn’t be, not with you. Never with you. His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and then, before you could process it, he reached for you again, pulling you into him with an urgency that made your breath catch. You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he was trying to hold you together, or maybe keep himself from falling apart. Trent sighed into your hair, his voice nothing more than a breath. The fight melted away the second his arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, like holding you close might somehow fix all the things neither of you could say. You let yourself sink into him, pressing your face against the soft fabric of his jumper, inhaling him like he was oxygen letting you your eyes flutter close. 

“It’s not fair, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair, gentle, reverent. It wasn’t fair. None of this was. But you held onto him anyway, knowing you were already in too deep to let go. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping onto him like an anchor, like maybe if you held on tightly enough, you could stop this from slipping further into something you couldn’t control. But it was too late. It had been too late for a long time. His lips brushed against the top of your head, lingering. “Too pretty f’me, yeah?” he hummed, the words laced with something so tender it made your chest ache.  You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard, inhaling the scent of him—the warmth of him, the faint trace of his cologne, the familiarity of everything that made him Trent. You’d gone too far. You both had. And now, standing in the wreckage, neither of you knew how to put the pieces back together.

—

The locker room at St. George’s Park was a mixture of post-training exhaustion and buzzing camaraderie. The scent of sweat, grass, and faint cologne lingered in the air, blending with the sound of boots clattering against the tiled floor and water running in the background. Conversations overlapped, banter flying effortlessly between teammates, but Trent wasn’t really present in any of it. His mind had been elsewhere for days—weeks, really. You. Always you.

No matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the mess you both had tangled yourselves into, you stayed lodged in his chest, a dull ache that never went away. You were the wound and the cure, the storm and the stillness, and he had no fucking idea how to make sense of it anymore.

“Aye, bro, you know that photographer girl… Forget her name,” Jude called as he walked past, pulling Trent abruptly from his thoughts. Trent frowned instantly, his brows knitting together. A spike of something—possessive, protective—flashed through him. 

“Who?” He asked, thinking of you but assuming Jude couldn’t be asking about you. Not you. Jude barely noticed the tension creeping into Trent’s frame as he pulled a shirt over his head. 

“Erm… used to do footballer fits type shit, think she does big stuff now.” He thoughtlessly spoke. Across the room, another voice chimed in, casual but firm. 

“Y/N L/N.” Jude nodded in agreement, snapping his fingers.

“That’s it.” Trent’s stomach clenched. “Friends with your mates, no?” He looked at Trent. 

“Uh yeah…” Trent tried to keep his voice level, but even the mention of your name made his pulse kick up a notch.

“You think she’d be down to come to LA with us?” Jude continued, oblivious to the war waging inside Trent. “Could be sick, mate.” 

LA. Trent had barely given the trip much thought—just something fun before the season picked up again, a chance to breathe before the grind resumed. But now, it felt like an opportunity. A moment dropped in his lap by fate, offering him a way to maybe—finally—make things right.

“You have an in with her?” Another one of the boys chimed in, grinning. And there it was. The million-pound question. Trent felt his heartbeat against his ribs, too hard, too fast. Sort of. It wasn’t an easy answer. Because what exactly were you to him now? What was he to you? Lovers who never quite said the words? Friends who never really were just friends? His jaw clenched as he exhaled, thoughts running circles around themselves. If he asked, if he reached out—what would you say? Would you take it as a business opportunity? Would you turn him down because the wounds between you were still raw? Would you come because, deep down, you wanted to be near him as much as he wanted to be near you? Trent dragged a hand down his face.

“I can ask her,” he said finally, the words measured, careful. “See what she says.” But in truth, this wasn’t just about a trip. It never was. This was about finding a way back to you.

—

Foster’s bedroom was exactly as it always was—messy in the way that felt intentional, like every scattered hoodie and half-read book was just where it was meant to be.  A lived-in space that felt as familiar as your own. The room smelled of his overpriced perfume and the remnants of whatever candle Delaney had insisted she light for ‘good energy.’ The bed, a tangled mess of blankets and pillows, was the only space of calm amidst the chaos, and it was where you sat, hugging a pillow to your chest as you relayed the absolute car crash that had been your phone call with Trent. Campbell was pacing. She had been since the moment you’d told them Trent asked you to come to LA. Every so often, she’d stop, press her hands to her temples as if the sheer stupidity of the situation might kill her, and then resume her frantic pacing.

“I just don’t know if I go or not?” you sighed, letting yourself fall back onto the bed dramatically. 

“Y/N! You genuinely are dating! You have to go!” Delaney groaned, lying on her back beside you, letting her head hang off the edge of the bed, hair cascading in a tangled mess onto the carpet. 

“We’re not,” you pouted, voice muffled into the pillow.

“You are,” Campbell said flatly, stopping mid-stride to shoot you an incredulous look. Foster, sitting on her desk chair with one leg pulled up to her chest, raised a brow. You and Trent were just hurting when it could be sorted with some honest communication in her opinion.

“Anyone beg to ask the question, why not?” She smirked at the obviousness of it all. You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” You whined. You didn’t really know. But deep down the truth was—in some way, you did. You knew exactly why. You were scared he didn’t want to date you and he’d hurt you if you tried. So instead, you were living in this middle, sat acting like you were dating, saying you weren’t.  “I don’t know,” you muttered again, quieter this time.  Campbell threw her hands up. You sat up, hugging the pillow tighter, feeling suddenly exposed under their collective gaze. A beat of silence. You stared at the duvet, running your fingers over the soft fabric. Delaney turned her head dramatically to look at you, eyes wide. 

“But you are though!” she whined, shaking your arm like the answer was obvious.

“You’re already acting like you’re dating,” Foster pointed out, voice gentler. “You’re just not calling it what it is.” Campbell rolled her eyes so hard you were almost impressed they didn’t get stuck. 

“Babe. He invited you to LA. LA!  You think he’s doing that just for fun?” Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You groaned, pressing the pillow against your face. You sat still cross-legged in the middle of the bed, surrounded by your best friends, your defenses slowly crumbling under the weight of their relentless teasing.

“It’s not like he even holds my hand or something,” you explained weakly, glancing between the three of them as if you could find some sliver of validation in their eyes. But Foster and Delaney just burst into laughter, and Campbell rolled her eyes again so hard you feared she’d actually lost sight of the ceiling.

“Fine, your hand isn’t his…” Campbell allowed, her smirk telling you she was about to eviscerate whatever excuse you thought you had. “But what does he do when you two walk near each other?” Your stomach flipped. Heat crept up your neck, the mere thought of it unraveling you. A smile threatened to give you away.

“His arm is permanently slinked around you!” Foster yelped, pointing at you like she’d cracked the case.

“You’re attached the second you’re in the same room, hun!” Delaney cooed, leaning forward eagerly. Your cheeks burned. “Oh my God, and you’re chuffed about it as well!” she added, giggling at the way you were visibly fighting a lovesick grin.

“Oh my days, she’s blushing,” Foster gasped loving every second of this.

“No! No!” You swatted at the air, as if you could physically bat away the accusations.

“You have the lock code to his house!” Campbell piled on, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. You shouldn’t have told her but you did. Trent had given it to you so you could let yourself in when you had gotten to his house before him, another thing friends just didn’t do. There was trust in that and meaning in that trust and Campbell pounced on the simplicity of it. 

“We don’t have sex.” Desperate, you grasped at straws. A half-truth. A singular most recent night you hadn’t. And you only hadn’t because the feelings had gotten too much to bare. A collective silence fell over the room. Then—

“Yes, you DO!!!” Foster screeched, her hands flying up like she was praising the football gods. She was absolutely beside herself with amusement while Campbell fell onto the bed, laughing in utter disbelief.

“Y/N, please, don’t even try that,” Delaney deadpanned, leveling you with a stare. “You two always sneak off, you’ve had sex, you’ve likely had sex with him in the past month, and you’ll have sex with him again.” She looked at you like she’d just stated the sky was blue, and you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. Everyone knew you two were hooking up. Anyone close to you knew you weren’t kissing anyone else. At 3 am Trent’s location was at your apartment, and the next week you turned up with a love bite on your collarbone. A poor lie, your friends went along with. 

“I repeat, you have the fucking lock code to his fucking house!!!” Campbell shrieked, before collapsing into laughter. You peeked through your fingers at them, at the sheer disbelief and delight written all over their faces, and despite yourself, you grinned. Because they were right. You did see it, you always had. You were just too scared to call it what it was.

“Just be together! Go to LA!” Foster cried, exasperated.

“Let the pretty footballer who’s obsessed with you pay for a nice little hol’ to the U.S., have some sex, drink some tequila, go out, and tell him you’re in love with him!!!” Delaney rattled off like it was the simplest plan in the world. You couldn’t fight the smitten smile anymore. The very thought of LA with Trent—sure, his friends too, but him—sent something dangerously close to excitement bubbling in your chest. “You have to go.” Delaney kicked her feet against the bed idly. 

“You have to go,” Campbell echoed, leaning over you like a villain plotting her next move.

“You will go.” Foster smirked. And despite the nerves twisting in your stomach, despite the uncertainty clawing at your ribs—you already knew they were right.

“I don’t know if he—” You tried, one last desperate attempt at playing coy, dropping your face into your hands.

“Y/N…” Campbell warned, her voice a lethal threat.

“Okay, okay!” you giggled, surrendering as you stretched across the bed, grabbing your phone. The room erupted into cheers as you typed out a message to Trent.

You were going to LA.

—

[Coast - Hailee Steinfeld ft. Anderson .Paak]  

LA was a dreamscape—a hazy, honey-dipped mirage of golden light and ocean breeze, where time stretched languidly, kissed by the sun and swayed to the rhythm of something intoxicating. The air itself shimmered, thick with the scent of salt, citrus, and money, rolling over the hills of Beverly like a secret whispered between the palm trees. LA stretched out before you like a fever dream—soft and humming with something electric in the air. The light here wasn’t like anywhere else, diffused through a permanent haze, painting the hills in watercolor shades of amber and rose. The city pulsed beneath it, sprawling and endless, a mirage of winding roads, sky-high palm trees swaying lazily against the breeze, and a kind of slow, indulgent luxury that felt almost unreal.

You were bone-tired, the weight of the eleven-hour flight still clinging to your limbs, but there was no denying the thrill that sparked through you when you stepped into the thick warmth of the balmy California air. It wrapped around you like silk, heavy with the scent of salt and jasmine, expensive perfume lingering from the terminals of LAX. Even through the exhaustion, you felt the rush of being here, of being wanted here—because despite your stubborn refusal to let Trent buy your plane ticket, he had still made sure a driver was waiting for you, your name scrawled neatly on a card like you were something precious. Maybe it was the way the world looked different here, bathed in a warm, cinematic glow. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite your insistence, you were someone worth being taken care of here.

It was easy to roll your eyes at the extravagance, to pretend the little flutter in your stomach didn’t exist. But as the blacked-out SUV wove through the glossy neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, through the perfectly manicured streets where even the trees seemed to stand taller, it became harder to ignore. A labyrinth of luxury, past towering hedges and glimmering pools, until the car turned into a gated driveway. You let out a soft, incredulous huff when the car rolled through it. At the end of the private road, perched on the edge of a cliff like a crown jewel, was the kind of house you only saw in Architectural Digest. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the sky, cutting against the horizon, a view that could swallow the whole of Los Angeles in its embrace. An infinity pool spilling over the edge of a cliff as if the entire city belonged to it. And maybe it did. Maybe it belonged to the people inside, to the boys who had come here with their effortless swagger and easy smiles, to the ones who didn’t think twice about flying private or renting a house that overlooked everything. It wasn’t just big—it was ridiculous. The kind of property that made you momentarily reconsider everything you knew about reality, glass and sleek, modern lines that melted into the cliffside. It wasn’t a house; it was a statement, a testament to their reality, to their success, built to catch every last golden drop of the LA sunset. It made sense, though. You weren’t just visiting him—you were stepping into his world. A world where footballers weren’t just athletes but celebrities, where where they stayed, their homes, even if impermanent, weren’t just houses but pieces of art perched above the city, above the rest of the world. You sighed, tapping out a quick text.

‘Here 😉’

And then immediately regretted the wink. Before you could even overthink it, before you could even wonder if he’d register it, the front door swung open. And then—there he was. Through the tinted window, the front door of the house. Trent. Golden. The kind of golden that made you believe the sun had been put in the sky just for him. It hit him perfectly, gleaming off his skin, casting him in honeyed warmth as he jogged down the grand staircase. Shirtless, his torso was carved in sharp lines, muscles flexing with each movement. His skin already bronzed from the California sun, muscles taut and gleaming with the faintest sheen of sweat catching the light. His shorts hung low on his hips, just enough to be distracting, and his bare feet moved carelessly over the smooth stone as he cut through the garden, cutting through the shrubs like he couldn’t be bothered with the designated path. He was glowing, moving with an effortless kind of beauty, the kind that made your breath catch in your throat. Your heart stumbled over itself. Because his face—the way his perfect, pink lips curled into a slow, toothy grin, all greedy and eager—made your breath hitch in your throat.Your heart stuttered. Because his smile—greedy, eager, so damn pretty—made your knees feel weak. He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment, for you. He looked—happy. Not just in a good mood, not just enjoying the LA sun. Happy to see you.

As he reached the driveway, you saw it in his eyes, dark and molten, reflecting the golden glow, and suddenly your nerves weren’t about the flight or the jet lag or the fact that you were standing in front of the most extravagant house you’d seen in a long while. They were about him. Trent felt it too. He felt the second his heart started pounding a little too fast, the way his pulse kicked up as he neared the SUV. It was ridiculous, really—he’d seen you a hundred times before, touched you, kissed you, known the warmth of your skin. But here, now, stepping out of that car, sunlit and stunning, you felt new. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

And then, just like that, there you were. He barely had time to think about it before you emerged from behind the SUV.  His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between anticipation and relief. He wasn’t sure why he felt nervous now, not when he’d had you so close before, not when he’d known the shape of your laughter, the softness of your touch. But watching you now, stepping out from behind the car with your Rimowas—one for your camera gear, one (and a half) for your outfits—something shifted inside him. And then you looked up, thanking the driver just as Trent’s feet hit the pavement. The LA sun bathed you both in gold. And for a moment, the whole city held its breath.

LA had a way of making everything look touched by magic—draped in gold, softened at the edges, humming with a kind of heat that settled into your bones rather than pressing against your skin. The air smelled like salt and citrus, like pavement warm from the sun, and somewhere in the hills, laughter echoed from another party at another mansion that wasn’t quite as enticing as the one standing before you now. 

"LA looks good on you, T," you cooed, the words slipping out softer than you intended, carried by the warmth of the afternoon air. Trent smirked, all golden skin and lazy confidence, his hair still a little wet from the pool, his body lithe and sun-drenched. He looked at home here, like he belonged against the backdrop of palm trees and rolling hills, like the West Coast had stretched its arms open and said, stay.

"Eh, West Derby, West Hollywood—same thing, no?" he teased, stepping closer, his voice lilting with that boyish charm that made it impossible to look away. And suddenly, the world felt smaller. Quieter. The space between you was dissolving, the air thick with something unspoken, something that hummed beneath your skin like a melody only the two of you could hear.

His hand found the small of your back, sliding into place like it was second nature, like it was something he didn’t even have to think about. And just like that, you were in his arms, melting into his warmth, pressing into the solid planes of his chest as his other hand skimmed over your waist. The embrace was effortless. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your arms curled around his neck, fingertips brushing over the slick heat of his skin, still tacky from suncream. He smelled like salt and citrus, like linen left out in the sun, like something that made your breath hitch in your throat. He smelt too good like the perfect boy; you know that familiar, lived in, but clean, woody musk. Add the salty summer air and suncream and it had your brain melting.

"Hi," you murmured, barely able to find the word in his haze, your lips brushing the curve of his jaw as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He exhaled a quiet laugh, but his fingers tightened at your waist, tugging you even closer. Too close. The way friends didn’t hold each other. The way people who had spent too many nights tangled in sheets did.  His hands unable to stay at the small of your back, dipping to the curve of your ass pulling you into him. 

"Flight alright?" he asked, voice a little lower now, rougher, like your body against his was something he had to feel to believe. You nodded, too caught up in the way he felt—solid, warm, real—to find words right away. Your head was still fogged from jet lag, but God, if this wasn’t the best kind of grounding. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a second, you forgot what air even was. He was so pretty. He was so close. His lips—pink and full, parted slightly—were right there, close enough to kiss, to catch between your teeth if you dared. He smirked like he knew exactly what you were thinking because he was thinking the same thing. “Should’ve come with me, y’know,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the dip of your spine.

"It was fine," you said, voice breathy, almost unconvincing. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to blink, to breathe. "I was fine." Trent tilted his head, gaze flicking over your face like he was looking for the truth. "Cameras made it, though," you added, trying to steer the moment back to reality. "So your holiday will be captured as promised." His eyes softened. The ‘real’ reason you were in LA dragging you both back down to earth.

"Just glad you made it," he murmured, and something about the way he said it made your stomach twist in the best way. Then— “C’mon Irving Penn, show you inside.” He teased, stepping back to grab your bags, and fuck.  It was such a small thing. An old name you’d mumbled once—months ago—when you were tangled up in a hotel bed, sleep-drunk and soft, talking about art and love and the way you saw the world through a lens. You’d said the name when he’d asked who your favorite photographer was. And yet he remembered. It had you melting, and it wasn’t from the California sun. It was him.  Your chest tightened as you watched him lift your suitcases like they weighed nothing, the veins in his arms shifting beneath his golden skin, his shoulders flexing effortlessly. You just looked at him somewhere caught between a smile and a pout because he was perfect.  "Introduce you to the lads," he said, flashing you a grin. "Think you already know a few." You swallowed, trying to focus on the house—the staggering Beverly Hills villa you were about to walk into—but all you could really focus on was him.

“Okay, I can get the other,” you offered, reaching instinctively for one of the pieces of luggage he’d already grabbed easily.

“Nah, nah. All good, baby,” he said smoothly, his voice dipping into something that made warmth curl at the base of your spine. He shot you a wink over his shoulder. “You just bring that pretty face inside, and we’re square—deal?” Your lips parted, a half-formed protest dying in your throat as you watched him climb the steps, back muscles shifting beneath the fading sunlight, the California sun draping him like something cinematic. What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? You exhaled, pressing your fingers to your lips, a stupid smile curling against your palm. This was going to be dangerous. And yet, as you adjusted your Goyard on your shoulder and followed him inside, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Godspeed.

-

The house hummed with lazy conversation, the occasional splash of water echoing from outside, laughter rolling through the open doors like the warm California breeze. You could hear them out there, all the boys, relaxed in the glow of late afternoon, sunk into loungers, passing around drinks, voices laced with the careless ease of a summer afternoon and a holiday they didn’t know the price of. But your mind was somewhere else. The air in your room was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin, lazy, wrapping around you like silk. Outside, the sun rose higher, painting the sky in a solid blue that even pantone could never replicate, the scent of chlorine and citrus wafting in through the open balcony doors. But you weren’t thinking about them. Not really.

You slid your bikini bottoms up your legs, the fabric snug against your skin, ass on full display even with them on. You didn’t reach for the smallest set you’d packed—no, that would be too obvious. But this? This was a game of subtlety. You stood in front of the dresser, the warm glow of the sun casting you in honeyed light. The bikini was just enough to keep things low key, to leave something to the imagination. And yet, even that didn’t feel like enough. Your fingers ghosted over the glass bottle of Soleil Blanc on the dresser, and instinctively, you reached for it.

Body oil. Warm, glistening, promising to sink into your skin like liquid sunlight. You tipped the bottle, letting the oil spill into your palm before smoothing it over your leg, one foot propped up on the dresser as you worked it in with slow, deliberate strokes. The slick sheen caught the light, accentuating the soft curve of your thigh, the toned muscle beneath. Golden, shimmering, warm to the touch. It wasn’t just about moisturizing. Not really. It wasn’t even about looking good. This was deliberate. This was for him. You wondered if he’d notice. If his eyes would betray him the second you stepped outside. If he’d shift in his seat, his fingers curling just slightly, jaw tightening as he tried to focus on the conversation around him but failed. More than that, you wondered what his friends knew. Had he talked about you? Did they suspect something? Did his friends know who you were? Were you anything? Would they notice the way his gaze lingered when you came out?

You wondered—no, hoped—that he’d see you that way. That he’d have to fight to keep his cool, his mouth going dry at the sight of you glistening under the sun. You moved slowly, tracing the curve of your hip, the slope of your stomach, watching the way the oil melted into your skin like liquid gold. The warm and spicy scent filling the air around you. The door to your bedroom was cracked ever so slightly—just an afterthought, really. You didn’t think much of it, they were all outside. You thought… not until you caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror. Your breath caught as your gaze snapped to the reflection—straight through the half-cracked door, to where he stood.  Trent. 

Your eyes met his reflecting back at you, his flashing with innocent surprise, his figure caught in the dim light of the hallway.  He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not yet. And yet—there he was, standing still, lips parted, pupils blown. He’d simply come to let you know he was gonna head outside. He wanted to make sure you’d settled in, not to crowd your space but for you to feel at ease. He didn’t know if you wanted to take a nap after your flight, if you had work to do or what but he felt the need to check in and check in he did.  Frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders tense, lips parted slightly, as if he’d been about to say something but forgot how to speak entirely. His gaze was locked onto you, dark and heavy, filled with something thick and unreadable, his chest rising and falling just a little faster than before. He didn’t move. Didn’t shut the door. Didn’t look away. And fuck, that did something to you.

You should’ve been embarrassed. You were only in your bikini bottoms still. You should’ve scrambled to grab a towel, a shirt, something, stammered out an explanation, anything. But you didn’t. Instead, a smirk curled at your lips, slow and unashamed, your fingers still continuing to glide lazily over your skin. Your touch was featherlight, teasing, barely there. And it was all for him. You let your hands travel higher, up the curve of your hip, to the dip of your waist, over your ribs, until you were cupping your boobs in your hands, kneading softly, watching yourself and his reaction in the mirror as the oil melted into your skin. The contact sent a ripple of pleasure through you, your jaw slackening, chest rising and falling with the weight of your own touch. You watched him watch you. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. The way his tongue flicked out, wetting his lips like he was fighting the urge to devour you. There was something intoxicating about it, about the way your body gleamed under the soft light, about the way your breath hitched when your palms slid over the swell of your tits and your hardening nipples, caressing, squeezing, teasing yourself just because you could. A breath hitched in your throat, head tilting back, lips parting slightly at the sensation. You let yourself feel it, let yourself show him how good it felt, how much you liked teasing him like this.

And Trent? He just stood there. Watching. Staring. Looking at you like he wanted to ruin you. And you welcomed it. You didn't stop him. He knew you knew he was there, and you did. You were purposefully and silently putting on a show and you wanted to see what he’d do about it. But you should’ve known. 

It happened fast, but it felt like slow motion as he moved. The door to your room pushed open, and then slammed shut behind him with a thud. The air between you thickened as the lock clicked into place. Your stomach flipped, anticipation curling low in your belly as he turned back to you, eyes full of something molten, something starved. And then— He took a step closer. And you knew exactly what was about to happen and maybe subconsciously prayed would.  Trent’s eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that sent a thrill through your spine. He didn’t rush—no, he took his time, stalking forward like he had all the patience in the world, even though the tension between you both begged to snap. The heat of him came first, radiating against your back like the Californian sun had sunk beneath his skin, branding you before he even touched you. Then, his hands—bigger than you remembered, greedier than you could brace for—slipped around your waist, slick palms gliding over the oil-drenched curve of your waist, thumbs grazing just beneath your ribs. His fingers flexed, pressing deep. like he needed to feel every inch of you, needed proof that you were real and here and his. His touch reverent, memorizing your body as if a map, remembering the curves of you with his hands. He let out a slow breath, and you felt it against your shoulder as he leaned in, pressing his chest flush to your back. Trent only in his swim trunks, you only in a skimpy bikini bottom and oil. He was trying to steady himself, but there was no restraint in the way he pulled you against him, chest molding to your back, hips flush, a quiet, desperate possession. Your breath hitched as he spread his hands, a starved man reacquainting himself with something he could never get enough of. His touch worshipful. And in the mirror, you watched the way you unraveled for him—how easily, how helplessly, how it was never a choice at all. 

“Think LA looks fucking unreal on you, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath your ear, voice dripping with something that sounded almost like awe. His palms smoothed over your stomach, fingertips teasing the edge of your bikini bottoms before gliding back up, over your ribs, pressing into the weight of you. You whined softly at the contact, pressing into him instinctively, head lolling against his shoulder. His mouth found the sensitive skin along your jaw, open-mouthed kisses leaving heat in their wake, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. “Didn’t even give me a couple hours... Playing me like this out the gate.” He rasped against your skin, his voice thick with desire, his hands gripping tighter.

“Not playing.” You whined as his grip flexed, pulling you closer against him. 

“Nah, shhh, I know exactly what game your playing. You wanted me to see you like this, hmm?” Your eyes fluttered open, catching sight of your reflection in the mirror, the sight of his hands on you, the way he held you, possessed you. 

“I–” You gasped. You would’ve explained that you didn’t mean it but maybe in your subconscious you had. The moment was feverish, something like love seeping too close to the surface, settling between each whisper, each shared breath.

“Gonna tease me this whole trip or you gonna let me have you?” His lips ghosted over your shoulder, his touch growing more insistent, and you knew—this was never just about teasing. This was him unraveling, giving in, letting himself need you the way he always had. And you? 

“You can have me.” You melted, whimpering, giving yourself over to him, knowing that no matter how complicated things were outside of this moment, here, like this—he was yours.

—

The air was thick—humid from the California heat, but heavier from him. From the way Trent’s breath fanned over your skin, the way his touch turned reverence into ruin. He was everywhere, his big hands roaming, greedy as they smoothed over the shimmer of oil that slicked your body, palms mapping your curves like he’d been starved of you. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to devour you and yet he’d stumbled into it. His lips chased the path his hands left behind—ghosting over the slope of your shoulder, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of you. Every inch of you felt worshipped, like he was rediscovering the body he already knew by heart. And when he reached your ear, voice rich, rasping, laced with something dark and sweet, you knew you were lost.

“You gonna be a good girl for me in LA?”  The way he said it—low, teasing, but drenched in hunger—had something in your chest snapping like a live wire. You met his gaze in the mirror, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of you, waiting for your reaction. That look alone could’ve undone you. The cheek behind it, the quiet command, the unbearable heat rolling off of him. You barely realized you were already pressing back against him, your body answering before your mind could. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking on the plea, surrendering to the gravity of him. Bottoms discarded like an easy afterthought. Trent groaned lowly  at the way you arched so beautifully for him, the way your breath hitched the second he pressed his cock against your aching core. He dragged his length through your slickness, teasing, taunting, but you could feel the way his control frayed at the edges. And when he finally pushed inside, when he slowly filled you, inch by inch, stretching out carefully in a way that even in the dirtiest of moments, he was gentle with you. When his length finally filled you to the hilt, he pulled back out slow. And then in one slow, devastating stroke, he thrusted back in and you swore you saw stars. A deep, guttural moan escaped him, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass like he was trying to ground himself. He railed into you relentlessly before he pulled you back up right, your back to his chest. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder for a second, breath shuddering. “Alright, baby?” He asked earnestly, but strained in pleasure. You nodded with a desperate whine because even with the stretch, it was pleasure words couldn’t even describe. “So perfect. Always so fucking perfect.” He pulled back just enough to look at you in the mirror, watching the way your lips parted on a silent cry as he rocked into you again, dragging against every place that had you unraveling. And then again, deeper, rougher, until you were clenching around him, until your moans were slipping out uninhibited. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to let this happen. At least not this soon. But Trent was an unstoppable force, and you were the immovable object that always seemed to bend for him. Always. Willingly. Pleadingly.  He fucked you slow, deep, like he wanted to make you feel every inch of him. Like he wanted to brand himself into you. Your hands gripped the dresser, your reflection hazy with pleasure, and still—still—his hands never stopped touching you. Sliding up your ribs, cupping your tits, pinching your sensitive nipples, brushing down to circle your swollen clit with lazy precision.

“T,” you gasped, head falling back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with need, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. His thrusts stuttered slightly, his hold on you tightening. “I’ve got you.”  You didn’t know if he meant now or always. If this was just another stolen moment or if it was something more. But in that instant, with his lips at your jaw, his body flush against yours, and the feeling of him sinking deeper into you—it didn’t matter. Because nothing had ever felt more right than him. And nothing had ever made you feel more his. Minute after minute, your bodies spoke a language only the two of you could understand—love bleeding into every desperate thrust, every trembling gasp, every whispered name swallowed by the humid air. It was slow and deep, an unspoken confession etched into the way his hands gripped you like he’d never let go, the way your nails sank into his skin like you needed him closer, closer still. The tension coiled tighter, a fever spreading between you, until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge. Your release hit like a tidal wave, sweeping you under, leaving you weightless and wrecked as you clenched around him, as your body gave in completely. The moment your walls fluttered around him, his grip turned bruising, his hips stuttering as a guttural groan tore from his throat, spilling himself deep inside you, pulsing, claiming, coming undone right with you. Neither of you moved. Heavy breaths tangled in the thick, heat-drenched air, skin damp and sticking where your bodies met, heartbeats hammering in sync. He slumped against your back for a moment, arms caging you in like he never wanted to let you slip away. Then, with what little strength he had left he wrapped himself around you like a secret. You melted into him, head lolling back, eyes fluttering closed as your body pulsed in the afterglow. For now, there were no questions. No complications. No blurred lines to decipher. Just this. Just the remnants of him inside you, the way his lips brushed your temple, the way his hold never wavered. You could barely breathe. But you had never felt more alive.

“You okay, baby?” His voice was a whisper against your skin, a hushed breath of warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. His head rested against your shoulder, his body still flush against yours, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm that matched the aftershocks pulsing through you.

“Yeah…” You swallowed thickly, your breath still unsteady as you nodded, a lazy, blissful smile spreading across your lips. Trent hummed against your neck, the sound low and satisfied, but he must’ve felt the way your body still trembled slightly against his. His arms wrapped a little tighter around your waist, hands smoothing over your warm, sweat-slicked skin paired with that amber and sandalwood oil, like he wanted to keep you grounded, like he wanted to sink into you the way that Tom Ford had, like he wanted to keep you his.  “Fuck,” you exhaled softly, almost to yourself, still caught in the waves of pleasure.

“That didn’t take very long.” He laughed, a deep, husky sound that rumbled against your back, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You giggled, turning in his embrace, your chest pressed against his. His warmth, the steadiness of him, made you feel like you were melting right into him.

“I dunno…” you murmured, a teasing lilt to your voice. “Think it was longer than I expected, given how desperate you were.” Trent scoffed, grinning as he cupped your chin, tilting your face up to his. His gaze was heavy-lidded, dark with something soft but consuming, something that made your breath hitch.

“Eh, longer than I thought I’d last once I saw you,” he murmured, his smirk laced with something deeper, something almost too real. Because even before you landed in LA, even before you set foot in this house, you had been lingering in his thoughts, haunting him in ways he didn’t even try to fight anymore. 

“Not very professional of me…” You bit your lip, suddenly bashful, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. He grinned, his arms encircling you, his hands trailing idly up and down your spine. 

“Eh, you had a favorite model ahead of coming to this shoot anyway. Hate to think you were coming into it impartial.” You pulled back, brows raising as you scoffed. 

“Oh, so you’re a model now?” You teased. Trent’s grin deepened, eyes twinkling as he ran his hands down your sides, gripping your waist. 

“Mmm… what? Think I don’t have the face for it? Or is it the body you think is so sexy?” He goaded. You rolled your eyes, playfully trailing your fingers up his toned stomach before looping your arms around his shoulders. 

“I think it’s the ego behind that pretty face.” You smiled softly, completely smitten with him, ego and all.

“Wow… alright, treat them like you treat me then.” He smirked, only for his expression to shift when he caught the cheeky glint in your eyes, suddenly realizing what he just said. “Nah, nah, hold on,” he chuckled, shaking his head. But then his hands were on you again, tracing your curves with a slow, deliberate touch, like he was reminding himself—and you—who you belonged to in this space, in this moment. “They don’t get what I get, alright? When you’re like this…” His fingers traced the swell of your hips, his gaze drinking you in like a man trying to commit a masterpiece to memory. “That’s just for me.” You swallowed, your stomach flipping, heat licking at your ribs. The way he looked at you made your knees weak, made you feel precious, made you feel his in a way that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with reverence. “For work, yeah. You be professional, like I know you always are,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin. “But you take that hat off with me…” He paused with a cheeky grin forming. “Maybe those clothes too, alright?”  You nodded, exhaling shakily. 

“Only for you.” You smirked, stepping out of his arms to grab your bikini. “Keep it hush, yeah? Don’t want anyone to know I have favorites.” You giggled. 

“Ah, see! I am your favorite.”  Trent chuckled, shaking his head, victoriously. You turned slightly, slipping the tiny material of your bikini back over your hips, then the top. 

“You know you’re my favorite.” The confession came out quietly, without hesitation, and the truth of it settled between you like something tangible. Trent’s expression softened, but his gaze darkened as he watched you, the golden sheen of oil catching the light, your body still glowing with the aftermath of him.

“Baby, you look beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. You hummed, shaking your head as you adjusted your bikini top, ignoring the way his stare lingered, full of quiet hunger. “Nah, I’m serious.” His voice was low, thick. “So sexy.” His tongue darted out, running over his bottom lip as his eyes trailed down the length of you. “Not sure I’ll survive outside seeing you like this, but…” He paused, distracted by the way your fingers skimmed over your skin.

“But?” You raised a brow, waiting. Trent exhaled, laughing softly. 

“I’ll try my best.” You giggled, rolling your eyes as he pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m gonna head outside, you know—keep it professional.” His hands caressed your arms, his touch reluctant to leave you. “You good?” You nodded, biting your lip as you watched him move toward the door. Just as he reached for the handle, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t tease me too much, baby.” Then, with a wink, he was gone, leaving you breathless, dazed, and already craving him again.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 14 - Golden Opportunity

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[bettyfrommars]

Build it and He will Come

a nightmare!Eddie x afab!Reader story

Note: You do not have to be familiar with the Nightmare Factory series to enjoy this. The timeline is non-linear and often very silly. At this point in the tale, Eddie and Reader have only met in dreams.

Word Count: 2.2k

No warnings, but my blog is for 18+ only

Notes: I could've very well made this a standalone story without putting it in with the Nightmare Factory, but I've missed thinking about those two so much I decided to make it work. I wrote this in August of last year and only recently found it in my WIPs. Decided not to be too fussy about editing and such because then I won't post it for another seven months.

@somnambulic-thing constructed a stunning tiny replica of Eddie's trailer, and then I got very inspired and wrote this for them. Somna, thank you for sharing your process with me, daydreaming with me, loving me, and everything else we do together with oceans between us.

It's complicated because Somna also works at the Nightmare Factory, and you can read that blurb here. But let's just forget about that for a moment.

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You’d spent weeks working on the miniature version of the trailer from your dreams, right down to the corrugated roof carved from cardboard and dry grass ordered from a specialty shop; every little detail was important.  You painted the inside walls black, imagining that’s what he would do if he lived alone.  Structurally, the overhang went on second to last, and then it was time to construct the front steps. Foamboard cut to exact specifications, and then frosted with a special putty that would need a couple hours to dry.

Nag Champa incense produced a smoky veil through the room to slip like a whisper between thin white curtains, escaping secrets into the night.  You had the television on, but only as background noise, and also to drown out the nextdoor neighbor who always played their music a bit too loud that time of day.  

It was late when you sat back to take in what you’d accomplished thus far.  You stared at the miniature door opening next to where a bedroom would be, imagining a gremlin boy with long hair on the edge of his bed, practicing his guitar.  You didn’t know why that image popped into your head, but you could see him so clearly; somehow had vivid memories of how his warm skin smelled just below his ear.  

How could they be memories? Perhaps an alien implanted them in your brain while you slept.  

There was no furniture inside of the structure yet.  The first piece you’d work on tomorrow would be the sofa out on the deck where you imagined him lounging to have a smoke and chat with the trailer park cats. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered to your empty apartment, clicking off the desk lamp.  

The next morning, you put your glasses on and shuffled to the kitchen to make some tea, absently wondering why your apartment smelled like nicotine.  You didn’t smoke, so it had to be coming from out on the street or the neighbors.  Staring with weary, glazed eyes at the corner of the counter while the water boiled, your mood brightened when you remembered the project waiting for you at your desk.

While bouncing a tea bag in a mug of hot water, you went over to stand and admire how far the trailer model had progressed.  The windows were next, and the air conditioning unit in his bedroom window, as well as…

“The fuck?” you gasped, frowning at the model, setting the mug down on some newspaper near the trailer so fast that some of the liquid sloshed down the side.

Somehow, there were marks in the dried putty of the steps.  You were certain the surface had been smooth when you went to bed, but now you’d have to redo the finish.

You pulled the magnifying lamp over and sat down with a grunt, snatching up the steps to take a closer look.  What could’ve possibly…

Wait

With the piece in question under magnification, you ran a thumb over the marks.

Why did they look like sole impressions from the bottom of tiny shoes?

In the process of trying to convince yourself that they’d been made by a bug of some sort, some investigating told you that the octagon tread and the brand name Reebok were there in a crystal-clear impression.

And why were the footprints coming out of the trailer?

Going rigid, you put the steps down and used the tip of one finger to slide them away from you.

Your gaze flicked to the stained deck made of wood stir sticks, settling on a white bit of something there.

It had to be a piece of plaster or foam board, but just as  you prepared to flick it away with your finger, something about it caught your eye.

Plucking tweezers from your craft tools, you denounced that it was…

…a half smoked cigarette? Filter and all?

You held it up to your nose, inhaling the sharp tang of nicotine.

It must’ve fallen from something else you’d been working on, or maybe you were so tired last night, you didn’t remember making it as a joke. The trailer you’d been seeing in your dreams might’ve had some cigarette stubs scattered around, you nodded your head, agreeing with yourself.  

Later that evening, next to the couch on the deck, you set an obsidian miniature ashtray, and then stared at it unblinking as if it were a trap for a feral raccoon that you wanted as a pet.  Sporting bandaids on two fingers from various X-Acto knife cuts, you’d been so absorbed in finishing up some of the window details you’d forgotten to eat.  

“Who does this home belong to?” You touching the steps to make sure they were dry this time before you snapped off the mag light.  

The trailer in question haunted your dreams; you knew every dent and bit of chipped paint by heart.  You’d mentioned it to your therapist so many times that eventually they suggested you work through the imagery by creating something tangible.  

“Why this particular trailer though?” You whispered, eyebrows clenched as you took one last look at the empty ashtray before shutting everything off for the night. 

Rising out of the sea of unconsciousness, it wasn’t long before you kicked your legs out from under the covers the next day with childlike anticipation.  It was a slow walk to the craft table though, sucking at your bottom lip and checking around the room with astute caution as if your craft project had somehow summoned masked marauders. 

The steps were free from any fresh footprints, but the porch door to the trailer opened a crack and there was…

“It can’t be…” a chill spiked the hairs on your arms.

Taking a sharp intake of breath and then holding it there, you eyeballed the ashtray that now had something inside it.

Your hands were shaking, and you feared you might knock the whole thing down if you reached in to grab it with your fingers.  Scrambling for the tweezers with a hitch in your breath, you got a hold of the miniscule piece and set it under the magnifier, vibrating as you went.  

One…two…three cigarette butts smoked down to the filter.  

But then there was a fourth one that appeared to have been barely just lit and was still smoldering.

You stepped back, eyes dry, jaw slack, trying to register what you were seeing.  It was the closest to what you imagined an out of body experience felt like.

Attention moving to the door left ajar, you managed to form the words with a trembling voice: “Is anyone in there?”

Wow, now you really did feel dumb. Who did you even think you were talking to? A mouse? A ghost? Some tiny person small enough to fit into the model? This wasn’t The Secret of Nimh.  

Just then, the door in question shut all the way, being pulled somehow from the inside.  

And that was when you screamed.

It flew open again and there he was:

A tiny person no taller than an inch, wearing ripped jeans and a denim vest over a leather jacket stood in the doorway to your model.  You took your glasses off, thinking it was an insect or some dark, floating spot in your vision.

He yelped at the same time you did, jumping back with a dramatic hop.

“Shit you scared me!” He huffed, bending at the knees to put his hands on his thighs and catch his breath.  “I didn’t know you’d be so big.”

“Excuse me?” Your hip bumped into the edge of the countertop letting you know you could back up no further, eyes glued to him in horrific awe.  “Where did you come from? How is this happening? Why are you—?”

“Look, Monkey. It’s me,” he put his hands up in surrender.

You fumbled blindly in the nearby drawer, clattering for a knife, but only came up with a fork, which was just as well, brandishing it like a weapon.  

“Whoa, easy now,” he halted, chuckling nervously. 

You considered the possibility of a brain tumor. 

He sank down on the top step to sit with one knee up in a way that disarmed you, and you slowly lowered the fork to your side, checking around to make sure you weren’t being filmed for some hidden camera show.  You made your way back to the table, squinting to get a better look at his face.  

Realization dawned, and the piece of silverware went clattering to the floor.

“Wait…Eddie?”

“In the flesh,” he tucked his chin to look himself over. “Just not very much of it.”

My Eddie.

Pulling up a chair, you scooted closer, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.  “How are you here? I thought you weren’t real. I mean, I thought I made you up?”

The visions, the dreams, all of those stories you wrote about a metalhead from the 80’s who also happened to be a charming dork. Although you did not know him, you also knew him to the depths of your soul. Beyond time and space, somewhere in the ether of the unknown, that is where you held each other.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m real,” his grin faded into a scowl of confusion. “But I think my wish got lost in translation.”

“Your wish?”

“Yeah, so,” he was playing with one of his rings, avoiding eye contact. “There’s a Wishing Well where I come from, and it kinda has…powers.”

“Powers.” You repeated it flatly, trying to wrap your head around it.

He began to pace, and you realized he could easily sit on the tip of your finger.  

“It’s not your typical water well with coins and shit, this one only accepts gifts.  You have to give it something that is very special to you and only then is your wish considered. I just got my confirmation letter in the mail a few days ago, but I guess my ask wasn’t specific enough.”

Your gaze wandered from him to the length of the trailer, mirroring his bewilderment.  “I’ve been to this place, haven’t I? We sat on that porch together once.”

“Yep, several times,” he nodded, shuffling his foot.  “I brought you home to meet my Uncle Wayne, the one who got me a job at the factory.  Also depends on what you consider real life.”

Mugs...so many coffee mugs...

“The Nightmare Factory.” You whispered it, all the while thinking to yourself that it didn’t make any sense. You could only catch the tail end of that memory before it slinked and faded into the nothingness like most dreams do.  

After a long silence he spoke through grit teeth.  “The next Wishing Well employee I meet is getting chopped in the throat.”

“Is there a way to…” your eyes darted to different utensils as if a pencil or some glue could help the situation. “...to undo the wish or get it adjusted somehow?”

He tilted his head to blink lovingly at you but said nothing.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” you were suddenly feeling upbeat. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, contact the Wishing Well people and see if—”

“I only have 24 hours,” he interrupted softly, thumbs sliding into his belt loops.  “24 hours and then I have to go back.”

“Oh,” your shoulders slumped. 

“Yeah it sucks,” he huffed, ending with a raspberry of a laugh.  

After a while, he was in your hand, sitting cross-legged in your palm as you talked. 

And then he was in the front pocket of your shirt and on your shoulder.  You chopped up grapes for him, he urinated in your sink.  

He wrapped himself around your pencil like it was a lamp post and went along for the ride while you worked on a drawing. 

“I need to start lifting weights,” he snorted, sliding down to swing off your pinky and onto the table. “My upper body strength sucks.”

Careful not to sit on him, you made a special spot on the ledge of the couch while you watched a movie.

“This one goes to 11,” you both said simultaneously during a mutual favorite called This is Spinal Tap.

You kept yourself awake for as long as you could during those last few hours, drinking caffeine, nodding off in the chair by the model.

He walked over from the trailer and tapped your finger in the way he did when he wanted you to lift him up.  Keeping your hand still, he climbed up onto your knuckle and tried to steady himself as it began to rise, windmilling his arms.  

At eye level he whispered, “closer,” with a curl of his hand, and he didn't say stop until he was near enough to kiss the tip of your nose.

“I think it’s time for you to get some sleep,” he took a wide stance, bracing when you moved him further out again.  

“I don’t want to,” you were actually pouting then, knowing that when you woke up he wouldn’t be there anymore.  

Actually, you didn’t really know anything.  How did any of this work, anyhow? Would he really just vanish into the ether after a certain time period? The whole thing made your brain itch and feel fuzzy.  

The only thing you knew for sure was that you didn’t want to lose him. The circumstances of him being no bigger than a thimble was not ideal, but you’d take what you could get.  

“I’ll rest in the crook of your neck, how about that?”

“What if I accidentally roll over and smother you?”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take, sweetheart.”

[gazeofseer]

Direction of light to the browns of your life (;

Browns, what grounds you and what burns

You, deeply underneath too.

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Pick a Image

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Image.1

Fatalist is term used for the one who confuses the go with the flow to become prone to act or intent and choosing not to play which will keep them under the fate, is a state of your fear, dear.

Instances of yours : You so badly wanted to take a decision about something quite recently but you step back and waited for the fate to decide for you, but you got more confused now that a week has passed because your fear covers non existential ideologies to appease your mind's guess.

You are a damsel but not in distress but in the capture of your mind's vivid imaginary and illusions that seems like a vision but is not, remember this is the world of manifestation whatever comes here is a by product of your state of being not of your state of reactions and idealism, it is birth out of your actual reality.

So there is a lot of confusions now, to clear which you need to seek your intentions do you really intent towards what your presume to be your purpose? Question that bloody dream does it dares to manifest when you will fail or will it vanish like a delusion you just had to gauge your mind off the bait?

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Overthinking is not a disease it is a power of your discipline that flow of thoughts you find a way out of your head quite smart right? Quite logical and prideful to feel right as always, but where do you hide those wrongs, those mistakes, that makes you feel like sinner to do so? You don't strive for perfection, you actually like one, great pretentious can be a great tool unless it becomes wavering, unsettling and making high while feeling the lowest in this moment right?

So much of right, I hear a feminine voice with chuckles shows how confident you are about everything you have, and the way you identify yourself with things, but when you endear it as an experience it's annoying, you start nitpicking, for your thoughts it found a flow in your mouth that you keep bickering, playing to some extent, what leaves bitter in this after all? Is the distance you feel within your authenticity and a convincing truth you lied around about.

You are not sad, not in pain, not in guilt or even regret you are disappointed in yourself, for the way you feel, for the way your head takes over all your heart like a devouring death you smile upon.

You need to really, really stop giving value attention, to your thoughts it's mere exertion of your senses let that go liar are those who say you become what you think, you become what you believe in, you become what you feel like is the mere intuition's guide.

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Shed many scales left my scars, even broken the light from the star I held so tightly underneath the sight of wars I had, battles I am fed with, all I could ever be is tired even with the best of the person, I had to feel sorrow and pitful, like an aftermath I stayed in people but with a different story to state of torns, I don't know anything, but I always told about everything, I lend hands and ears, and get rewarded with swords and screams.

Warrior, My champion how does it feel to be your very own thing? Great right then what is the guilt lying in there? There is a cobweb of perception you have crawled your mind through break that, your giving too much importance to the words of others getting absorbed in take your time alone and chose silence sometimes words must fail you so you can see what people mean was truly never about you but the way they feel, they want, they need about you. Do not get into the play of says and opinions they are void. Anyways you have strong instincts and intuition you either way don't need that.

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[da-rulah]

Confessional - Cardinal Copia x F!Reader [Part 2]

Summary: Cardinal Copia is driven out of his mind when you disappear from the Ministry. He cannot find you anywhere, hasn't seen or heard a peep of you, and it's beginning to take its toll. But he's not the only one who's noticed your absence…

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Pathetic Copia, panty-sniffing kink (except it’s not panties...), masturbation (male), endless pining, a very scheming Terzo

A/N: I cannot believe the response I got to Part 1 of this fic... it was my first ever Ghost fic, and yet y'all blew it up! Thank you SO MUCH. 🥹 You wanted a part 2, so here's your part 2. And soon, part 3...

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

How much torture can one man endure before he breaks? How long does it take for a man to go insane?  

The Cardinal supposed it was six days worth. Six days of torture, and he was dangerously dangling over the edge of sanity... And if he was being honest with himself, the majority of it was self-inflicted. 

He didn’t mean to torture himself. He never meant to debase himself so, and somehow managed a full six days before he gave in the first time. And if you hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, perhaps the guilt that had made a permanent home in the pit of his stomach would have been enough to stop him – but just those first six days of not seeing nor hearing anything of you around the ministry were enough to drive him utterly demented. 

But the longer he went without seeing your pretty face in the halls, or hearing your sweet voice when you sang at Mass with your siblings, or being in any kind of proximity to you, the more confident he became that he would never be found out. You would never catch him in his filthy little secret... 

The first time had been a mistake – or so he told himself. Something he did in the heat of the moment, one he couldn’t control and felt utterly miserable over after.  

Those six days he had been on high alert, hoping to see you in the halls or in his seminars but nothing. He wanted so badly to apologise to you, his shame of what he felt was him corrupting your sweet nature in that damned booth but he’d not been given the chance. You’d simply evaporated...  

And so, after he had done a lap of the ministry in search of you one last time on the evening of the sixth day, he sulked back to his quarters trying with all his strength not to pull his greying hairs from his temples in frustration. He slammed the door behind him, frisbeeing his biretta from his head and to some distant corner of the room before he threw himself down on his bed with a huff. 

After a few deep breaths to calm his irritation, he stood and shook the coat of his cassock off, tossing that somewhere else in the room – frankly, he could care less where it landed, as well as the shoes he kicked off. He sat back down against the headboard of his bed, head laying back against the wall as he stared at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment of peace. 

But since confessional, he hadn’t been granted a moment of peace at all. No, his mind was occupied.  

Whether it was the guilt, the shame, the unprofessionalism... or on better days, the images you had planted in his mind of your sinful dream... even the sounds of your mewls and whines from beside him and the smacks to the wood as you’d met your end, kicking out involuntarily as you’d climaxed... His mind was always occupied. 

That evening had been no exception, his mind wandering over those pretty little noises you had made, the way you’d said his name almost breathlessly, the sounds of your fingers sliding through your slick as you practically cried for him.  

The Cardinal found himself once again struggling to control himself – he'd managed to for the last six days but by this point he was just exhausted by it all. How could he hold off anymore? How could he sit here and torture himself with vivid memories of you fucking yourself beside him without allowing himself to indulge in the privacy of his own quarters? 

His thick cock had already swelled in the confines of his pants, as it had many times since your encounter but this was the first time he would allow himself the depravity of actually touching himself to the thoughts of you. It had felt too filthy, too impolite to you to do such a thing and yet after six fucking days of no interaction at all, he was too frustrated to deny himself a moment longer. 

His gloved hands slid to his belt, skilfully unbuckling with one hand as the other palms himself through the material. Before long, he had freed himself, and the black leather of his glove was swallowing his cock over and over as his hand stroked languidly, a low hum emanating from deep within his chest. 

How he wished it was your far softer and more delicate hand, perhaps your mouth if he was lucky enough. But this was the best he could do, pathetically stroking himself behind closed doors to the mere memory of you. What he’d give to worship you, to feel you and to taste you, to smell you again.  

His eyes shot open, his mind cruelly reminding him of the unwitting gift you had left behind... He looked guiltily to the side of his bed, to his bedside cabinet where if he was not mistaken, the drawer knob was glowing at him. But hey, that could just be his descent into madness...  

And it was that madness that had made him do the unthinkable, right from the beginning. He had kept that glove of yours – the glove you had left in such haste, the glove you had baptised with your juices. It sat in his bedside cabinet, under a stack of old Beano comic books he hid from plain sight in case a member of the clergy came to his chambers and judged him for the one thing he kept with him from his childhood. 

He’d be lying if he said that it had sat there and been forgotten about; it certainly hadn’t. But tonight was the first time he had considered retrieving it at all... He couldn’t, could he? He certainly shouldn’t... But his mind had been swimming with could haves, should haves and would haves for six fucking days and frankly, he was done with it.  

To hell with it.  

He reached over to the drawer and yanked it open, shoving the old Beano comics to one side and rifling until he found that discarded piece of lace he’d stolen. He rolled it in his hand for a moment, the other resuming the slow strokes to his cock. He shut his eyes again, head lolling back as he stroked, over and over, moans rolling from his half-painted lips between gentle curses and whispers of your name. 

As if the Cardinal couldn’t become anymore unhinged in his blissful state, he brought your glove to his face, catching the lasting aroma, a delicate bouquet of sin. He growled to himself like an animal, fist pumping himself to the point of no return, his cock angry and red, profusely leaking over his own gloved hand. His abdomen tightened, a garbled groan muffled by his fist pushing the lace against his face, cock jumping in his hand. 

It was quite pathetic really, how quickly Copia came as soon as he pulled that glove from its’ hiding spot. He’d made a mess over his shirt, whimpering into the glove as spurts of his seed landed as far up as his chest. And yet, he continued to fuck his fist into overstimulation, cock pitifully attempting another orgasm as more cum simply dribbled over his glove this time around. Even then, he only stopped himself because the stimulation was becoming painful... Although he was sure he probably deserved that.  

As he sat limp on his bed, the haze of his release fading quickly as realisation of what he’d just done hit him. With tired limbs, he balled the glove back up and threw it back into the open drawer beside him, smacking the drawer shut in anger at himself. How could he be so debauched? So disrespectful? 

So perverted.  

It was bad enough he was thinking of you. It was bad enough that he was masturbating over the thought of you. But that... he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for acting this way. It didn’t matter how he felt about you, didn’t matter that he was transfixed on you or infatuated with you. This should never have happened... 

And yet, there was a next time. And another time after that.  

In fact, as the days passed and turned into weeks – still without so much as a glimpse or a whisper of you around the ministry – he found himself going back to that drawer more and more. The last time was never the last time, no matter how much he promised to stop, to behave himself. 

There was always a next time...  

You’ve been hiding for almost four weeks. How you were getting away with it, you weren’t sure... Perhaps you had memorised your Cardinal’s movements a little too well in the time your fantasies had begun to take hold, and so now you were able to avoid every possible encounter that may have been.   

After all, how on earth could you face him? You were absolutely mortified at yourself and the thought of being anywhere near the Cardinal made your skin crawl... Not because you despised him, or held any animosity towards him at all – how could you, possibly? - but because you felt like a fool; an idiot who got too caught up in the moment, confessed something that overstepped every conceivable boundary a person can set, and had managed to make the poor Cardinal stoop to your pathetic level.  

You had utterly humiliated yourself. 

In your efforts to avoid Cardinal Copia, you had in turn ended up avoiding most of your duties as a Sister of Sin. No seminars, no services... You had skipped on your work duty more often than not for fear of bumping into him in the hallways, faking some terrible stomach flu for longer than could be believed.   

You had even skipped out on Black Mass – a big no-no in the Ministry. Unless you were on the reaper’s death bed, you were to be at Black Mass.  

As the service was held, Papa Emeritus III took to his pulpit and noticed immediately that one of his siblings was missing. How disappointed he had been to come to realise it was you who hadn’t showed. You were one of his favourites, so sweet and virtuous. Whilst he did enjoy corrupting his Sisters of Sin, somehow he always felt you had been off limits... Still, a harmless flirt to keep you on your toes had never hurt. His soft spot for you was nothing if not platonic and playful. 

The Cardinal had noticed your absence at Black Mass also, and frankly it concerned him. Had he driven you out? Had you left the Ministry altogether? He’d not seen you for three fucking weeks, and he couldn’t help but feel a panic rise in his chest, that ever-nagging guilt growing into a nauseating feeling of utter self-hatred. He’d never forgive himself if you had left...  

After Mass had ended, Terzo grabbed the Cardinal for a quiet chat in his office. He knew damn well that you never missed a Latin seminar, that Copia likely saw you more often than most.  

“Cardinale, forgive the intrusion on your plans for the day. I’m sure you have places to be,” he began as he sat behind his desk. Copia stood in front of him, wringing his hands nervously. Part of him wondered if he were to be chastised for his behaviours, as if somehow Terzo had known... Had you told him what had happened at confessional? Did you tell him you were leaving... because of him?  

“Non è un problema, fratello. (It’s no problem, brother.) My only plan was to prepare for the week’s seminars.” His voice wavered slightly, and yet Terzo never noticed as it wasn’t unusual. Copia tended to be a little nervous around Terzo. He looked up to him so much, always had... But to Terzo, Copia was the annoying little kid he would make eat the bugs as a ‘joke’ while he and his older brothers looked on and laughed. And all Copia had ever wanted was to be just like Terzo.  

“I merely wondered if you had seen Sister _____ in your seminars lately? I noticed she wasn’t at Black Mass and... well, that’s not like her, is it?” Terzo asked, leaning on the desk on his elbows, waiting for an answer.   

The Cardinal could feel a drop of sweat forming on his brow. This felt like a trick question, like Terzo was expecting something of him. 

“Uhhh, I... I haven’t. It’s not like her, hai ragione (you’re right) .” 

“Hmm,” he hummed, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder what the matter is? I’ll be sure to look out for her, make sure our piccolo topo (little mouse) is alright. Please let me know if you see her in the next few day, sì?”  

Copia let out a quiet breath of relief, the conversation seeming to end without suspicion. “Sì, fratello. I will update you. Would you...” he stopped himself, wondering if this might be overstepping, implicating himself somehow, but deciding to continue, “would you mind letting me know too? If you see her, I mean...” 

Terzo looked up at Copia with eyes narrowed and a smirk playing on his painted face.  

“Why would you like to hear, Cardinal? Hai una cotta, eh? (You have a crush?)” he teased. Copia’s eyes widened, panic clear on his face.     "N-no! No, I just... This is unlike her,” he panicked. 

 “I wouldn’t judge, Cardinal. She is a pretty young thing...” he mused, winding Copia up further just as he had since childhood. 

“No, fratello... I mean, well, sì, she is but... I don’t...” Copia stumbled, making himself to be more obvious.  

“He doth protest too much,” Terzo laughed, “I will tell you if I see our pretty little Sorella around. You can go back to planning your seminars, Cardinal.” Terzo waved his subordinate out of his office and gladly, Copia took the chance to leave with his head hanging low. 

Outside the halls had quietened after the end of Mass. Copia leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat from under his biretta on his sleeve. He felt so burdened, so absolutely horrified at the thought that now even Terzo had noticed your absence in the ministry. God, he hated that he called you pretty... He hated that Terzo called you ‘piccolo topo’. His reputation proceeded him, and Copia would be damned if he got to corrupt you... 

In the days after Black Mass, Copia tried desperately to find you around the Ministry – with no success. He would end up defeatedly walking back to his chambers late each night, having hoped that maybe he would find you in the kitchens or the library. If you had been trying to avoid him, perhaps you would be eating later, studying in the middle of the night... But nothing. 

But at least he could go back to his room, to his bed, to your glove.  

The knock at your dorm door remained ignored by you, forcing Sister Katia, your bunkie, to get the door with a roll of her eyes. She’s just about had enough of your shit, having to pull twice her weight lately to accommodate whatever this episode was. The only reason she hadn’t lost her cool at you was because she knew this wasn’t like you, and whatever was causing this – it had to be bad. 

“______, it’s for you. A ghoul,” she sounds exasperated... Perhaps you should make the effort to at least see what the Ghoul wanted, praying to Sathanas that it had not been Copia who sent him your way.  

You pulled yourself from your bunk, your depression-outfit of three-day old sweats and a faded old graphic t-shirt making even the Ghoul at the door look at you in vague disgust. He said nothing to you though, his eyes following an arm he stretched out, holding a note with a very telling red wax seal over the fold – a ‘III’ in roman numerals that screamed Terzo...  

“Oh, shit,” Katia was not one for subtlety, clearly seeing the same wax stamp and realising that it was, in fact, a summons to visit Papa in his office the next morning. Dread filled you, the colour draining from your features... Papa only summoned Sisters of Sin for two things, and in your current predicament, both options felt like an option you would rather avoid.  

He was either about to make a move on you, to have his way with you if you were to let him, or he was to chastise you and dish out punishment as he saw fit for your little disappearing act.  

“Thank you, Ghoul. I uh, apologise... for my state,” you smiled weakly. He bowed his head slightly with a flutter of his eyelashes, as if to say ‘no problem, Sister’ - a ghoul of few words, this one... - and he turned to leave, walking down the hallways as Katia closed the door.  

“Well, open it... You know Papa doesn’t mince his words. Are you in trouble, or about to get laid?” Katia smirked as she tried poorly to lighten the mood. You rolled your eyes and popped the wax off the paper, unfolding to read your summons. 

“Sorella _______,  

It has come to my attention that you have been missing from the ministry for quite some time now, your duties going abandoned.  

Should this note find you well, I expect you in my office at 8am sharp with a very good explanation as to why.  

I look forward to your company,  

Papa Emeritus III”  

Had you not thought of yourself as such a tiny little insignificant cog in the Ministry, maybe Terzo’s note wouldn’t have come as such a surprise to you – but knowing your Papa had noticed your absence and was, shall we say, less than impressed unnerved you.  

“Suppose you’ll have to shower now,” Katia bumped your shoulder with hers. “Oh and wear that short habit with the red stitching you’ve got! You’ll need to butter him up a bit, by the sounds of it...” she winked, climbing into her bunk and picking up her discarded magazine.  

Perhaps she was right... If nothing else, perhaps it may distract him just a little, to give you enough time to weasel your way into an excuse for your absence. Terzo could easily be swayed if you indulge him just a little, without having to compromise your own integrity. 

Your hands shook as you lifted a fist to lightly knock on the large double doors of Papa Emeritus III’s office, fear setting in that you were about to have to fight for your place at the Ministry. Terzo was known to be ever so slightly more diplomatic than his brother’s, but a blatant disregard for duties always riled him up the wrong way – and in your depressed and embarrassed stupor, that was exactly what you had done for four weeks. 

“Entra,” you heard from within, the deep timbre of his thick Italian accent sending a shiver down your spine. 

You did as asked, barely opening to door to slink in as if hiding – like any sudden movement would alert him and have him pounce. You waited at the door, practically backed up against the wood and waited for instruction. He was furiously typing at his typewriter, the keys echoing around the stone walls until a loud ping sounded, and he pushed down the carriage release that had it loudly creaking back to its place. He looked up at you then, papal paint freshly adorned over his masculine features. 

When he saw the fear on your face, the shame you already harboured, his features relaxed slightly – not that it gave you any relief to your anxiety.  

“Sorella ______, how I’ve missed that pretty face in the halls, eh?” he smiled at you, monochrome gaze sweeter than you had expected. Sister Katia’s words circled your mind... 

“You know Papa doesn’t mince his words. Are you in trouble, or about to get laid?”  

While you prayed for neither, at least one was inevitable. 

“Come, stand here for me, hm? Let me see you,” he beckoned you to stand before his desk, leaning on the wooden frame by his elbows. 

Cautiously, you stepped forward, standing on the ornate rug between the two chairs he had facing him. He hadn’t invited you to sit, and you knew better than to do something you had not been asked of right now.     “There, bellissima (beautiful)!” he leaned forward, outstretching a hand to pinch at the hem of your skirt, shorter than usual. He ran the material between his fingers, tracing along the red stitching, the hair of his knuckles tickling your upper thighs. It was only now you realised he wasn’t wearing his usual white gloves. You cursed Katia for this idea, hoping not to give the wrong impression. “I like this one, Sorella. The red stitching is....” he took a deep breath in, “quite something.”  

“Th-thank you, Papa...” you stuttered. Terzo looked you in the eye, and sat back in his chair again.  

“Do you know why I called for you, Sorella?” he asked, his fingertips meeting as he leaned back.   

“I-I... I think I’m in some trouble, Papa,” you admitted, looking down at your feet, twiddling your fingers for something to focus on.    “Sì, I’m afraid so. You see, I noticed that you were not at Black Mass on Sunday. It worried me, and so I spent a few days attempting to run into you, to perhaps see you in a seminar or the library but... poof, nowhere in sight,” he made a gesture with his hand, like a puff of smoke had left his palm. 

You remained silent, biting your lip.  

“Even Cardinale Copia has not seen you, so he tells me - his top student!” Your cheeks reddened at the mere mention of his name. “He seemed quite dismayed, actually...” 

You swallowed nothing, gulping down the guilt that threatened to rise. You had caused that, upset your precious Cardinal with your desperate lewd actions. Probably made him reconsider what little authority he had in the Ministry, what with the overshadowing of the Papas.  

“Do you wish to tell me what has forced you to become a mere figment of your poor Papas imagination, tesoro?” he pouted dramatically, a flirtatious glint in his pale white eye. His approach was somewhat light-hearted, and that unnerved you more than if he had been yelling at you. Was he not angry at you?  

“I... I’m sorry, Papa. I haven’t quite been... feeling myself,” you all but whispered, head hung low in shame.  

“Oh, tesoro...” he stood from his chair and rounded the desk quickly, a look of pity and worry etching deeper lines into his paint than usual, “are you sick?”  

He stood close to you – so close you could feel his warm breath grazing over your facial features – and placed the back of his bare hand to your forehead, testing your temperature. You stilled, not a single breath falling from past your lips as you couldn’t help but watch him closely. You could understand why many a sister before you had fallen for his wiles before you, but whilst he made you nervous, you simply could not fathom the idea of intimacy with Papa Terzo.     Not when Cardinal Copia still occupied your mind... 

“Hmm, you’re warm enough, sorella. Not a thing wrong with you physically, eh?” he winked and curled his finger under your chin, stepping back and sitting against the edge of his desk. 

“N-no, I’m quite alright physically.”   

“Then what is troubling you, mia cara?” 

Your palms felt clammy, the weight of the truth on your shoulders almost unbearable. There was no way you would ever tell Papa the truth, you’d burst into flames on the spot out of sheer humiliation. No, you were to keep that to yourself. 

But words failed you, and before you knew what you were doing, your eyes had filled to the brim with tears, silently spilling down your reddened cheeks.   

Terzo panicked... The only tears he was used to were that of the sister on her knees or in his bed for him, and entirely pleasure induced. But this was you, and you were neither of those things to him. He rushed to you, his hands hovering somewhere around your head as he contemplated what to do, how to help you. Hugging you felt unprofessional, awkward almost. He settled for wiping your tears from your cheeks with his thumbs as you began to sob. 

“Mi dispiace (I'm sorry), Papa...” your thoughtful use of Italian swelled his heart, “I... I’ve been in a dark place. I will do better, I promise. A-and I'll take whatever punishment is fitting.”  

Terzo contemplated for a moment. Sister Imperator had been quite insistent on some kind of penalty, especially for missing Black Mass. They had only a brief conversation on the matter when having their weekly meeting, in which Imperator suggested he decide on a fitting punishment himself, but that one should be given. 

But you looked so broken. Your behaviour was so unlike you, so out of character and whilst he didn’t know the cause of this low period, he was no stranger to the idea of depression taking hold for no reason whatsoever. He put it down to that – merely a chemical imbalance in your pretty little head. In good conscience, he could not punish you for the hole you had been in recently. At least, not without giving you a chance to bounce back. 

“Sorella, there is no punishment for you today. But I must ask you to return to your ministerial duties, sì?” You were stunned to silence – that you had not been expecting.  

“I’ll have to keep an eye on you, be sure you attend seminars and Black Mass again this coming Sunday. But you must find an outlet, sì? Something good for the soul. And if I find you have not been attending...” he drew in a deep breath, puffing his chest out, “...Sister Imperator will have my balls in a jar, no?” he laughed. “Don’t make me look like un debole idiota (a soft idiot), tesoro.” 

You nodded quickly, promising you would do your duties.  

“Brava ragazza (good girl),” he smirked, the flirtatious look back in his eyes. “You can start with today’s Latin seminar. The Cardinale will be pleased to see you!” His eyebrows pumped upwards twice suggestively, and rounded his desk once again, sitting back down and typing on his typewriter once more.  

“You are dismissed, Sister. Ready yourself for your Cardinale,” he smirked, eyes focussed on his paper. 

Your blood ran cold at his words, the only heat between your thighs as you were forced to picture yourself literally readying for him... You wondered if the innuendo had been intentional or not; for your own sanity’s sake, you had to choose not.  

You couldn’t bare to imagine the repercussions of Terzo, your Papa, knowing of your little... predicament. 

But you left as he dismissed you, dread filling in the pit of your stomach at the notion you had to not only face the ministry again, but you had to face him.  

Your Cardinale...  

A/N: Again, thank you guys SO MUCH for reading and loving part 1. I hope you love part 2 just as much, and look forward to part 3... (coming real soon, i promise!) In the meantime, you can submit drabble requests HERE

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[uniquevoidflowers]

@luna-loveboop

Even though the other eras were of smaller scale than what he was used to, he was still eager to explore them. The plants and fauna, the creatures and layout—even the air—all felt different. It filled him with a rush of excitement similar to what he experienced when he had woke up.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” The traveller hero asked as soon as they had stepped foot in the rancher’s era. 

“Hell yes,” Wild responded, unhooking his slate from his side.

With one mischievous glance at the group, they slipped away into what Twilight dreamily called ‘Faron Woods’. It was a lush and peaceful forest, blanketed by towering trees and flowing waterfalls. It was more alive than the most vivid parts of his Hyrule, which was saying something. 

“Look!” Hyrule exclaimed suddenly, and pointed at the bushes.

He peered over and grinned, snapping a picture with the slate. It was a small, green bug. Maybe a restless cricket?

Once he switched to the compendium it told him it was not a cricket but a grasshopper. The description was short and straight to the point, leaving him wondering more. “A…grasshopper,”  Hyrule read slowly. “Huh.”

Blonde hair swayed as she whirled around. “Link! Look closely, over here!”

A small golden insect, twitching. She beamed at him and words poured off her tongue with ease, flowing like an endless river. “Normally a grasshopper isn’t something I’d be overly ecstatic about. I believe there’s more to learn about them of course, however, I know enough for my curiosity to be satiated.”

He quirked an eyebrow and she flicked him in the forehead. “Yes, surprising I know. Anyway, it seems that this little one here is a golden colour! A gold insect is incredibly rare and is often searched for to be sold for a high price. Oh! Remember the frog I caught earlier?”

She giggled at the expression on his face, and he mourned the food he’d stuffed hastily into his mouth earlier. “It’s never been tried before, but don’t you suppose that these golden insects might have effects when consumed? We could improve potions even more, and revitalize wounded soldiers in battle.”

She lunged for the insect, but it was too swift, escaping her clutches. She wiped her hands on her pants and gave a long suffering sigh. “Ugh, so close. I could’ve made history! You see, these little insects have reappeared in records for years…beyond the Calamity’s first appearance. It’s always a mystery how they survive, since there are so few and they always get fewer.”

Suddenly she paused, wilting. “I’ve begun to rant once more, haven’t I? My apologies. We should probably continue our travels.”

He shook his head and spoke, voice hoarse and gravelly from underuse. “I don’t mind, Your Highness.”

Her pointed ears tinged red, eyes wider but freer. “Oh…Very well.”

Then those bright green eyes lit up, and she curled her lip playfully. “You wouldn’t mind hearing about my recent studies of the guardians then, right?”

He smiled, mirthful as she launched into an explanation about Sheikah parts and designs and many other details. 

The image rippled, fading away and he smelled sea foam. The traveller was pouring magic into him, trying to heal something that wasn’t broken. Wild assured, “I’m okay. Just a memory.”

A surprisingly light one too…and he spoke! He’d never heard himself speak in one before, and Flora’s diary didn’t count. “Okay,” Hyrule pulled his hands away and then gasped. “Another one!”

He hurried to look over. The second grasshopper was golden. “We’ve got to catch it,” The champion smirked, bag at the ready. 

“New recipe? I’ve never seen you put bugs in a meal before.”

“Hylia, no. The ranch-hand would have my head if I tried to put another bug in his food.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Good point,” Wild laughed and crouched down.

He approached the insect slowly. Then he leaped forward and wrapped it in his hands, hurrying to put it in his bag.

Flora would love it, he was sure.