#literally like. word for word of dreams had words

[galactic-magick]

Maybe in Another Universe, You're Still the Man I Love: Viktor x Reader

Summary: You get sent to the same alternate timeline with Ekko and Heimerdinger, and you find out just how wonderful your life could've been.

Words: 2.1k

Author's Notes: Yeah so that finale sent me into deep grief and writing is the only way I can heal I fear. I hope you enjoy this interpretation of what Viktor could be doing in the alternate timeline.

“Are you alright, darling?”

Your vision comes into focus, though your head is still pounding. You’re extremely nauseous, feeling like your body is not your own as you become aware of the all-too-familiar voice that just spoke to you.

You’re sitting on a desk in an Academy classroom, journals and various papers surrounding you. The sun is shining through the windows, cascading gold onto the other desks and tables. It’s a peaceful, simple sight. Something that feels so wrong for precisely that reason.

“I don’t have another class for a while, you can talk to me,” Viktor says, brushing his fingers against your face. “Care to tell me why you’re looking at me like that?”

You suppose you look like you’ve seen a ghost, which isn’t so far from the truth. You must be dreaming—maybe hallucinating—anything to explain how this isn’t real.

“I…” you start, failing to find the words to say.

-

You storm into the lab, locking your eyes on the empty hexcore cocoon, then at Jayce.

“Where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t know!” Jayce fires back at you, clearly just as distraught as you are. “He woke up and told me he needed to leave me and this place. I have no idea where he went!”

“Why didn’t you follow him?” you scream, your mind spinning. Who knows how the hexcore changed him, he could literally be anywhere.

“He didn’t want me to! What don’t you understand?” Jayce slumps back into his chair, his face in his hands. As soon as he notices a tear fall down your cheek, his tone softens. “Look, I...we both know he’s been different since he started messing with the hexcore. He had told me to destroy it...but I couldn’t. And now he’s even more different. I’m so sorry,”

“Jayce…” you walk towards him. “I’m not blaming you for anything that’s happened. He’s been pushing both of us away for a long time. I guess...I just thought maybe when he woke up he’d love me again like he used to. Did he even ask about me?”

Jayce shakes his head, and your heart sinks even further.

-

“I think I’m dreaming,” you finally say, and Viktor tilts his head. “This...this isn’t real. We’re not like this, we haven’t been like this in a long time. You’re not...what are you here, a professor?”

He cups your face and kisses your forehead, “Darling, I don’t think you’ve been getting enough sleep, you’re talking nonsense,”

“No, no, no,” you jump off the desk and pace around the room. “If this isn’t a dream, then where am I? Some sort of other reality?”

“You mean to say you believe...this is not your world?” Viktor takes in your words intently.

“Well in my world, you fell out of love with me in favor of your work, and then you nearly died and got severely mutated by the hexcore. So yeah, I’d say things are pretty different,”

He raises an eyebrow, “Hex...core?”

“You don’t have that here?”

“Seemingly not,”

You sigh, perching yourself back on the desk, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No, I...I have theorized the possibility of alternate universes before, but I never thought I would come face to face with it in my lifetime,” he starts writing on the wall chalkboard. “I see no reason not to believe you. After all, my wife of this universe would probably not be saying these things,”

“We’re married?”

“Of course. Now tell me, what else is different in your universe?”

-

You’ve tried to find him everywhere—going all the secret places the two of you would go in the past, and asking people if they’ve seen him both topside and bottom. There’s no signs, not even a clue. He doesn’t want to be found.

You make your way back to Jayce’s lab, surprised to see Heimerdinger and a young man you don’t recognize with him. They fill you in on their concern about wild runes showing up around the city, and their plan to check on the hexgates. You’re desperate for anything to get your mind off Viktor, so you go along with them.

You’ve never been to the source of the hexgates before, and it’s even more grand than you imagined. One thing could go wrong and the entire thing would explode, but it’s precisely the potential of destruction that makes it all the more fascinating.

That is, until it becomes entirely unpredictable.

Your surroundings change at the blink of an eye—warped visuals and sounds you can’t make out. You scream for the others, but no one can hear.

-

You do your best to describe all the important events and details of your timeline, while Viktor takes notes on the chalkboard and compares what you say to his timeline. He seems particularly interested in his inventions in your timeline, and his partnership with Jayce—who’s no longer alive in his timeline.

“He died in an explosion here at the academy several years ago, it was a tragic accident that also killed a young girl from the undercity. He was a friend and a brilliant mind,” he pauses. “We...actually named our son after him.”

Your eyes widen, overwhelmed by this possibility of what could’ve been, “We have a son?”

“We do. And he’s perfect,” Viktor smiles softly. “You really are from a different time, aren’t you?”

You nod, trying to hold back tears. Why does this reality’s version of you get to be happy? Why does this Viktor get to dodge corruption and the hands of hubris?

Viktor gazes once again on the chalkboard notes, looking for patterns and causes for the differences in your timelines. Would he have reached the same fate if Jayce was still alive? What caused the Undercity to heal and thrive in his timeline but not in yours? Was this hextech you speak of really so destructive?

You are the same person he fell in love with, there’s no doubt in his mind about that, but you’ve been significantly more hurt than the Y/N he knows.

He steps close to you again, wiping the tears from your face and pulling you into him, “I’m so sorry your version of me has taken a different path.”

You sob into his chest, gripping his clothes. He runs his fingers through your hair and rubs your back, soothing you as if you’re his own.

But you’re not his. This isn’t your life.

You pull away, taking a deep breath, “As much as I want to stay here, I can’t keep taking over the consciousness of the me in this world. I need to find the others,”

“I don’t know if it’s possible for you to get back,” he says. “You say you got here through hextech, and that was never invented here.”

“We’ll find a way,” you run to the window, looking out to get a gauge of where you are. Heimerdinger might have landed somewhere here in the Academy too, and Ekko probably went back to the Undercity. But Jayce—if he’s dead in this universe—where would he be?

“Before you go,” Viktor places a hand on your shoulder. “Would you like to meet our son?”

Anxiety washes over you, your body going numb from the prospect. Would it only hurt you more to see a life that you could’ve created?

“Don’t you have more classes to teach, professor?” you smile, trying to turn your nervousness into something lighthearted.

“I’ll cancel for today. It’s about the time you usually pick him up from school anyway,”

He grabs his cane with one hand and takes your hand with the other, posting a quick note on his door as you leave.

-

You sit on a bench outside the elementary school, your heart pounding. This child is going to run out that building any minute, eager to see the mother he’s always known.

But you’re not her. You didn’t carry him, birth him, or raise him. You don’t have the same memories and experiences.

But you must pretend that you do.

You know which one he is immediately. He’s a perfect combination of yours and Viktor’s features, just like you’d imagined. His smile is contagious, and he wastes no time jumping into your arms.

“Look what I made at school today, Mommy!” he puts a crafty contraption in front of your face, a colorful collection of sticks and paper glued together.

“That’s so creative, honey, I love it,” but your attention is solely focused on him, his sweet face glowing with pride and joy.

“Quite the little inventor, aren’t you?” Viktor applauds him. “What else did you learn today?”

“We did reading and spelling. I can spell family now. F-A-M-I-L-E!”

“Close, sweetheart. There’s a ‘Y’ at the end,” you laugh,

“Are you sure about that?” he says, wincing his adorable face in thought. “Whatever. I learned how to spell brother and sister too, but I don’t have any of those. How do I get one of those?”

Viktor chuckles, “I’ll talk about it with your Mommy, how about that?”

“Okay!” he jumps up and starts walking home with the two of you.

-

What if I stayed? You wonder.

You’re playing with your son on the living room floor, with toys mostly made by Viktor himself. The house is small but cozy, a home you wish was really yours. What if you just stay in this dream reality forever?

What if you never find the others? What if there really is no way to get back?

But no, that wouldn’t be fair to the you of this reality. She’s the one who has this life, not you. Besides, Viktor and his son deserve their wife and mother back.

You hear a knock on the door, and Viktor goes to open it.

“Oh, Viktor, it is so good to see you.”

Your head swivels instantly towards the yordle in the entryway, “Heimerdinger! You found me!” you join Viktor at the door, “Where’s Ekko and Jayce?”

“I have not found Jayce as of yet, but I did find Ekko and sent him back to his timeline about a week ago. We found some hextech fragments and were able to use them to jump through time and space.”

“So...I can get home too?”

“As soon as you’re ready. We built the machine in a young girl’s lab in the Undercity,” he looks between you, then Viktor, and finally your son. His attitude of urgency dissipates as he begins to understand. “But...I could not blame you if you want to stay longer.”

Your son Jayce comes running to join you, grabbing onto your leg, “Who’s this guy, Mommy?”

“This is Professor Heimerdinger, he used to work at the Academy,” you pat his head, “Your dad used to be his assistant.”

“I’m sure you already have a brilliant mind, my boy,” Heimerdinger says. “Your parents must be proud.”

Little Jayce giggles.

“Actually, I would very much like to see this new invention you’ve built, Professor,” Viktor speaks up. “I’m now quite intrigued by the prospect of other universes.”

“I have no rule against you observing, Viktor, but I’m sure you understand I must destroy it after we all get back. It is too dangerous to be left here unsupervised,” Heimerdinger’s tone becomes more serious. “I’m sure Y/N has told you of the destruction hextech caused in our universe, especially to you.”

“Of course, Professor. I understand.”

-

You’ve never seen the Undercity look this beautiful.

It seems that the other version of you comes here often, so many people wave to you and little Jayce automatically runs off with some kids his age to play.

You meet a blue-haired young lady named Powder, who helped Heimerdinger and Ekko in their experiments. She looks so familiar to you, but you can’t place where you’ve seen her in your reality.

Heimerdinger explains how it works, and both you and Viktor listen intently. With everything up and running, you could go back this instant.

The pull to go back is strong, like an obligation to return to your rightful place in the universe. But the pull to stay is equally strong, as you gaze into your husband’s beautiful amber eyes that you want to find solace in forever.

“It’s your choice, my love,” Viktor says, as if reading your mind.

“I know I need to go back…” you exhale, tears welling in your eyes once again. “But I don’t know what I’m going back to,”

“I don’t know either,” he caresses your face, “But I do know you are strong in every universe,”

“I’m not,” you shake your head, “Not without you.”

“Don’t say that,” his thumbs smooth across your cheeks.

You nod, turning towards the device.

“Could you…could you kiss me one last time?” you ask.

Viktor wastes no time honoring your request, crashing his lips to yours with lasting passion. He pulls away only as you back into the circle, leaving you with one last affectionate whisper:

“I’m so fortunate to have met another version of you, my love.”

[604to647]

Millaaaaaaa!! If General Acacius on screen is anything as steadfast and a devoted partner as you've written here then I fear I may leave the theatre and ask for a divorce from my husband 🫣😫😂😂😂

You had me ready with the warnings Acacius is devoted to his wife (he’s soft, protective, caring and slightly possessive) <- this right here is my jam 🥹🥹

But it was these opening lines that I think really set the tone for the rest of the story - you write deep, unwavering, consuming love and devotion so well 🥰🥰

You felt his presence before he even spoke. 

You knew he was here, because all your worries, all the tension in your body, dissipated instantly. All the weight accumulated during those last months was removed from your shoulders, allowing your body to relax and open up.

Oh goodness, to be so in love and in tune with another than their mere existence can physically soothe and comfort you? For me, it immediately conjured up the imagery of two paired magnets that can exist separately, but once in proximity to one another are literally charged and changed just for one another?! Gahhhh 😭😭

What a way to open a story!! 🤩🤩 Every subsequent word only strengthened the feeling of deep and intimate familiarity you established for them. The way you wrote their entire evening of reunion was almost like a dream - like they've both been half existing separately, but now that they are together, they are something else entirely: finally whole 🥹🥹 (yes, the delicious smut was instrumental to this dreamy feeling 😫🥵🥵🥵)

I am genuinely so happy that they are together again 😭😭

What a beautiful and special story - I loved it so much 🥹🥹🥰🥰 Thank you for sharing your Acacius with us!

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3k7 | Marcus Acacius x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Acacius returns from Numidia several months after his departure, and comes back to his wife

Warnings: 18+ mdni. fluff, smut, established relationship, Acacius and reader are married and deeply in love, Acacius is devoted to his wife (he’s soft, protective, caring and slightly possessive), oral (m/f), oil massages, size kink, piv, creampie. No age specified

a/n:  this fic is just soft and sweet and I hope it will bring comfort to those who need it. This is my love letter to Acacius, basically, after watching Gladiator 2 (no spoilers towards the movie). I love this character so much. I did some research but I'm not an expert on ancient Rome at all.

Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for always holding my hand and for beta-ing, @joelmillerisapunk for cheering me up, @iamasaddie for being a sunshine- 🫶💓 dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏

You felt his presence before he even spoke. 

You knew he was here, because all your worries, all the tension in your body, dissipated instantly. All the weight accumulated during those last months was removed from your shoulders, allowing your body to relax and open up.

"My lady..," you heard. 

You stood up and faced him, turning away from the fish pond. You murmured his name then hurried towards him to snuggle against his broad, protective chest, where nothing bad could reach you. His arms surrounded you, as his lips kissed your forehead and your hands slid along his waist to his back. The warmth radiated from him, warming your entire being, body and soul.

"You are here, my love," you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes. You had been holding them back for so long. Too long. Because you didn't want to seem weak, and because you didn't want to let your brain swallow you up in its darkness.

But now Acacius was here, and you could allow your fragility to consume you for a moment,  to be your true self, letting your emotions overwhelm you. Because you knew that he would want to absorb them for you, to protect you. To be your man.

"I'm finally here. I missed you, you have no idea. You were always in my thoughts, my beloved.”

You hugged each other tighter, and you buried your face in his chest, rubbing against him, like a cat that marks its territory with its scent. 

"I missed you too, Acacius," you replied, finally raising your face to his, staring into those soft brown eyes that you missed so much. The eyes of your husband who had returned from Numidia. Returned victorious, as always, but the worry never left you when he was gone. The intrusive thoughts that made you fear that he wouldn’t come back to you, that he had perished. Or worse, taken prisoner. The highest representative of the Roman Empire on the battlefield, the general of Rome, gods only knew what they would do to him.

Caressing his cheek with your thumb, you chased away those dark thoughts to let yourself enjoy the present. Your husband, your love was there. You brushed his wrinkles, as you took the time to admire his slightly grayer curls, before running your fingers through them.

"You are even more beautiful than when I left," he said in a low, calm voice. You smiled when you heard him, moved by his love for you that was radiating from him. Love that had never wavered during your marriage. He always came back to you, as soon as he had dealt with the burdens placed upon him by the emperors he hated.

"Let me feed you, my love," you said. "And bathe you."

You walked toward the caldarium, his arm around your shoulder, yours around his waist, your body pressed against his. You were holding each other close as you were walking, it had been so long since he left for Africa nova.

“I cleaned myself before I went to the coliseum. You don’t have to, you know?”

“I know. But I love to do it, even if it’s only symbolic.”

He smiled warmly and saw you melt under his stare, then pressed a kiss on your temple to forget the fast beating of his own heart.

You undressed him slowly, layer by layer. Taking the time to place your hands on his chest before you would remove the last fabric, to feel his torso rise under your fingers. To process the fact that he was really back with you. He watched you roam his chest, shoulders, arms along his body, face lowered towards you. Smiling, patient. Soothed. 

Once you managed to stop staring at his skin, his muscles, the way his body reacted to your touch, you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. You both smiled, happy and relieved to finally find each other again. You always marveled at his softness, that side of him only you knew. 

Your fingers ran along his skin, and you frowned at each new wound you felt under your digits.

“You have so many new scars,” you said with a trembling voice. “I thank the gods for bringing you back to me.” 

“Thank the soldiers, my love, they kept me alive,” he replied, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He had great respect for his men, treated them well, and had their complete trust. Tears appeared in your eyes again, and he gently took your chin between his fingers to lift your face up to him.

“I’m here now,” he said, his voice still low and calm. He knew you needed to be reassured, that meeting again always made his next departures more difficult, for both of you. He knew you were already anticipating them.

“I know,” you stammered. “I know. I just missed you a lot.” You tried to push aside the worries that were already trying to infiltrate your mind.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, I wish I never had to leave. But I have great news: I won't have to go for now. I told the emperors that I wanted to rest and spend time with my wife. Darius will lead the next battle, he's ready.”

“This is such great news, Acacius!” you said, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and nestling your face in his neck. “I'm so relieved.”

He held you against him, before cupping your cheeks in his hands and resting his forehead against yours.

You moved slightly aside to pull off the last layer of clothing, freeing his half-hard cock. You thought about it so often when he was away as your fingers were buried inside you.

You covered him in oil and massaged his shoulders to relieve his physical tension. Then his chest, arms, palms and belly, taking your time. Gently, your fingers worked his skin, finding their favorite spots and his. Lingering there.

Finally, you faced him and took his shaft in hand, before jerking him off gently under the pretext of applying the oil, but you both felt the need grow.

You then asked him to sit in the warm water, and got undressed. The expression in his eyes changed from softness to eagerness and desire while he was watching you. 

Fully hard, he stood up when you approached the bath, holding out his hand to accompany you down the steps.

“Sit on me,” he murmured in your ear, his beard brushing your skin. You straddled him, placing your hands on his cheeks before playing with his curls. You leaned down and finally kissed him, tasting his warm, soft, luscious lips. You both moaned and it made you smile, as you felt yourself mesmerized by him being finally there, with you. 

He caressed your lips with his tongue, then slid it between them. Your tongues found each other, for the first time in months, and you felt dizzy, savoring him again. His hands roamed your back, squeezed your skin sometimes, while your kiss was only growing more feral and needy. Unable to wait any longer, you grabbed his cock and nestled it at your entrance, making him growl from the depth of his chest.

“Slowly,” he stammered. “No foreplay… don’t hurt yourself.”

“Can’t promise it,” you smiled. It was almost a lie, both of you knew it, you couldn’t take him slowly, your need to feel him being too strong. You sank onto his shaft with your arms resting on his broad shoulders, and you had to bite him slightly when the fat head of his cock began spreading you wide open, until you welcomed him fully, leaving both of you breathless for a second.

“That wasn’t exactly slow,” he laughed once he caught his breath, his hand against the back of your neck as you peppered his collarbone with kisses, your cunt full of him.

“Couldn’t wait,” you breathed and kept kissing him, slowly moving up and down his shaft, mixing your moans with his, your forehead against his. Your breaths mingled, similar in their urgency.

“I missed you. I missed you,” you repeated, while one of his hands was caressing your back, the other resting on your hip to accompany your movements, but sometimes pushing you slightly more down his cock.

“Me too, my love. Finally feeling you like that, wrapped around my cock, is almost unreal after all that time. But I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he said in a breathless voice. “It’s been too long since I felt the warmth of your cunt. Only my hand could give me a release when thoughts about you invaded my mind.”

“Now I’m here. Use me. Come,” you added, rubbing yourself against his lower stomach, knowing you would come soon too.

He held you tight in his arms, setting his pace, fast, powerful, to the point that the water overflowed from the bath with every move. He chased his orgasm, growling in your ear, his body surrounding yours, and you let him use you willingly until his grunts turned into moans and he froze, coming inside you. You pulsed on his shaft just after, milking his cock, feeling him shudder inside you.

You let him catch his breath and his wits before facing him, your hands on his cheeks, and covered his lips, cheeks, forehead with kisses. Already thinking about the moment you would go to your bedroom, and finally take the time to rediscover each other.

Washed, you had dinner, and you told him what happened during his absence. Life in Rome, the dream of Marcus Aurelius long forgotten. The emperors were hated by the subjects, and the cruel games were still allowed.

His worry was growing as he was listening to you. Each time he left, he was afraid a revolt would take place and he wouldn’t be there to protect you. 

He asked you the question that had been burning his lips since his return, but that he was holding back, afraid of your answer.

“Did… did anyone hurt you while I was away?” he asked, eyes lowered to the ground, your hands in his. Then finally forcing himself to look at you and hear your answer.

“No, Acacius,” you answered quickly, eager to remove that weight from his shoulders and his heart. “Nothing happened to me, don’t worry.” You knew that he would lose his mind if someone hurt you, just like those who had hurt you would lose their heads. 

He kissed your hands when he heard you, keeping them between his, brushing them with his thumbs.

“I couldn't stand it if that happened,” he added, voice shaking.

“I know, my love. But the guards protect me. The ones you chose, and trust completely. I am safe.”

He nodded, even though both of you knew he would never be calm during his absences.

Once fed, he told you about the new conquests. You felt the weariness on his shoulders and in his eyes. His anger. The emperors were making him lose patience, every day a little more.

“Enough about this,” he said finally. “I don't want my return to be full of sadness and bitterness. I saw how tense your body is, I will help you relax with some oil, like you did to me.”

“Acacius… you need to rest after these last few months. Not to take care of me,” you replied softly.

“I am your husband,” he said gently but firmly, moving closer to you until he took your hand in his and kissed it. “Your man. There’s nothing else that I want to do more.” You looked at him and smiled.

Once in the bedroom, he asked you to undress and lie down naked on your stomach. He poured some oil in his hands, and rubbed them together. He didn't take his eyes off you until you were on the bed. "You're so beautiful," he said. “I’m gonna take care of you. I missed it.”

He started by massaging your neck, with perfect pressure. Hands flat, he pressed his thumbs against each tense spot, helping to release the tension step by step. You felt your muscles relax at his touch, from your neck to your shoulders. Once satisfied with the way your body responded to his movements, he coated his hands with oil again, then he took care of your lower back. Your pelvis had been stuck for weeks, and you knew that he would do wonders, as always. That the next day, when you woke up, it would be free of its tensions.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, kissing your shoulder, his moustache brushing your skin.

“Better than ever. Thank you, my love.”

“Perfect. Turn around now, please." You rolled onto your back, and you saw his eyes linger on your breasts for a few seconds, nipples hard after his hands on you.

“Well, General?” you chuckled.

“Mmm. I was staring, wasn’t I? I missed them too,” he confessed, blushing slightly, which was cute, coming from him.

He massaged your arms then your thighs, one by one, down to your ankles and feet, careful not to touch your breasts or even look at them, as if that would end the session prematurely. You didn't take your eyes off him, watching his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue brushing his lip, his teeth nibbling on it.

Finally, you saw his gaze fixed on your pussy, something he had also avoided until then. The candlelight certainly didn’t allow him to see, but he probably knew you were flowing down to the bed. His hand slid from your ankle to your thigh, then brushed your folds before slipping between them, making you whine, as you heard the grunt of approval when his finger got lost in your wetness.

He took a deep breath and said “I’m too eager to taste you, now. But tomorrow I will touch, lick, worship your whole body. I want to kiss you, from your forehead to your toes. Take back what’s mine.”

“I’m yours, always, Acacius. Whether you are here or not.”

“I know, my sweet girl, I know. As I’m yours. Ad vitam aeternam. (forever)”

He got undressed and you loved that he took his time doing it, with a soft smile on his lips. You loved knowing that he would be there with you for several weeks. Every day and every night. 

You were never tired of looking at him. His body was a gift from the gods. His strong neck, with veins bulging every time he thrust into you. His broad shoulders, his belly slightly softer as the years passed. His large hands, next to which yours seemed tiny. 

His cock.

So massive that on your wedding night you had been so afraid that you had thought of running away. But he had assured you that he would be gentle and go slowly, that he would take care of you. After another hesitation you had chosen to trust him, his tone, his gaze, and two nights later it had seemed that you had been physically made for each other.

But more than his body, his personality, his loyalty, the way he cared about you, made him a loving, reliable, protective husband. You thanked the gods every day for making him yours.

Once naked, he knelt on the bed between your thighs, gently spreading them, finally revealing your pussy. Again, he took a deep breath. His thumb ran over your wet folds.

“You’re drooling for me.”

He lay down, bringing his face closer to your pussy and breathing it in. “Gods, I missed it.”

His tongue traced a stripe between your folds, up to your clit, making you whine. He looked up at you, adding “now, you’re gonna feed me.”

He dove between your thighs, eyes closed, your folds spread by his thumbs, burying his tongue in your core. Feasting, like he did each time he came back, but not only. From the wedding night, and all the others that followed, he had shown you how much he loved eating you out, pulling orgasm after orgasm, sometimes two in a row because he didn’t want to or couldn't stop.

“Acacius,” you whimpered while his nose was rubbing perfectly against your clit. As he had learned during all those years the way your body responded to him.

Back arched, hands lost in his curls, you moved in harmony with his mouth and his tongue, reaching for him, rolling your hips towards him. He pulled back for a few seconds to look at you, and smiled when you cried for his loss. His beard and mustache glistened with your slick and his pupils were dilated as if he had consumed opium to heal a wound. He leaned towards you again, pushing one thick finger between your folds and then sucking your clit. He quickly added a second digit when he heard your needy moans, and licked at your clit. Your hands moved from his curls to your breasts, then to the sheets, your fists clenching on them.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you whimpered, pelvis tilted towards him as far as possible, as if he wasn't already so close to you. The pleasure that was growing in your core finally exploded, hands and thighs holding his head against your cunt, not wanting him to stop. Docile, he kept licking and pumping you with his fingers, until you stopped clenching on them and released him.

He straightened up, crawling between your thighs, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking on it like his life depended on it before moving on to the other, leaving them glistening with his saliva. Finally, lying between your thighs, he kissed you, his mouth and lips tasting like you.

“I want to taste you too, please,” you begged.

“Of course, my sweet girl. You don’t have to ask. I’m all yours.”

You kissed him before he rolled onto his back, and you straddled him. Covering his cheeks, lips, neck with kisses, then moving down to his torso, hands roaming over his skin. You took one of his nipples in your mouth, sucking, nibbling, licking, then the other, without taking your eyes off him. Admiring his beautiful face. You continued to move down, kissing his belly and hips, your breasts brushing his hard, oozing cock. You took his shaft in hand, and licked his balls, eyes still fixed on him, to see him drop his head back on the bed. “Gods..,” you heard him breathe. 

You smiled and left his balls to suck on his tip, lingering on it, giving you some time to get used to its width, to savor him in your mouth again. His precum flowed in your throat. He had been gone for so long that you were afraid you had forgotten the taste, but it was so familiar again now. Your head bobbing on his shaft, you wanted to make him feel good, wetness dripping from your cunt, moaning on his shaft, and you closed your eyes until you heard him growl louder. Then opened them to see his head raised towards you. One of his hands was placed on the back of your neck.

“You like it, General?” you asked playfully, then licked his shaft tongue flat.

“It’s divine.”

You crawled towards him, arousal dripping from your core after sucking him, you kissed his body again and then his lips, before murmuring “take me.”

His eyes darkened and in one movement he laid you down on the bed, under him. Pressing his cock to your entrance, this time he didn't wait, hands tight on your hips, he pushed his whole lenght into your cunt. His massive cock, so hard that you lost your breath. He never took his eyes off you, dark gaze lowered towards you, soft eyes forgotten in favor of a feral stare. He was possessive, claiming your body as he claimed cities during battles, like his body and mind needed it. Like you needed it too.

You tried to keep your eyes open, to look at him, leaning towards you, eyebrows furrowed, veins throbbing. But the relentless rhythm of his shaft spreading your walls made you forget where you were, leaving you moaning and repeating his name. You clung to his shoulders, telling him how much you loved to feel him again, how much you needed it. 

“Always taking me so well”, he growled, and you hummed with approval.

He slid his hand to the back of your neck, holding you close, his nose against your ear. He breathed you in, focused on your moans, eager to have all his senses filled with you, after months of being surrounded by dirt, screams and blood. 

He was home now, you were his home.

“Acacius,” you whined, his crotch rubbing perfectly where you needed it. 

“Come for me. Soak me.”

“Oh gods… Acacius… Acacius,” you whimpered, your orgasm rushing over you, making you pulse on his shaft, your clit throbbing against his skin.

“Just like that, squeezing me so hard… you were made for me,” he murmured, his breathing now ragged as his own pleasure rose.

“I’m… oh gods,” he said, just before cumming inside you, long spurts of cum painting your walls in white. You held him tighter against you, as he moaned in your ear. Your general of Rome, now the most vulnerable man in your arms.

His jolts finally stopped and he straightened up slightly, careful not to crush you under his weight. He covered your skin with kisses, from your neck to your lips, before rolling onto his side and welcoming you against his chest, arms wrapped around your bare body. Both of you waited for your breathings to calm down.

“I cherish it, you know,” you said, curled up against his chest.

“What do you cherish?” he asked, caressing your skin with his large, loving hands.

“Having you like this, in these moments. It always seems unreal to me, your softness and protectiveness towards me, knowing that you lead battles for Rome. Everyone who fought near you evokes your cold blood.”

He hugged you closer and kissed your forehead, brushing it for a moment with his moustache.

“I love you. I’m only myself when I’m home, with you.”

Thank you for reading 🙏

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[lost-romantique]

The Needs of Both these Messy Gays~

I just want to make a point and state that I'm not attacking or pitting both these guys against each other. They're dumbasses, the both of them.

Blitz is someone that is going to need constant reassurance when he's in a relationship.

Being told the words "I love you" scares the fuck out of him because he doesn't trust those words of love.

At the same time, romantic gestures don't work on him because he's always going to assume the worst.

"And then, he'll call me to see how my day was! And he'll pretend to care about me, and comment on my photos, and LAUGH AT MY JOKES—"

Blitz is someone that has used his body and sex as a way to get what he wants. But his relationship to sex is one of the reasons why he's unable to trust those romantic gestures.

Blitz constantly seeks reassurance, and he asks Stolas for that reassurance a LOT throughout Full Moon and Apology Tour...

"Am I not, like, fucking you good enough? Because I-I can always- I can always do better--"

Blitz immediately asks Stolas for reassurance that he's good enough, and that if he isn't good enough, he makes it a point to tell Stolas that he can do better.

Stolas responds to Blitz saying he cares very deeply for him, but being told he's cared about doesn't give him the reassurance he needs.

Blitz asks for reassurance twice from Stolas in Apology Tour...

"This whole thing we had going... I'm- I mean you're a fucking prince. How could you ever actually care for an imp... Me? How could anybody?"

"Stolas, you are better off without me. 'Kay? You deserve so much... I don't even know why you would want to be with me."

Stolas never says anything really wrong in his responses to Blitz, and I think Blitz himself needed to here that. BUT if Stolas were to make one mistake, it would be that he states that he wants somebody / anybody.

Blitz doesn't reach out to Stolas because of his issues in intimacy, and because Blitz himself hasn’t been given the reassurance that he's the one Stolas wants.

Do you know who does give Blitz the reassurance that he's needed? Millie.

Millie is able to give concrete examples to Blitz on how he made an impact on her life.

In fact, Millie states that Blitz is the reason that everything she has in her life is thanks to him being unapologetically himself.

"He gave me so much: a career, a husband, a future, and now... he's my best friend."

The moment Millie gives Blitz the example of how much she values him as a person and as a friend, Blitz immediately asks for reassurance...

"You... you don’t hate me?"

And Millie automatically says, "Nah, never."

The moment Blitz is given the reassurance that he isn't hated by Millie, he opens up, he becomes vulnerable.

Blitz allows Millie to comfort him, and Blitz initiates that intimacy with Millie to which she obliges.

What's beautiful about this exchange is that there isn't anything remotely sexual about it. This is just one friend comforting another friend in need.

Blitz asks for reassurance again in the form of a question...

And the moment Millie reaffirms that sentiment, Blitz opens up and shows Millie the real him.

Not the fuckboy facade, not the mask he wears... this is the REAL Blitz...

Blitz also shows incredible growth by not deflecting to jokes like he usually does, but instead by being honest with Millie...

Blitz promises to Millie that he'll stop impeding on her marriage

Blitz states in the most subtle way that he has feelings for Stolas

Stolas needs to be told that he's cared for and that he's loved by someone.

He's also someone that seeks romantic affection in the form of compliments, and big and small romantic gestures mean the world to him as well.

Blitz unknowingly makes Stolas’s romantic fantasies come true...

A rogue assassin comes into his bedroom to "scale the walls" and he acts like he wants Stolas a lot.

This man is attractive, he is literally the protagonist of a romance novel. His boldness and confidence is alluring. He is a dream come true and he's here to take what's his.

This man just literally sweeps Stolas off his feet, and he still does this while giving you the most smug grin.

Blitz throws Stolas to the bed, and gives him ultimate rizz in the form of this shit eating grin.

And the moment Blitz bites his neck, Stolas is so fucking into it he creams himself.

Blitz is so good actually, extremely good in being bold, confident, and sexy. He knows how to unravel Stolas. *cough*

In fact, the moment Blitz catches him, Stolas is smitten and he is down bad.

To Stolas, this is a big romantic gesture. This is a motherfucking dream come true for Stolas because, "OMG THIS HOT ASS MAN JUST FUCKING SAVED ME!"

But Blitz isn't a romantic, he's not good at showing romantic affection in small ways, and that's what screws him over.

Stolas wants and actively seeks the smallest bit of reassurance and comfort that Blitz can provide, whether it be through text and or in other small ways.

This motherfucking birb, this dumbass Prince, even when he has every right to be angry at Blitz for the shit he said to him, still wants Blitz to hold him. In fact, he makes him hold him.

Stolas is so fucking cute, being all like, "I'm mad at you, but I still demand you hold me."

"You wanna know what I want? I want to know what it's like, to not be alone. I want to be someone's someone. I want to feel wanted. But like, in a romantic way, like I'm standing out in the rain at a train station and someone is shouting: “Harriet! Don’t get on that train, it’s going to London and I cannot be without you!”

Harriet the Train is a big romantic gesture. Stolas likes big romantic gestures, and Blitz is really good at doing actions that are big and bold.

Blitz has made Stolas feel wanted in The Circus and he makes him feel protected in Seeing Stars. Blitz knows how to be big.

Stolas doesn't need Blitz to perform Harriet the Train, but can he? Oh fuck yes he can.

"The point is, I just... want someone to care if I stay or go. I want someone to want... me! To want to see me. To hold me. To look at me and think "You're the only one I want!" [sheds tears] "I desire to hold you and talk to you, and never let you feel so..."

This is what Stolas wants from someone right now. He wants to feel wanted in the small ways, he wants to be held, he wants someone to talk to him, to make him feel not so alone.

Right now, at this very moment, Stolas needs the small stuff. He needs the small bits of intimacy that Blitz is not in the right headspace to provide in Apology Tour.

Do you know who gives Stolas what he needs at the moment? Better than Blitzo guy.

He's smooth and charming in a different way from Blitz. He doesn't even look at Blitz, actually, his eyes are only on Stolas.

"Great song earlier. You have great pipes."

He compliments Stolas on his singing, and Stolas is happy to be given a compliment.

BTB than asks Stolas to dance, and Stolas is both surprised and in disbelief.

Stolas is so happy and genuinely has an amazing time dancing with BTB, he even goes out of his way to use his wings to give Stolas a spin.

BTB even performs a big romantic gesture of pulling Stolas into a sloppy wet kiss, to which Stolas happily reciprocates.

I think both these idiots have the potential to be what the other really needs, and I honestly think with proper communication they can have the most beautiful relationship.

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child.

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader (platonic)

Summary: No matter how hard you try to impress him, Agent Hotchner never seems to be satisfied with your work. And it all comes crashing down when you decide to confront him.

Words: 2,7k.

TW: mentions of crime, injuries. angst WITHOUT happy ending. hotch being a father figure. soo much angst (yes, again). father and rebellious daughter type discussion. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: He is so ❤️‍🔥daddy❤️‍🔥 but also 💔dad💔 for me, okay?

This was painful to write, so I loved it (I literally wrote it with I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski in the background).

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Anyone who knows you knows that your lifelong dream was to help make the world a better place.

And from your day one at the BAU, you felt like your wildest dreams had come true. You were saving lives, reassuring victims, and helping to bring to justice those who tormented them so they could never do it to anyone else again. You were making a real difference in the world, even if you weren't the caped superhero you wanted to be as a kid.

But, as they say, nothing's perfect. And your job had more contradictions for your mental and physical health than there were fingers on your hands to count. The long and unstable schedule, the few hours of sleep, nightmares about the atrocities you saw, no social life outside the team...and of course, the constant disappointment you felt from Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

From day one, you had worked tirelessly to prove yourself. You craved the approval of your superiors, the respect of your colleagues. The job was demanding, yes, but you wanted to show that you could not only handle it but thrive under the pressure. And you had earned the trust and admiration of everyone around you, except for him.

Agent Hotchner was an enigma to you. There was something about him that both intrigued and intimidated you. He was always so calm, without showing much emotion, without so much as a smile for you. He was a wall you couldn't break through no matter how hard you tried. You had tried so hard to impress him, to make sure he saw your dedication, your work ethic, but you always seemed to fall short. His approval, or lack thereof, hurt more than anything else. You had gotten used to it by now, but it didn't make it any easier.

And now, here you were, in his office, watching him scrutinize your medical diagnosis. He had just glanced at the report from the doctor that had followed you back from the Utah case. Your shoulder, a minor injury, but one that could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t thrown yourself headfirst into the danger in the way you did.

Finally, after several moments of awkward silence, you dared to speak. “What do you think? I am practically at my best.”

Deep down, you knew you were lying through your teeth and that you were not well with an injured shoulder, a concussion, and several bruises, but you refused to say so out loud. You were a brave girl, and he should know.

Hotch looked up from the report in his hand and stared at you. It was the kind of look that made your hair stand on end and gave you a feeling that something was wrong.

“No, you're not.” He sighs and closes the folder before walking over to the desk you were sitting behind. He leans against it as he looks at you, arms folded across his chest. “You disobeyed a direct order during the case. You abandoned your partner.”

“I didn’t abandon Reid,” you replied, your voice sounding more defensive than you intended. You straightened in your chair, wincing slightly as your shoulder protested the movement. “I simply suggested he wait behind me. And it worked, didn’t it? He saved the victim, and I stopped the unsub.”

Teamwork, as you liked to call it.

“It paid off this time,” he said, his voice low but firm. “But that doesn’t excuse disregarding protocol. You put yourself and your partner in unnecessary danger. That’s not the kind of decision-making we can afford here.”

Oh no, here comes the usual chatter you didn't want to hear this time. Normally, you would be quiet, listening and nodding at his every word, but this time there was something different. You just longed for congratulations. Was it really so difficult for him to tell you once that you did something right?

You stiffened in your chair, the ache in your shoulder suddenly more pronounced. “With all due respect, I evaluated the situation and made a hard decision. I’m not some rookie who doesn’t know how to handle themselves in the field.”

Even as the words came out, you felt very nervous. You didn't know if it was the drugs they gave you in the hospital to fight the pain or if it was just your shyness leaving your body completely for no reason.

“I’m not questioning your skills,” he replied sharply. “But you’re not operating at one hundred percent, and that affects your judgment. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for months—longer, maybe. And now you’re injured. You need time to recover and think about this.”

God, no.

“I don’t need time; I need to work,” you shot back, frustration lacing your tone. This job was your lifeline, your purpose. Without it, who were you?

“You know we work as a team. A unit. And when one part of the unit breaks down, there are consequences.” His voice wasn’t just firm; it was unyielding, like a warning. The way he said it almost felt like he was speaking to a child—a reprimand you didn’t want but knew you had earned. “No one is above the team, not even you.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it or the words he used, but it was like the straw that broke the camel's back, and you were tired of putting up with the situation. This was the first time you had made a decision on your own, the first time you had not discussed your ideas with the team only to have them ignored and then spoken louder by someone else. Finally, you had acted, and even that was wrong.

You were tired, fucking tired of being ignored and judged much more harshly than the rest.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely audible but heavy with frustration. The ache in your shoulder seemed to flare as if your body was responding to the tension in the room. “And what consequences are you thinking of, sir?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. There was no hiding the venom now. “What’s worse than not being valued even when I do my job?”

His gaze turned hard as if your tone had cut him deeper than any physical injury could. He didn’t take kindly to disrespect, especially from someone who had otherwise followed his orders without question. You saw the shift in him, the quiet fury simmering beneath his usually controlled exterior. If you were anyone else, the conversation would have already escalated. But you weren’t anyone else. You were someone he knew far too well.

“Don’t use that tone with me,” he bit back, his voice low and steady but carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. There was no mistake now—this wasn’t just about the case. This was more personal. “You are suspended. Your gun and badge on the table. Now.”

Oh, oh, oh.

The words hung in the air between you like a guillotine, sudden and final. The room seemed to close in on you, the breath in your chest catching in surprise. You didn’t know if it was the shock or the disbelief, but your mind struggled to grasp the magnitude of his command. Suspended? Your world was spinning.

You opened your mouth to speak, to argue, but the words caught in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a hollow sound of confusion. “What? Why?”

“Agent, you disobeyed a direct order and endangered yourself and your partner,” he said firmly. “I don’t take your actions lightly. Suspension is not a punishment—it’s a consequence. You need time to heal, both physically and mentally.”

The idea of being sidelined was incomprehensible. The thought of doing nothing—being stuck in your apartment, forced to be still—felt suffocating. No. You couldn’t accept it.

“This is ridiculous. I did my job! I stopped the unsub! Reid saved the victim because I made the right choice!”

You saved a life, even if it meant risking a little of your own. You did save it.

“And what happens next time?” Hotch shot back, his voice rising slightly. “What happens if your judgment falters again because you’re running on empty? What if next time, it’s Reid who doesn’t come back?”

Then, silence.

The thought of Spencer getting hurt turned your stomach and made you question your actions. If anything happened to him, you would never forgive yourself…His life did matter, a lot.

“Gun. Badge. Now.” Your boss talks again. He gestured toward the desk.

Your fingers trembled, betraying you as you reached for the gun on your hip. The cool metal felt foreign in your hands, like something that had never truly belonged to you. Your mind screamed for you to stop, to stand your ground, to fight this. But your body, exhausted and broken, refused to cooperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice cracked before you could get the words out. “I…I didn’t mean…I just…”

Finally, with a shaky breath, you placed your gun on the desk. The thud it made as it landed felt like the sound of everything you had worked for being shattered in front of you. You could feel the sting of unshed tears burning in your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

It didn’t matter what you said. It never seemed to matter, not with him. You had tried so hard to be the one who did everything right, to be the one he could rely on, and yet all you had earned was this—this cold, final judgment. He wasn’t just your boss in that moment; he was the embodiment of everything you had tried to prove yourself against. A reminder that, no matter what you did, it still wasn’t enough.

The words spilled from your mouth before you could stop them, the bitter taste of them already familiar. “You think I’m weak, don’t you?” The tone you had intended to be defiant came out more like a desperate plea. “You think I can’t handle this, that I’m just some liability?”

He didn’t flinch at your outburst. His gaze softened, but just barely. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle but firm. “I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re not weak. But you’re hurting, and I can see it. You need time to recover.”

The words hit you like a slap, unexpected and unwelcome. You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you tried to fight back the burning in your chest. You refused to let the tears well up, to let them gather where he could see them. Not here. Not now. Please, not now.

“I don’t need time,” you said, your voice sharp, biting. But underneath the defiance was something raw and desperate, a quiet plea that you couldn’t fully suppress. “I need to be here. I need to do my job. I need to save lives.”

The last part came out as a whisper, as though saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile conviction you had left. You felt like you were slipping, like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and all you could do was cling to this one thing—the job. The only thing that made you feel like you mattered.

“The only life you need to save now is yours,” he said, his voice quieter but still heavy with authority.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a crushing tide. Your stomach churned, and you fought to keep your composure, to keep from lashing out, even though every part of you wanted to scream. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

A bitter, trembling laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and full of venom. “If it had been Reid or Morgan, you wouldn’t be doing this,” you snapped, the accusation like a raw wound exposed to the open air.

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—anger, hurt, or something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened, his posture stiffening, and when he spoke, his voice was sharper than before, each word deliberate and cutting.

“No,” he said, the firmness in his tone slicing through the room like a blade. “Because they would never have done this.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It slammed into you like a tidal wave, drowning out every other sound. His words rang in your ears, echoing in the hollow space left behind by your crumbling defenses.

They would never have done this.

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your ribs, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. He wasn’t just saying you’d made a mistake—he was saying you were the mistake. That you weren’t good enough. That you never would be.

“Is this because I’m a woman?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. There was a bitter edge to them, a question that had been gnawing at you for far too long. “Because Elle is too, and even she has more, or is it because of my age? Reid is younger, and you never doubt him.”

“It’s not about any of that,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. But it wasn’t reassuring. It only sounded like an evasion, like he was brushing your concerns aside, and it made your chest ache all over again. “It’s not about your gender or your age.”

“It’s about me,” you said, the words like glass shards scraping at your insides. “It’s about how you don’t trust me.”

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost like guilt, but it was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He opened his mouth, but the words he spoke next were measured, controlled. Too controlled.

“No,” he said, his voice so steady it almost hurt. “That’s not it.”

You stared at him, heart racing, hands trembling, as the truth wrapped around you tighter than you ever thought possible. His words weren’t just dismissing your feelings—they were rejecting everything you had ever believed about your worth, about why you were here, in this moment, fighting so desperately for something you couldn’t even name.

But this time, it was different. You weren’t going to back down. Not anymore.

“Then what is it?” You whispered, voice breaking, tears finally threatening to spill. “What is it, Hotch? What is it about me that isn’t enough?”

“It’s not about you,” he said, but his voice lacked the certainty it usually held. “It’s not about trusting you…It’s about protecting you.” His gaze softened just enough for you to notice, but it only made the pain worse. “I can’t lose…I can’t let you lose yourself.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You were trembling, your pulse racing in your ears, but now there was only a terrible stillness. You swallowed, trying to push down the bitterness that rose up in your throat.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me,” you snapped, barely holding back the frustration that bubbled to the surface. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to act like you’re my father, making me follow some imaginary line, keeping me under your control. If you want to raise someone, you already have a baby at home.”

The moment the words left your lips, you saw it—just the faintest flicker of hurt in his eyes. The barest flinch. But it was enough to make you feel the weight of your accusation like a stone, sinking into your chest. The silence that followed was thick with it, suffocating, and you could feel the air growing heavier between you.

“I’m not your dad,” he said, the words low, the icy calm of his voice unmistakable. There was no anger in it, just a hollow, painful truth. But the sting of it was sharp enough to leave a mark.

You blinked, the sharpness of his response cutting through you like a blade. You wanted to fight back, to lash out with everything you had, but something stopped you. Instead, your voice came out quieter, almost hollow as you whispered, “I know…Do you know that?”

And then, just like that, you turned away, your breath ragged in your chest. You didn’t wait for his answer, didn’t wait for anything. You couldn’t stand the ache that had taken root in your chest, the fear that had begun to take shape in the corners of your mind.

And the door slammed behind you.

[pricesprincess]

warm rough hands glide over the expanse of your back as you lay naked under the covers in the darkness of your bedroom, alone and safe.

dreaming of a faceless lover.

his voice was muffled but you could still pick up the smooth whiskey tone, it was a voice that could warm you just by listening to him.

you shivered under his expert touch, feeling your body sag from all the tension the man was massaging from your shoulders and back.

he was speaking but you couldn't make out what he was saying. it was like he had a rag pressed to his mouth but truthfully it didn't matter, not when his fingers felt magical.

in your dreamland you were currently laying naked upon a cushy leather table with a hole for your face and then all of a sudden you felt warm oil be added to the massage making you sigh.

it was a dream that catered to your fantasy.

a moment later, the man dipped his hand under the sheet to glide his open palms over your ass cheeks. "feel good, love?" his voice clear now.

unfamiliar to you, but it didn't matter.

not when it belonged to a man that sounded like that, and although you couldn't see his face from the haze that lingered about his head, you knew he was sexy.

you wanted to roll to your back and wave your hands around the fog to get a clear view of the man that was rubbing you down. "feels good."

"relax and enjoy, you deserve this for working so hard." with each word spoke his fingers dug deeper into your aching muscles releasing the knots of tension making you moan in bliss.

all you could do was groan in response feeling yourself grow warmer as his fingers brushed against your breasts in a slow manner.

lately all you've been able to think about was work leaving you to neglect yourself in every sense and speaking of, the tone of your alarm jerked you awake.

you dropped your head on the pillow, not forgetting your literal dream man. he was sexy and smooth, and oddly enough, not the first time you dreamt about him either.

dragging yourself out of bed, you changed quickly knowing you only had a few hours before work to go to the store for a few items.

thankfully, it wasn't a long ride. about two songs and you were pulling into the parking lot and hustled to the door to grab a basket to carry.

it was only a few things for tonight at work, so you hurried to the first aisle not paying attention when you rammed into someone's cart. "oh! i am so sorry!" you murmured.

"'s ok love, got a lot on your mind?" the person pushing the cart asked, his voice immediately making you flustered. this was your dream man.

[writing-for-life]

@embervoices , I had to put this in a reblog because it got too long for the comments (brevity is not my forte 🤣):

Yes yes yes! I’ve got several metas that riff on exactly the points you mention, also Desire not being the straightforward villain so many think they are; you’ll find them all in my meta-library:

(please don’t feel you need to read them though)

Or rather: If we look at the Endless conceptually instead of seeing them solely as, well, “not human but still people”, we get to a deeper meaning that will otherwise stay inaccessible. It starts with *when* Desire and Despair first enter the scene in the main run (right after The Sound of her Wings, when Dream… well, hears the sound of her wings 😩). The “big sister sets his head straight” is a valid surface reading of #8, but it’s also just that—a surface reading.

You can’t love and be close to Death if you don’t feel drawn to death.

Death can’t advise you without also being her function. She *is* death. The literal thing. And I’ll never tire of saying it, because every time he listens to her in the whole run, he gets closer to her in the real sense.

And another unpopular opinion: When NG coined the pithy phrase that one must change or die, and that Morpheus made his choice, he didn’t mean he just chose death (even if a felt 80% of people seem to read it like that, but that might just be what I see on my feed—other people’s mileage might vary). They were never to be read as mutually exclusive—it was always both. Because metaphorically, something needs to die to change—a viewpoint, a habit, a set of beliefs. And yet, it doesn’t entirely disappear. That’s exactly what happens—omnia mutantur, nihil interit. And Dream is the Prince of Stories—of course he relates to everything via a narrative *he* spins (he can deny it all he wants).

And yes, you can absolutely desire death—I just think it’s so poignant that we meet Desire and Despair for the first time in #10, and also that they show as the twins on this occasion.

And then there is Brief Lives, when Desire (which is *also* a life force, and that’s important contextually in several arcs) actively pulls out of the scheming in more than one way: Dream even says, verbatim, he has no desire to “do this”, when he usually avoids even the word like the plague (and if he hadn’t done it, the ending might have been different, but that would have also been totally past the point). But the influence of his other siblings, or rather how he relates to them, is far more devastating in that moment. And while they all try as siblings, they are also their function. And in their function, they are NOT helping—again, it’s so obvious if we just look at when and how they show up for him:

Delirium made him go on the trip to find Destruction, Death told him off and made him change his mind when he had already abandoned the plan, Destiny advised him but also didn’t because he is what *must* happen either way, and Despair only showed up for him after Orpheus’ death.

Funnily enough, Desire, despite all their scheming, was always the only one who saved his ass (maybe not always for the most unselfish reasons, but they did it anyway). Not just once. Several times over. Overture is all I’ll say (during the actual events of Overture, but also in the flashback to Alianora’s story).

It’s all incredibly clever and heartbreaking at once…

”But He Loved, He Should Have Been Forgiven”

About Free Will, Responsibility and Agency: Lucifer and Dream as Foils

Did I finally jump on the Lucidream/Dreamingstar bandwagon? No, don’t panic (or be eternally disappointed 🤣), because that quote is actually from “Murder Mysteries”, a short story that also exists in comic form (drawn by P. Craig Russell). And while it isn’t officially part of the Sandman Universe (or even DC), I always saw it as somewhat of a blueprint of how NG (re)imagined Lucifer’s Fall. There is enough in Lucifer’s characterisation in the Sandman that makes it quite plausible as a sort of backstory, especially since it was written when the Sandman was still in full swing. But more about that later…

I’ve long wanted to write a meta about Lucifer and Dream as narrative foils, and since I’ve finally started clearing out my drafts, this was a good one to do right now because we are currently discussing “A Hope in Hell” in our community (join us!). Although I have to admit that this one is rather about what transpires when Lucifer decides to abandon their realm in Season of Mists...

When Lucifer learns of Dream's impending return to Hell to finally release Nada, it solidifies their own resolve to leave (I use they/them pronouns because of the show although comics!Lucifer is male presenting apart from the plumbing and also referred to as he/him). By the time Dream arrives, Hell is nearly deserted, with Lucifer basically expelling its last inhabitants. Lucifer tells Dream they rebelled long ago, and that they are not willing to “pay for that one action” anymore. And the most profound truth they share with Dream is the nature of ultimate freedom—the freedom to leave. This is also brought up many issues later, when Lucifer says to Delirium, "I told him, you know. I told him years ago… I told him that I owed him much for having given me the impetus to go. I told him there was always freedom, even the ultimate freedom. The freedom to leave. You don't have to stay anywhere forever.”

And that’s just… ouch. Not just because it so clearly shows that Morpheus also could have left had he just chosen to (then again, he wouldn’t be Morpheus if he had, and even more “then again”: he did in certain ways), but also because we generally see Lucifer as an antagonistic force. But here, they express something akin to gratefulness. And maybe even a hint of regret that Morpheus didn’t also choose the same way. They feel almost sorry for him (my guess is they actually do, and I can never forget their face at The Wake). But what do you do if even freedom feels like a cage?

All of this ties in neatly with the crucial truth about Hell Lucifer reveals: People are there because they choose to be (and that Hell doesn’t need to be a physical place: We can make our own—any place, even in our own minds).

...this is where you wanted to be.

Lucifer explains to Dream:

"Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spend my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The Devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.”

He continues, “and then they die, and they come here (having transgressed against what they believed to be right), and expect us to fulfil their desire for pain and retribution. I don't make them come here. They talk of me going around and buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No.

They belong to themselves… they just hate to face up to it.”

Which brings me to one of the most important messages (one of many) of the Sandman: People must take responsibility (and in this particular case not only for their lives but also for their afterlives, which is also a recurring theme). Each person's soul is their own, and no one can take that away. Paradoxically (or maybe not), as Lucifer abandons their own responsibilities, they urge people to take responsibility for themselves: You can drop said responsibilities, with all that entails, as long as you also take responsibility for the fallout.

So what about the wider question of free will then?

Let’s look at Lucifer's rebellion and fall for that, because both raise a lot of questions. Dream tells Lucifer that he remembers them as passionate, and Lucifer responds, “I cared about so many things. I suppose that was why everything began to go wrong. You know… I still wonder how much of it He planned. How much of it He knew in advance. I thought I was rebelling. I thought I was defying His rule. No… I was merely fulfilling another tiny segment of His great and powerful plan.”

And this brings me right to NG’s short story “Murder Mysteries”, which isn’t really officially part of the Sandman Universe, but also… it totally is 🤣. In it, pre-fall Lucifer witnesses the destruction of an angel who killed another angel they loved. Raguel (the angel formerly tasked with said destruction who now walks on earth, coincidentally mentioned in the panel above as one who might also have rebelled) narrates, “‘That was not right. That was not just.’ Perhaps Saraquael was the first to love, but Lucifer was the first to shed tears."

Later, it is revealed that God orchestrated this situation to push Lucifer towards rebellion. God needed an adversary to run Hell and says, “Lucifer must brood on the unfairness of Saraquael's destruction. And that—amongst other things—will precipitate him into certain actions. Poor sweet Lucifer. His way will be the hardest of all my children; for there is a part he must play in the drama that is to come, and it is a grand role.”

Lucifer was basically set up by God, and this somewhat revisionist interpretation of their rebellion and fall opens up larger questions about free will, agency and destiny.

Because although Lucifer's actions were influenced by God, they still carried them out and are therefore fully responsible for them. And by choosing to abandon Hell, Lucifer was taking responsibility for their own life. They faced a choice: remain in Hell as a shadow of their former self, or move on and make peace.

This fragile peace is illustrated at the end of "A Season of Mists," when Lucifer and an old man are conversing on a beach. The old man, despite having lost everyone he loved, remarks that any God who can create such beautiful sunsets couldn't be all bad. After the man leaves, Lucifer admits (basically to God), “He's got a point. The sunsets are bloody marvelous, you old bastard. Satisfied?”

And in a way, even Lucifer comes to terms with their past once they take responsibility for it.

In a way, this mirrors Dream’s arc to a tee. One could certainly argue that he was set on his path by forces outwith his control: Whatever had to happen in cosmic terms was always bigger than Dream. The Fates also held a grudge against him and Orpheus, for more than one reason. Orpheus did make the Furies cry, and they never forgave him for that. Crucially though, he was also responsible for his own actions and carried them out. Only that Dream’s choice was ultimately a different one—or was it truly? Because what is the exact definition of “walking away”? He certainly did not abandon his realm like Lucifer because he ensured it was taken care of. There is no devil-may-care (no pun intended) attitude, because even when choosing death, Morpheus does care about his realm and the dreamers. Deeply.

It is the sole reason why the ending we get is the ending we get, and why we have Daniel as Dream in the end. And while Lucifer takes responsibility for their own life, Morpheus takes responsibility for his own death. But both Lucifer and Morpheus faced a choice: remain on their paths as shadows of their former selves, or move on and make peace. And both chose the latter.

And one takeaway for us, as the readers, might be that if we find ourselves in an intolerable situation, we can always walk away, even if the price may be high. This brings us back to the theme of freedom:

The price of freedom is taking responsibility for our lives, even if we haven't been fully in control of them. The freedom to walk away might not be the ultimate freedom, as Lucifer suggests, but it is significant.

Free will in the Sandman is a topic of debate, and I tangentially wrote about it before:

Destiny carries a book that contains everything that will happen to us, all there was, is and will be. Most of all though, it contains what must happen. One could say that in this universe, there is a strong element of predestination involved. However, complaining about a lack of free will and just pointing towards Destiny’s book also misses the point:

In the end, our lives are always our own (which is mentioned several times, directly or in a roundabout way: in Façade, in Song of Orpheus, in Brief Lives, in The Kindly Ones, in The Wake).

Your life and your death are your own

Some of us might have more to overcome than others, but the sooner we accept our unique challenges (which is not the same as being passive), the more we will focus on what we can change—or what we can meet with forgiveness and (self-)compassion.

Destiny and freedom as opposite sides of the coin matter far less than what we do with them…

[nerdana]

Falling Apart

Charles Xavier × reader

Summary: when you're feeling awfully low, who'll be there to hold you? Hold you together?

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: seasonal depression, I think? That's abt it. Some evident mental instability

Authors note: wrote this because I couldn't get out of bed yesterday. Welcome to the child of my own bed-rotting, quite literally. Definitely not proof read 😔

I'll get to the requests now I think <3 woohooo

The door cracks open just a smidge, but the absolutely disgusted face you make is suggestive of some criminal destruction inflicted upon you.

It's been hours of this. Rotting in bed, sulking about absolutely nothing. That apprehensive haze lurking in the back of your mind like a minion with its fingers around your throat.

Erik checked in on you a while ago, Raven even asked you out for a walk around the neighbourhood.

If you looked so bad as to warrant an invitation to a stroll, you feared your condition was practically morbid.

It made no sense really - your life was great. In all practical senses, you were living the urban dream. You had great friends. An amazing boyfriend. Doing well at uni.

And yet one second you were alright, the next it seemed like the bed was as strong as a black hole, pulling you into the wonders of the concept of inactivity. Of letting things go and falling into an unending cycle of procrastination, food and malaise.

It almost seemed welcoming.

You groan, turning around with that same disgruntled frown on your mouth, your gaze meeting the face of the Professor himself. Right, time for some more advise and rebukes.

"Well, that's a great way to welcome me home.", he smiles, apparently oblivious to the state of your mind. He did love maintaining your privacy, especially mentally. But added on to your occasional lack of communication, there were moments you wished he didnt.

"Right, I'll be sure to throw you a parade at the end of tomorrow.", you roll your eyes. You know you're being unreasonable. What had he done in all of this? Nothing, at all.

And yet the words were out like you wanted him gone. Maybe in some twisted way, you did. Left alone to your own misery.

You shoot him one last glare, turning back with a huff to curl up on your side.

"Honey?" He sounds confused. You can feel the thoughts going through his head. Is it him? Did he do something wrong? What could he do? You curl up tighter.

Usually, you'd have jumped out of bed, put your arms around his neck, buried your face in his chest. Maybe, that would even have solved everything.

Not right now.

Your bones ached from the inside out, your eyes half shut from the tears you were holding back. If you looked at him right now, the paranoia would flow over into breakdown.

And we couldn't have that, could we? No.

You hear him shuffle closer. The shadow of his hand lands fleetingly over your shoulder, withdrawn just as soon as it appeared. It hurts to see him hold back around you. Especially, when you were the only one he reached out to without a second thought.

He's inches away now, his breath audible, a low hum that does something to you. Soothing.

Familiarity bleeds quite easily into comfort, you realise. His presence itself is a salve. Enough to disconnect the anxiety like a barrier from the world outside.

You want to feel his vest scratching against your cheek, the softness of his skin under your lips. Just that feeling of Charles. Of him just being.

You sigh. More tears are pricking at the edge of your eyes now and you scrunch the sheets tighter, trying and failing to stifle the sob that escapes your lips.

"Honey, no." His reaction is nearly instantaneous. Like that traitorous expression of your pain had freed him from his hesitance. He falls into the mattress, pulling you flush against his chest.

You think of protesting. Of putting up a front. Of sending him away like you did the others. But even the idea of him leaving now, of being in the cold bed without his embrace, the embrace you were literally wrapped in

It felt physically painful.

You let him get mold your posture to his body, his own breaths slowing to give you a benchmark to match up to. His hand comes up, desperate to make things right and yet the gesture is filled with uncertainty, fingers lingering on your arm as if he doesn't know if he is at all what you need right now.

You slip your fingers through his, pulling his hand to your chest. His relief is evident, his chin resting on your shoulder, a fleeting kiss left on your head.

"Want to talk about it?" And you know he means it when he asks. That he'd drop the topic immediately if you even sounded reluctant. And you loved him for it.

You pick his fingers out of yours, pressing two slender digits to your own head, a resigned smile on your lips as you wait for him to catch up.

You're immersed into that familiar feeling, of floating through something heavy, that buoyant peace that comes with his invasion into your mind. You're suddenly blank, neutral to your own thoughts, only an observer, and you allow yourself to relax. To let him take over.

You still dont want to face him though, allowing him to let the flurry, the deluge of mixed feelings run through his mind.

His grip on you tightens only seconds into it, his fingers leaving your forehead to find your cheek, asking you to turn to him. His eyes are wide, brows furrowing further as he watches your tear stained features contort into a feeble attempt at a smile.

"Love, you are one of the smartest people I know.", he starts, a stern edge to his voice. The comment catches you off-guard. Not because you hadn't heard it before. You had. A million times from his mouth, itself.

But because you only realise now how much you need his assurance. About everything, right now. How his decisive tone almost makes you believe the statement without doubt. Belief you hadn't felt seconds ago.

"But sometimes you can be so, so daft.", he laughs when you scrunch your nose. His forehead leaning against yours, he let's his hand run through your hair, waiting for you to sync your breaths with his, to lean into the silence that lingers.

"They're gonna love your dissertation. They'll be crazy if they don't." He seals the utterance in with a kiss to your forehead. You nod, brushing your nose against his as your fingers wrap into his vest.

"And then we'll have a Doctor in the house.", he looks thoughtful when he says it, like he adores the idea of it all.

You gift him with a small smile at that. "Not the kind of doctor we need, anyway.", you quip. You snuggle closer, letting him circle you in a bear hug. He smells nice, like lavender and warmth and something distinctly similar to home.

You can feel the drowsiness of the day catching up to you, sleep finally on the horizon after it had avoided you incessantly. Charles was all you had really needed.

"Love you.", you mumble, threading your fingers through his hair as you plant a kiss on his lips. He makes no attempt to deepen it, choosing instead to pepper your face with small pecks, stopping only when you burst into an involuntary fit of giggles.

His forehead rests against yours again, a sigh breathed into the space between you.

"Sorry, for being such a mess.", you go on, unable to stop the apologies from slipping out.

"A mess?", he inquires, finger tracing your lips, a light brush of skin on skin as it runs along your jaw to brush over your closed eyelids. "We're all allowed to let go sometimes, love."

He squeezes you tighter, your face hidden in his neck as the tears finally come loose, the dampness seeping through his vest. He doesn't pull away, doesn't make a show of it, his only acknowledgment lying in the way he runs his hand over your back, calming, protective.

"Just know I'll always hold you together when you fall apart.", he whispers next to your ear, the words spreading through you in a honey-like warmth.

"Hold you just like this"

[hopesworlld]

౨ৎ being hayden christensen’s controversially young gf

masterlist

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yourusername

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yourusername 🪩🕺

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user1 LMAO HAYDEN 😭

user2 she’s slaying… he’s there ig

user3 who is this diva 💜

haydenchristensen i told you not to post that!

↳ yourusername sorry pookie 🤭

user4 mama a hayden behind you !

user5 i wanna be her so bad 💔

yourbestie had sm fun !! ( even though you brought the old man )

↳ user6 OLD MAN???

↳ user7 let him get up, let him get up

↳ yourusername ageism 💔

user8 HOW DOES IT FEEL TO LIVE MY DREAM

yourusername

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yourusername i just wanna be part of your symphony 🗣️

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haydenchristensen literally what does the caption mean?

↳ yourusername oh my sweet chronically offline baby 🥹

↳ haydenchristensen you are just saying words

user1 wait how old is she?

↳ user2 22 !

↳ user1 isn’t he like 43?

↳ user3 and???

user4 do you guys need a third? ( PLEASE )

user5 is you look very closely you can see me drowning in the

back 🩷

yourusername

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yourusername stream so high school by taylor swift

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user1 didn’t you just get out of high school lmao

↳ yourusername GAGGED AND FOR WHAT 😭

↳ user2 Y/NNNN 😭😭😭😭

user3 HAND PLACEMENT HAND PLACEMENT HAND PLACEMENT

user4 gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

yourbestie i was literally with you too but okay

↳ haydenchristensen take her back, please.

↳ yourbestie no ❤️

↳ yourusername i did not come here to be bullied 😔

user5 i’m 😭 so 😭 happy 😭 for 😭 you 😭

haydenchristensen 1 hour ago

♫ ‘something about you’ by eyedress, dent may ♫

yourusername 1 hour ago

♫ ‘sailor song’ by gigi perez ♫

yourusername

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yourusername i love my boyfriend !!

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haydenchristensen love you, sweet girl

↳ yourusername come kiss me rn.

user1 the hayden cake??? 😭😭

user2 can’t believe they are still together

↳ user3 REAL

user4 doesn’t anyone find it weird that he is 20 years older than her?

↳ user5 no because he could be her dad

↳ yourbestie that’s why she calls him daddy 🥰

↳ yourusername LIES AND SLANDER OMG

haydenchristensen

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haydenchristensen thank you for all your support this weekend!

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yourusername you’re welcome

yourusername no but actually

yourusername i’m obsessed with you and i’m so proud

yourusername marry me

↳ haydenchristensen okay

user1 DID THEY JUST GET ENGAGED???

user2 i’ve been a fan of you for almost 15 years hayden, so happy to see you thriving !

user3 was so lovely meeting you and y/n this weekend 🫶🏻

user4 i miss you already 💔

user5 our anakin skywalker always

user6 ARE WE IGNORING THE PROPOSAL GUYS PLS

yourusername 1 hour ago

♫ ‘older’ by isabel larosa ♫

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౨ৎ this is so random but i had a burst of inspo after a really bad shift at work and i just wanna be hayden’s controversially young gf so bad 💔 23 years isn’t that bad guys 😔

[sceletaflores]

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. ��Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

[awwsd]

It can’t be death because neither of the souls are men anymore

Read on ao3 here

As the light of the arcane grows brighter around him, Jayce begins to accept the reality of what he's done. Not that he's about to die, that his body will be obliterated into ash. He's actually fine with that, had accepted it months ago, had fully expected to die months ago at the bottom of a pit with a shattered leg, and this is an infinitely better way to go.

No, here at the end of it all, what really gives him pause is the things he said, things he confessed really, to Viktor. He doesn't regret them, but baring his heart...he would laugh in any other situation, that as their literal souls entwine, he's worried still that Viktor will reject him.

Hesitantly, he meets his partner's eyes, those beloved twin suns that had been so dimmed as of late. Viktor is crying, he realizes, starlit streaks that dissipate as fast as they fall from his eyes. Somehow, this distresses him all the more. He wants to speak, to reassure Viktor, but even as he forms his lips around the words, the thing that was his throat has frayed and vanished into nothingness. There is nothing he can do but clutch Viktor's shoulder, praying he can communicate all the love and desperation in one touch. Viktor reaches back, and they cling to each other, foreheads pressed together so hard that if Jayce still had a physical body he imagines he'd be in quite a lot of pain.

His body is gone, though. He's not sure how he knows that, but he does. There is only him, only him and Viktor. He thinks, distantly, he really would have liked to say goodbye to Cait. To Mel, to his mother. While he's on the subject of regrets, he really would have liked to kiss Viktor.

The light is blinding now, and the last thing Jayce Talis sees as himself is Viktor's hesitant smile. And suddenly, none of it hurts so bad anymore.

(It's not death exactly.

It can't be death, because neither of the souls are men anymore. They are the distant light of inspiration, they are the twinkle in the eye of the child that dreams, they fall to the earth as rain and drift through the heavens as stars. So indistinguishable, it really wouldn't be worth it for you to find where one ends and the other begins.)

Somewhere on the promenade level, a Zaunite child sits near a stream of runoff (this child could be any child. It could be all of them.) They fiddle with the small machine in their hands. It's meant to spin, but they can't get it right.

A sudden gust of wind wrests the machine from their clutches. They cry out, scrambling after it, so single minded they do not notice the person they crash into. Stumbling back, they look up at the other child. They are from Piltover, the Zaunite child knows immediately, as they bend down to pick up the machine.

"Did you make that?" The child from Piltover asks. The child from Zaun hesitates, the wind whips at their clothes, they remember the days when children from Piltover would mock them, would point out their ragged clothes and cracked fingers. The eyes of this child from Piltover are not cruel, though. They are warm. (They sparkle with starlight.)

"I did. But it's not working," they admit, turning the thing over in their hands. The child from Piltover frowns, their face contorting in concentration (and the expression is oh-so-familiar). They reach for the machine, small hand on smooth metal.

"Can I help?"

The wind dies suddenly. The Zaunite child smiles.

"Sure."

[menodoramoon]

She can't help but give a half-humored smile. Almost fair, they had said. Understandable. It was always somewhat uneven. Though, she knows what they mean. Perhaps she had all the magical defenses, but he could kill her easily. She could not come close without corrupted intervention.

The inside of her wrist begins to sting again, pangs of dread echoing in Menodora's heartbeat.

She can see the way he shifts as he touches to the wound on his shoulder. The one she had left there. Her loss of control haunts her now, the way that she had let go of her restraint enough to threaten him. Would she have done the same to anyone else who brought those harsh -- maybe -- truths upon her? Her feelings had been hurt but shouldn't be enough to want to cause harm to anyone. To kill or maim or injure. What kind of Countess was she to do something like that, to someone she at one point had sworn, as a person of Mjaunie, to protect.

Once upon a time, she had sworn to them that she would be a different sort of person.

It felt like that grief was mine, Moon doesn't say, because to replay those memories wouldn't be worth it. It brings them back to that cycle and she doesn't want that. Of harm to each other -- her oblivious nature which irks him, his vicious tongue. How had the two of them ever been friends with these key differences in who they are as people?

She'd looked up to him. They'd been under her power, even if she hadn't realized it at the time. The civilized monster of Mjaunie, aiding the lords and ladies by leveraging their understanding of history and politics. He was a good Monster, she was told. When he turned on her, it felt like a personal betrayal. But it's not so easy, is it?

He rejects her offer to pay for the damages, and while she opens her mouth to protest, she can sense it's far from a mere formality. The refusal is not a performative action, asking Menodora to come back and insist. Tófi was never that way anyhow.

Simply, Menodora nods, accepting. If they were to ask, she'd acquiesce immediately. But for now, she would leave it alone.

Moon's face burns with a subtle shame as she tries to steady her previously rage-filled breathing. As she tries to settle her elevated heart rate. She is angry and angst-ridden but it's not fair for her to feel so hurt when she had quite literally stabbed Tófi for stating things that, while having strung, were true. At least to the degree that Tófi believed them to be true.

"I'm not asking for an apology," Menodora says, meaning it. She flexes her fingers, where her daggers had begun to burn the inside of her fingers. Or at least gave the illusion of such a thing.

He steps towards her as that anguish takes over and she can't help but flinch slightly, taking a half step back. They made no move to hurt her, yet that didn't mean they couldn't. They had done so with their tone and harsh words. She is still reeling, but it's her own mistrust that betrays her. And for that, Menodora is deeply frustrated.

'I should have some ibuprofen somewhere in the kitchen,' they say as they rest their hand on her shoulder. Funny, she thinks. The same one with the phantom scars. But that's not something she'll bring up. It was merely a dream.

Has the darkness spread further up her arms? She feels a slight despair as the stains remind her exactly what she's traded to get them here.

Yes, her and Tófi's friendship, but any semblance of her sense of self as well. Every time she thinks she could be a better person, she's dragged back to the memory of that day.

Isn't that so self-pitying? Tófi wouldn't approve, and neither would mother, she expects.

Still, it hurts. It leaves a slight burning in her fingertips, unrelated to the knives. And pricks under the skin, like it was magic wanting to spill out the same way light does.

It's not shadow magic, something she could control if she only dedicated herself. It's something deeper, a flow of magic that feels unnatural within her body.

"I suppose I attacked you more literally," Menodora murmurs. They don't apologize. It doesn't evade her notice. They'd always been that way, the implication of a thing that was not meant.

Even now, they're concerned for her. She nods, a bit unsteadily. Instead of the half-sob, she's now wracked with an aching headache. Was it the feeling of being weighed down by that old magic, or simply an over-excited over-exertion.

Menodora glances around, looking for something to steady herself. It's only Tófi that she can learn on at this moment. So, she swallows her pride and does so, trying to relax her body and lean slightly into the hand that rests on her shoulder. Trying not to sway slightly. She feels ill and unwell and guilty. Not so bad as to see stars or small, dancing lights, or to see the edge of consciousness, but she feels the need to close her eyes.

She won't. Not yet.

"And what, dear Torvald," She murmurs, wincing slightly at the pinging headache that was forming, "makes such a biting performance necessary?"

She's not exactly looking for an answer, but it's an interesting consideration.

"I'm feeling… a little dizzy, Tófi," she says. finally bringing a hand to press against her temple. "Would you mind terribly if I rested for a moment so long as I promise not to set any more of your possessions ablaze…?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[shywhumpauthor]

Okay mock executions are fucking terrifying I have not seen nearly enough of them in the whump community.

Whumpee who knows they’re going to die the next week/day/few hours and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. The panic and desperation with no outlet. They claw at their restraints and throw themself at the door to their cell, uncaring as bruises bloom across their skin, or as blood begins to build up underneath their nails. They’re willing to sacrifice everything for the futile, fleeting hope of escape. They scream and beg until their voice goes hoarse even though there’s no one nearby to listen. Eventually, they crumple in on themself to the awful realization that their future is set and cut. They can’t even sleep without their dreams being plagued with this lingering terror. Maybe they’ve seen Whumper kill someone in the manner they’ve told Whumpee they are to be executed, so Whumpee can’t even pretend to think that maybe Whumper is bluffing.

When the day comes, they still haven’t settled into their fate. They’re absolutely hysterical, doing everything they can to stay away from Whumper and [insert place where they were planned to be executed]. Of course, this does nothing. If they won’t walk, Whumper’s men will simply drag them. At one point maybe Whumpee manages to break free for a short moment of hope, managing to throw their elbow against Henchman’s stomach and twist away, actions fueled only by the adrenaline flooding their mind. They take a single desperate lunge towards the door, before something hard catches them upside the head and knocks them down. Their vision is fuzzy and fleeting, hearing nothing but a faint ringing. Maybe they’re unconscious altogether as Henchman picks them up and continues to drag them towards their final destination.

Whumper plays out everything the way it was intended. They tie the blindfold over Whumpee’s eyes, exchange their chains for softer restraints. Whatever. Then when it comes time for the strike, for the blade to pierce through their chest or slit across their neck, all that Whumpee feels is a small prick against their neck, something cold flood through their body before their thoughts collapse under the intensify of the stress and their mind gives out.

Wherever they wake the following day, let it be somewhere much worse than death’s doorstep or a place so peaceful Whumpee couldn’t even begin to comprehend, Whumpee will be terrified. Panicked and confused. Their thoughts will have no answer as they realized there is no one else around to answer their cries. They wonder if this is death, the afterlife or whatever it was called.

That hope is crushed, replaced by even more of a helpless confusion as Whumper strolls through the door moments later, grinning as they ran their fingers across the sharp of a blade.

[oceans-beloved]

Meme dump yayyy🥳✨️

(off to make more now muhahaha >:3)

[papple]

The Star of the stage!

Idol Dream by @tuxibirdie

Idol AU by @zucchiyeni

[taffingspy]

tfw I have been so utterly bewitched by a kind and gentle necromancer that he's showing up in my dreams 😔

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

it does something incomprehensible to my little writer’s soul whenever alex articulates a phenomenon of the writing process i’ve always picked up on and then goes on to describe it in exactly the same way