#sending everyone out there warmth rn

[trenchcoat-full-of-snails]

.

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The second installment of Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Part 3| Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

-> Part 3

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[haniette]

right at the fingertips. // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, friends to ???, childhood best friends au, unrequited love, hurt-comfort

word count | 2.1k

warnings | no use of y/n, panic attack, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, jealousy, use of alcohol, slow burn heartbreak, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sombr — back to friends

summary: once, they were childhood best friends. but one missed chance has changed everything. at sixteen, she stayed silent, and he chose someone else. love slipped through her fingers—before she even realized it was there.

a/n: i am in my angst mood rn im sorry 😭😭 this is definitely NOT inspired by a real situation taken right from my life haha- :’) just thought it might be nice to somehow write about it as it had a potential lololo but still hope you’ll enjoy !!

Oh, how you wished you could turn back time and not come here tonight.

The house was alive. Music pulsed through the air, the bass thudding in time along with your heartbeat. Laughter and conversations overlapped, a chaotic mix of voices shouting over the noise. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and too-sweet perfume clung to the air, making everything feel thick and heavy.

Inside, people were packed together—red solo cups in their hands, pressed into corners and against the couches, bodies swaying in the rhythm of the music. The lights were dimmed, just bright enough to catch the occasional flash of a smile, the flicker of someone’s gaze across the room.

Somewhere in the kitchen, a game of beer pong was met with loud cheers. Someone else cranked the volume on the speaker, sending vibrations through the floorboards. And the others had a good time, partying on that Saturday night. The world around you was drenched in chaos, color, and movement.

But none of it mattered, because all of your focus was locked on him.

Lando was leaning against the wall, one hand holding his half-empty drink. But that view—breath-taking view—wasn’t what had your chest tightening, your stomach twisting into painful knots.

It was his phone.

The glow of the screen illuminated his face, reflecting in his slightly parted lips as he grinned down at whatever message he had just received. His thumb moved across the screen quickly, typing something before stopping, waiting. And then, the softest chuckle left him as his phone buzzed with a reply.

You didn’t need to see the name to know who it was. Olivia. His new girlfriend.

Something in you snapped. You tore your gaze away, the weight of it unbearable. It was like being punched in the ribs, the breath stolen from your lungs in one swift motion. You shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t want to walk over, snatch the phone out of his hands, demand why he was giving her the attention that used to belong to you.

But you did care. And you hated yourself for it.

Your chest felt tight, heat creeping up your neck as emotions you had spent months suppressing began to crawl back up. You couldn’t sit here and watch this. You couldn’t let yourself spiral in the middle of this suffocating, crowded room with the music reverbing through your body.

So you left. You didn’t think much about it—you just moved. You weaved through the group of bodies, ignoring the calls of your name, the outstretched hands trying to pull you back into conversation.

The second you stepped outside, the air felt different. It was sharp and cool, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. It bit at your skin, but you welcomed it—anything to ground you.

You walked around the house, your hands gripping the sleeves of your sweater, your heartbeat still uneven. You needed to escape, to be alone, to let the tension drain from your body before it consumed you.

A small ledge near the fence caught your eye. It wasn’t much—just a flat piece of concrete, probably some part of the foundation—but it was away from everyone. That was all that mattered. You sank onto it, pulling your knees up to your chest and tilting your head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered across the darkness, tiny pinpricks of light, so far away they barely seemed real. It was quiet here, save for the faint hum of cars in the distance and the muffled thumping of the music inside.

It should have been peaceful. But it wasn’t. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push away the image of Lando’s smile. Not the one he used to give you. Not the one that made your chest warm and your stomach flutter.

No, the one he gave his phone. The one meant for her.

A lump formed in your throat. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to take slow, even breaths, but it didn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

God, you were so fucking stupid.

How had you not realized it sooner? How had you been so blind when he was standing right in front of you, waiting—hoping—for you to see it?

A few months ago, he had literally told you.

“You know.. I think I might like you more than I expected.”

And you—stupid, teenager you—had just rolled your eyes, nudged his shoulder, and said something like, “Shut up, Lando. It’s not funny.”

You had waved it off like it was nothing just because it was Lando—always joking, always teasing. It had never even crossed your mind that he would have meant it.

But he had.

Yet, you hadn’t let yourself realize it, because you had never even considered the possibility that he could love you in the way you were now aching for him to.

And then, a few years later came the infamous Instagram post.

You were scrolling absentmindedly when the picture popped up on your feed. Just a casual picture of him and Olivia in his new car. Her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her knee like it had always belonged there. The caption was simple— an orange heart.

At first, you felt… weird. Off-balance, like the ground had slightly tilted underneath you. But then, a second later, as if someone had taken a knife and driven it straight through your ribs, you felt an unbearable pain. Your breath caught in your lungs, your stomach twisting in anxiety.

You reread the caption once. Twice. 

No.

No, he would have told you. Right..?

He would have told you. It wasn’t like Lando to not tell you about his secrets. You were sure he had told you about everything, yet it turned out not to be true.

You remembered how your hands had started trembling, how you had immediately called your best friend, breath shallow, chest tight, panic clawing at your throat.

“Hey, what’s up?” Her voice came through the speaker. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You were shaking, and your chest felt tight. It felt like something was crushing your ribs.

“Hey—are you okay?”

“I didn’t know.. he never told me— … why didn’t he tell me?” You were choking on the air, first hot teardrops rolling down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

It wasn’t enough. The space felt too tight, your lungs too small. You collapsed onto your bed, clutching your chest as the world tilted. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and the room spun around you like a sickening carousel.

The screen of your phone still glowed in your hand, but you couldn’t focus on it anymore. The next picture of the post was the image of Lando and Olivia, their faces warm with affection, that kept spinning in your mind. You felt like a weight was pressing down on you, drowning you in a flood of emotions you couldn’t process.

Why didn’t he tell you?

You felt your heart pounding in your throat.

Why didn’t you see this coming?

Then the tears began to spill uncontrollably, hot and heavy. It wasn’t just the pain of losing him. It was the feeling of failure, of being too late, of missing every signal he’d sent and completely ignoring them.

The world felt so small now. So empty.

Your breath caught as you tried to force the panic back, but it wasn’t working. Your chest heaved. That’s when your phone buzzed again. You almost didn’t see it—didn’t want to see it. But when you finally gathered the courage to glance at the screen, you saw her name flash.

Olivia. And that was your breaking point.

You slammed your phone down and grabbed the blankets, pulling them tight over your head, suffocating yourself in the darkness. But then, through the haze of your panicked thoughts, your best friend’s voice cut through like a lifeline.

“Hey, calm down. Just breathe with me, okay? Focus on breathing, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You clung to her words like a drowning person reaching for a rope, and slowly, the trembling stopped. Slowly, your heartbeat returned to a more normal pace, but the pain—the ache—didn’t go away.

And the thought of Lando with someone else��

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to let the tears fall again. But even after the panic faded, the silence in your room felt deafening. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he hadn’t chosen you. You hadn’t let yourself believe it.

And now? Now, you have lost your chance.

Your eyes burned. You blinked up at the sky, desperate to keep the tears at bay, but the ache in your chest was suffocating. You had let him slip away, straight into the arms of someone else. And now, all you could do was sit here, under the same stars that had once witnessed your late-night conversations, your laughter, your unspoken moments—and mourn.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Your breath caught as you stiffened at the sound of an oddly familiar voice, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Lando stood a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, curls slightly tousled like he had been running his fingers through them. His expression was unreadable—soft, curious, maybe a little concerned.

“You left.” He said simply, taking a step closer to where you sat, observing your face.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Just needed some air. Got a bit overstimulated.” He hummed in response, nodding slightly. 

Lando took another step forward, then crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes flickered across your face, studying you. “You okay?”

No.

“Just tired, I guess.” You murmured, turning your head away to break the eye contact between you two.

He exhaled, shifting his weight. His gaze was soft while searching yours. “Hey, talk to me. What happened? You’ve been very distant lately.”

Your stomach clenched at his mention of the last few weeks. You hesitated, then chose your words carefully. “You have a girlfriend now, Lando. I didn’t want to interfere or anything.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “That’s nonsense.”

“Is it?” You questioned, finally looking at him again and meeting his hurt but also frustrated gaze. 

Lando’s jaw tightened, but then he sighed. “You’re my best friend. You’ve been in my life for ten years now, and I’ve only known Olivia for eight months. There’s a difference in who I prioritize.”

The words struck something deep inside you, something raw and aching. And suddenly, you hated how much you wanted to believe him and his words.

But it didn’t matter. She was the one he eventually chose, and not you.

Your breath hitched as his words settled over you like a weight, heavy and suffocating.

“Does she know that?” You asked softly while playing with the sleeve of your sweater.

He hesitated for a while before answering, and for the first time that night, you saw something flicker in his eyes—uncertainty. But then, he shook his head slightly, brushing the thought away. “It’s not like that.”

Your chest ached. Because it was. And you had no right to say it, no right to fight it, no right to want him to see what was so obvious to you now. But it was too late.

The weight of it all—the regret, the longing, the unbearable ache—crashed over you in waves, and before you could stop it, the first tear slipped down your cheek.

Lando’s eyes widened slightly, and then, without hesitation, he reached forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“You’re crying.” He murmured, amusement lacing his voice, like he was trying to lighten the moment.

But if only he knew. If only he understood that you weren’t crying because of the exhaustion, the school stress, or anything else. You were crying because of him. Because he had once been right there, waiting for you to notice him. And now, he was right here, too—arms wrapped around you, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek—but still just out of your reach.

“Lando, come take a shot with us!”

The distant call snapped the moment in half. Lando turned his head toward the noise, and for a second, you thought he would go. Thought he would untangle himself from you, get up, and leave you alone with the mess of feelings suffocating your chest.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled, tightening his grip around you slightly. “Not now,” He called back. “I need to stay here for a bit. Drink without me.”

That dickhead. How could he play with your heart and mind like that?

Closing your eyes, you pressed your face into the fabric of his hoodie, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you missed so much.

So close — right at the fingertips. But still, somehow, not yours.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

[pearlymel]

I don’t know if your request are open rn but I was wondering if you can do Boothill, Gallagher, and Argenti, and Aventurine with an Actor reader, considered the silver screen queen of Penacony and The Robin of “Film”.

If you need inspo, I was thinking the vibe and style of Judy Garland, Audrey Hepburn, and Marilyn Monroe. (No pressed)

Synopsis : you're the famous person they fell in love with.

Includes : Boothill, Argenti, Aventurine, and Gallagher.

Notes : afab!reader, no pronouns except being called "princess" in Aventurine's. Sfw, All fluff. My dear anon i hope this was what you requested (from what i understood.) Ty for the request, it was pretty creative. Quick reminder that my requests are closed for now!! This is just old requests im trying to finish. feel free to send in your thoughts or thirsts instead. ♡

↳ AVENTURINE.

You were in the acting industry, a known star across penacony that everyone would scream to have a picture with.

Fairly, you don't even know how you ended up with this gambler. Despite you having the money, he still spoils you rotten.

Aventurine is not surprised (or he acts to) that he managed to bag you with his charmness, even though internally he was just one of your die hard fans at heart.

To this day, he's still confused how you returned back his feelings.

Like many other times, Aventurine leads you out of a shopping mall. He’s carrying some bags, and he always makes sure to pick out the heaviest ones to show off how strong he was. He always liked to make a show of his wealth, especially with you.

“You bought so many things today,” he grins. “What’s the matter? Is your current wardrobe that empty?”

"Just things for my family, and you, of course." You grin back.

You didn't expect Aventurine to spoil you at some yacht this time, he puts an arm around you and guides you forwards. All formal butler's at your service, bowing down elegantly just right outside of it. It’s expensive—he wouldn’t dare to spend money on anything less perfect, after all.

He makes a habit of keeping his hand close to the small of your back. He likes to feel the warmth of your body, the way your clothes feel against his touch. He hums lowly from beside you. “I have a surprise for you,” he comments, his tone low and teasing.

"You're full of surprises today."

“Only the best for a diva like you,” he responds back. He can’t help the smirk on his face as he leads you towards the yacht. He’s certainly proud, because he knows how perfect it is. Every part of the exterior is luxurious to suit your taste.

Aventurine climbs on it and holds a hand out for you. “Careful while you board. You don’t want to trip and ruin your pretty face, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes playfully, taking his hand in a firm grip, "Oh don't be dramatic."

He guides you up the small set of steps and grins, his thumb running over your knuckles.

Aventurine leads you further into the cabin. It’s clean and spacious, a large bed on one side. There’s a door leading to a bathroom, and a large screen on one wall.

He sets the bags down and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the empty side of the bed while giving you a smile. “Come here, princess.”

You laugh, dashing towards him and jumping right on him, pushing both of you down on the bed and he grunts dramatically, but laughs along with you. His hands move to rest on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

He adjusts himself so he’s laying on the bed with you on top of him, and his eyes soften.

"I'm happy," you start, "It's not about this, how thankful i am to be experiencing this. But i love spending every moment with you, the good and bad."

Oh, stop giving him that expression. He's going to melt and giggle like a highschooler.

“And I love spoiling you,” he answers. “I love making you feel loved and appreciated because it’s what you deserve. Especially after dealing with me, princess.” he finishes it off softly, pressing a delicate kiss to your cheek.

"Sooo, you rented this yacht just for both of us to enjoy the view and eat good food?"

"Do you like it? Y'know what, scratch that. I'll buy the yacht if you love it. So we can come back here everytime."

↳ ARGENTI.

To you, You were just a normal dancer, following your love and passion for this field.

To Argenti, you were the most elegant, and beautiful human to ever have the pleasure of laying his eyes on.

He has been admiring you, at a distance, for a while. So when this gentleman approached you on his knee with a rose on his hand, you were pretty shocked and flustered.

"I apologise if I startled you," Argenti gently spoke as he offered the rose, his voice smooth and warm like velvet, his redish-green eyes locking onto yours. "But your beauty caught my eye while you were dancing. It is not often that I am rendered speechless, but your grace in every movement bewitched me."

You take the single rose from his hand with a wide smile, your thumb and forefinger toying with the stem and rolling it as you lift it and near it to your lips and nose to inhale it's fragrance.

"I love it," you whisper in awe.

Argenti's heart melted further as he observed your smile and the way you brought the flower up to your face. It was like a vision straight out of a dream for him, and it fuelled the desire within his heart even more.

"It brings me joy to see you like this," the knight replied, "Might I have the honour of knowing your name?"

And you utter your name out, the words leaving your tongue like it was made of silk.

A name as beautiful as the one bearing it, he thought to himself. "A name that reflects your grace and elegance," he responded, "As for myself, I am called Argenti. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"You may stand up, dear Argenti."

Argenti's heart fluttered at your endearing address towards him, and he immediately obliged to your request. He rose to stand up, his stature proud and imposing.

"As you command, my dear" he voiced, his gaze remaining on you. He made a subtle, respectful bow.

That day, you agreed to go on this little date with him, courting you was his next goal.

The sun finally settled beneath the horizon, casting the world into the soft, silver-tinted embrace of night. A gentle breeze gently ruffled his hair, the faint scent of the rose you held earlier wafting around.

"It appears our meeting is coming to an end, isn't it?" Argenti mused as he silently studied your delicate features, silently committing the image to memory. "Thank you for taking me out today, Argenti."

"It is my pleasure to have spent this time with you." He whispered back, ending it with a murmur of your name.

"This evening has been a moment of clarity for me. May I have the privilege of seeing you again sometime in the future?"

↳ GALLAGHER.

Gallagher was secretly your lover, despite his status as a bodyguard to you; the famous popstar singer.

You chuckle to yourself when you watch how he talked off some unwanted guests prying at your personal business, which was just drinking at some small coffee shop.

Gallagher sensed your amusement, catching your smile in his peripheral vision. He took a step closer to you, his hand resting discreetly on the small of your back. "Something funny, pretty?" He spoke first, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

"Just the scene of you handling the situation is amusing." You say before taking a long sip from your drink. He gave a subtle scoff, his lips forming a wry half-smile. He knew that he probably looked like a protective dog, "just doing my job," he replied in a lax tone.

"Because you're my bodyguard or because you're jealous?"

"Both," he muttered, his eyes flickering over the place, still scanning for potential threats. "I'm your bodyguard, so it's my job to keep others from getting too close. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little...jealous."

You pat his shoulder, looking around before resting your chin on his shoulder, "I'm all yours, nothing to be jealous of." you whisper into his ear.

Gallagher's firm expression softened even further at your reassurance. Your words reassured him deeply, erasing any traces of jealousy from his features.

"You're damn right about that," his hand moving from your back to subtly wrap around your waist, as he drew your seat a little closer. "You're all mine, no one else's."

"And if they start being suspicious of our relationship?"

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his expression growing a bit more serious as he considered your question. "They can speculate all they want," he shrugged, his eyes flickering over the quiet area before returning to you. "S’not like we're doing anything wrong. I'm your bodyguard, but I can't help how I feel about you. There's no harm in a little...physical closeness. No one's going to catch on as long as we keep it subtle."

And it was your turn for you to turn all soft, "you know.. i wouldn't care if they find out. I'll gladly show you off to the world."

↳ BOOTHILL.

"My love, this is too much."

"Too much? Nah."

But Boothill's demeanor changes as he senses your guilt, your guilt of recieving loads of expensive clothes and gifts just for you. His strong hands gently grip your shoulders, his gaze fixed on you. He hated whenever you tried to protest or object to his generous gestures.

Leaning in a little closer, he adds in a soft voice, "It's not too much if it's for you, darlin'. You deserve everythin' that money can buy. So don't you dare feel bad, alright?"

Everything he brought to you was to your taste, as a fashion designer. How did he even manage to get these majestic attires for you?

"It's my turn to spoil you, i will make sure to look pretty for you." You promise, and his heart skips a beat at your promise to make yourself look beautiful for him. He gives a low chuckle, "Darlin', you're already the most radiant sight a fella like me could ever want." He steps a little closer, his eyes roaming over you for a moment, taking in the sight of you.

"But I'll still be lookin' forward to seein' you all dolled up," he adds with a sly smile.

And you do, entering the bathroom to change then coming out and giving him a private show of you modelling the clothes he got you.

He lets out a low whistle, a smirk on his face as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes roam over your form, appreciating the curves and the elegance you exude.

Boothill's jaw practically hits the floor.

"My sweet darlin', you look like a vision straight from my wildest dreams."

"Mhmm, and you're the chosen man."

"And I've never been more grateful for that title in my life, darlin'. You look like a piece of heaven right here in my arms."

You roll your eyes at his words, your hands on his shoulders as you look down at his seating figure, "You're exaggerating."

Boothill lets out a hearty laugh, enjoying the banter between you. He playfully pulls you even closer, his hands roaming unabashedly over the curves of your body.

"Exaggerating? Sweetheart, I may have a flair for the dramatic, but in this case, I speak nothin' but the truth." His eyes roam over you once again, "You could be wearin' a potato sack, and you'd still be the most beautiful sight to my eyes."

You narrow your eyes at the idea, "i will wear that potato sack next time."

He grins, "and I'd still be achin' to get up close and personal, darlin'." he says, his voice low and sultry.

[gwenphobic]

COWBOYS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE.

(arthur morgan x pianist at a saloon!male reader)

a/n; sorry for not posting for so long!! gwen stacy x black cat reader will return but rn i’ve had this worm stuck in my head for a min so hold on on that. STAY with me now, this one is good i swearr

You’ve never found it especially appealing, the way cowboys hold themselves and yip and yell about. The way they loiter and accidentally make themselves family men. It’s always been quite annoying though you imagine it is what you would’ve been had your parents been present. Nonetheless, it is not envy you hold toward them but.. annoyance. Yes, that red warmth in your stomach and heat on your face is pure annoyance. And nothing more. Of course.

Your town is small, of no concern. It would never even be dotted out on a map, it is so unimportant. You’ve always imagined what it would be like to leave but have never had the strength. Your place is here at town saloon, fingers dancing around the keyboard. The man who’d taken you had been saloon owner Pete Carter who’d taken your street urchin mind and managed to shift it into something greater, or well, something that makes money. Perhaps, this is why your faith is so strong.

The heat of the day beamed even on your face and flooded the floorboards of the saloon. You sigh. Still, the saloon will open and still will you play away. An Irish woman came in for she was new to town, new to America in a way so obvious. Not much people were here, only the town drunk and a few of the working girls. You sat down with her as she weeped softly, her curly brown tresses falling into her eyes. Her face was bent and curved to her age. She was a mother, you knew and had seen her son and daughter around town often. Trailing upon her like ducks to a mom. Her son was sweet and her daughter, proper. Both young, you didn’t believe either were a day over 6.

“Sir,” she cried, accent thick in her mouth. You rubbed her back before taking her hands. “Yes?” you replied. The mother sighed as she stopped her tears. “I need to write a letter home, but I’ve made no sense of the alphabet. Please do help me, sir,” she said and prayed, “Please know to write.” She looked as desperate as she sounded. She continued, “My Mam has passed, and I don’t know— I need to send my Da a letter. Oh, please, sir!” You shushed her and went to find a piece of paper. That afternoon you’d spent helping her craft a letter home.

As you sent her off, the saloon wasn’t quite full but neither was it empty. A few sat in drunkenness, others sat in a buzz. Some old, some young. It was a comforting feeling, a saloon not so full but neither so empty. You adjusted yourself when you heard it. The sounds of immature folk coming into town. The hooves of horses didn’t stumble as the clambered onto the dirt road. You could feel your stomach tighten with annoyance. Cowboys. Or rather, outlaws. Nonetheless, both were strangely irritating to you. The leather, the boots and all the self-confidence. Can anyone really blame you for holding such disdain? You roll your eyes and sit on the piano bench, beginning to play a tune.

Eventually, the attendance of the church extends and the more proper day drinkers leave. The last to leave is Old Charles McDonald, the union soldier with a limp and a missing tooth. He’s especially fond of his granddaughter who helps him around. He said, some days, he feels crazy. You remember nearly everyone who comes into the saloon, everyone who shares their tale with you. Why would anyone want to forget such history? You begin to help clean up before the sound of jangling spurs throw you off. You froze, completely froze. You turned around;

And there, your worst annoyances stood, an outlaw with two others trailing just before him.

You hid the grimace and continued to wipe down the windows. He wouldn’t be the last cowboy to come out tonight. You just knew the cowboy was walking with some sense of self-importance. You’d only gotten a glimpse but found yourself reflecting on the man’s looks, body. His sandy blond hair and nice tanned skin. Those shining eyes that you were almost certain were a shade of blue or green. You swallowed. He must be popular with the ladies, you came to the conclusion. He’s attractive, alright? Even you can admit that. You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling.. insecure of your appearance. But insecure isn’t the right word, maybe just.. very oddly aware.

“Play a good one,” the man shouted out, his more pale friend snorted while the tanner one huffed. You scowled. You’ll play what you want, not what some insolent outlaw wants to hear. Your fingers find the keys and continue the same tune you’ve been playing. The outlaw can deal with it. Faintly, you hear the drunken footsteps coming closer. The saloon is bustling with business now, outlaws and working girls all circulating about.

“Hey there,” he greeted, his voice was faintly reminiscent of a southern accent. He was pretty, his eyes at least. All green and.. nice. You shook the thought away and returned in a hardened voice, “Hi yourself.” The man looked a little embarrassed if not.. nervous. He looked down, his hat shielding his face. “You, uh, you play real nice,” he complimented and a fill of warm crowded inside your stomach. You returned, “Thanks.” You continued playing as he spoke, “I hope.. Uh, we ain’t causing too much trouble for ya.”

You wanted to say something mean, or snarky. Usually, you would. But staring at this.. outlaw— he’s an outlaw, remember— you couldn’t help but fumbling out, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Y’all ain’t no more trouble than a few drunkards.” He smiled nicely. Really, it was a nice smile if you ignore how beat up his teeth seem to be. “Alright,” he drawled, “good.” The sound of the piano and chattering of the saloon kept the scene from being awkward. “I’m Arthur,” he added like it was an afterthought. You told him your name. “That’s a nice one,” he said and looked as if he was about to say something else before one of his friends called him back over.

“It’s alright,” you said, “go.” Arthur smiled a little brighter and touched your shoulder. “This ain’t the last you’ve seen of me,” he said lightheartedly before stepping back and returning to the bar. You could feel your face all warm, you inhaled. What was that feeling? Hate, maybe. But hate doesn’t make you all flustered like that. He didn’t even do nothing! You grimaced.

It was gonna be a long night.

[dykeomania]

PLS write smut for Hazel from bottoms..I need her so bad I fear..maybe like subtop!hazel..is her having a strap too far..I need her..

this is not. a full fledged fic. but this is the first time in a sec that ive let myself be inspired by an ask. this is weirdly switcher and just pure gay-sexier than it is subby!hazel. lmk if you want things to get subbier, bc i can probably do that. but for rn i have.. this image.. and i want you to walk with me on this but also hold my hand because i'm #supershy,

(minors [including 17 year olds 🙏🏽] dni fr, under the cut: not that proofread. strap lol (r!r), foul language, breeding... language... (my bad) (hazel has a strap tho), subtop!hazel except i could've made this shit so much worse so i guess switch!hazel but like, switch!reader, idk everyone's just a whore. there's an "i love you" (or.. multiple, i guess). there's a mirror. there's a vibrator. purely stream of consciousness, i don't even think the position they're fucking in makes physical sense fr. i was bored and i was thinking, so i wrote a lot. this whole thing is not realistic btw. i have very little confidence that hazel's blowing anyone's back out, but. it's my first day out in a min so i'm rusty. all respect to the community. next time when i pull up, i'll offer something a little more tame and saccharine as opposed to [exaggerated p*rnstar moans!!!]. reblogs and whatnot appreciated.)

so, i have this .. picture.

of you putting a bullet vibe in the pocket of hazel's strap before she fucks you from behind for the first time.

she eventually finds the confidence to blow your back out, and tbh, you think it's gonna end with you seeing stars because you can already hear the fucking lottery machines going off in your head. she's fucking you so well, and hazel's problem is that you're letting her know.

at first she thinks she's going crazy. but those fucking mewls into the pillow over how deep she is, how she's making you feel so good, how you've missed her so much, are sending shocks through her clit that the vibe keeps amplifying, everytime her pelvis hits your ass.

if she thrusts hard enough, which god knows she does, it almost makes her buckle over.

you're left clenching the sheets, and gasping against the linen while she fucks you, taking you in a way that's so uncharacteristically perverse that you don't even have the brain capacity to ask yourself why you didn't ask her to take you like this, sooner. her thrusts are quick and shallow, her words breathy and a little sharp. with every jolt of your body forwards as she experimentally blows your back out, it's like you feel yourself becoming more and more removed from this fucking planet. you can't help but cry -- sob, even -- as she makes you into a mess of limbs, leaving you tugging at your tits in one split second, and gripping at the sheets the next.

something happens, though.

where her hips rut into yours in deep, hard thrusts, spaced out by what feels like eternities, you can hear her. she's moaning now, breath quickening and chest rippling everytime her crotch hits yours at a particular angle. she's mewling, and unless you're hallucinating from how fucked up you are, you can hear her --

"fuck... f--uuh--ck, fuck, fuckfuck..."

-- silently beginning to whimper.

the girl goes from bullying your cunt to burying her strap deep enough in it to make the apex of its curve nudge against your g-spot, in a way that leaves your mouth hanging wide open with nothing spilling out of it maybe other than drool, but...

it's the slick warmth of hazel's back pressed nearly flush against yours and the heat of her breath against your shoulder that makes your eyes flutter open, facing your reflection in the floor-length mirror stationed across from hazel's bed.

hazel's in it so deep, you can't even see the strap anymore. and by no exaggeration, it's like an earthquake pulses through her body everytime she nudges her hips into your ass, making your vision blurry. she's rutting into you. greedily grinding her strap into your cunt in the effort of chasing her own high.

it wasn't a secret that hazel was sensitive. more often than not, the poor girl writhed against your mouth whenever she let you put it on her ("let you" is a loose sentence -- she begs for it, sometimes). you don't even know why you're surprised that your girlfriend is getting this close over having a bullet vibe pressed against her clit, hardly protected by fabric. "b--babe--"

what sounds like a plea, amongst the feeling of hazel's thighs trembling against the back of yours, inspires something sinister inside you.

you wind your hips against her, pressing back against the strap and the toy. the sight of your ass rolling against hazel's pelvis, combined with how good it feels is gonna actually, like, make hazel fucking--

"don't cum."

she loses her breath, entirely, and her rhythm, apparently. she slows, as if that was her body's instinct to obey your orders, despite the string of breaths that tumbles out of her mouth. "n-- wha-- fuck, no, nonono--"

you wind your hips deeper into hers, extracting a moan from your own throat -- fuck, maybe your gut, since that's how deep you could feel her. you press your ass into her until you feel the buzz of the vibe against folds, the frequency of it changing and humming as you press it further into her clit. "y--es," you grit. "don't fucking cum yet, hazel."

the dull, rolling vibrations through the fabric of the strap draw hazel's eyes into the back of her head, and then closed. she's grunting now -- or all of the above -- and she tries her best to unchap her lips, fruitlessly dragging over them. the little breaths she takes through them only brings them back to being puffy, pink, and a gateway of noise that gives evidence to struggle.

"gonna let me count you down?" you puff out your sentence in one breath, and hazel can fucking hear the grin in your still-fucked-out tone and it makes her whine louder.

"yeah? gonna fuckin' let me count you down so you can cum in me, haze?"

cum.. in you. three words that you'd never even fucking uttered to her before this, and that she never fucking thought she would ever hear and.. it looks like she can't complain, because her eyes roll into the back of her head and hazel swears that she -- at least, briefly -- meets jesus christ, "oh my god--," hazel slurs, hips rolling impossibly deeper into yours, it's a miracle she hasn't swabbed your cervix yet -- "ohmygod, oh my god--"

"three..."

ohfuck. ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck. it's the soft chorus that she whispers to herself as she starts to fuck herself into you, again, opting for thrusts as a means of trying to regain control with no consideration for your demise. the vision of her blurs in the mirror, and you feel your fists grasping at her sheets again.

"fuck--" you croak. "t--two.."

she pulls you further into her, and at this point, hazel's okay with being written off as a lost cause, 'cause fuck, it's not like she has a choice. the strap brief is soaked and it's entirely your fault, and god, she throws her head back. a mess of words, a mess of sensations, hazel just blurts, "oh my g--od--i love you--"

you burst out laughing at the random proclamation, admist everything.

she forces her head down to watch you, jaw hung open. and at this point, she's just speaking. rambling and slurring and gasping, tears-in-eyes-in-awe-and-all, as she watches you throw your ass back against her.

"iloveyou so much, you're so f--ucking hot, whatthefuck?--"

there's something weirdly sweet about it. something that makes your cunt clench around the strap in a way that hollows you out shortly thereafter, and lets hazel hit that fucking spot just right. before you know it, you're wherever hazel is, cunt fully creaming around the silicon.

"i love you--" you dumbly spit out a giggle, a gasp causing a steam of spit to cascade off your bottom lip and onto hazel's navy sheets. "babe," you warn. "ohfuck, ohmyfuckinggod, you're gonna make me cu---"

"fuckingsayone," hazel, unbelievably pleads while she unbelievably spears her strap into your cunt. "oh my fucking god, say one, please, please, pleaseplease--"

she starts begging. unprompted. "it's s-so good, it's so, so good, feels so fucking good, wanna c--um in you--" and she probably repeats it. probably repeats that she wants to cum in you until she's blue in the face and,

"o-one--"

until you let her.

the noise that's ripped from hazel's throat is .. embarrassing. virginal, almost. fully reverberates off the walls, and she trembles. her clit convulses against the vibe, twitching with every short stream of her release and she folds. poor girl was holding your hips for something -- for reassurance, to get a grip, dear life, perhaps? as her hips languidly fuck and press into the surface of your ass., rocking your near limp-frame after you've pretty much creamed all over her strap.

hazel hangs over you for god knows how long, dark hair shaggy and some strands stuck to her forehead in wavy wisps. cheeks flushed, and lower lip bitten to hell. the bullet vibe fucking dies, thank god almighty, because god knows she was not in any shape to reach down and turn it off.

she stays like that for a while, until she you feel her again. this time, only gentler, and much more like herself. soft hands caressing the skin of your back, her breath warm and shaky as she peppers a splay of kisses across your skin.

as you come from the surface of your own high, you feel yourself hum. still full of her, and dizzy with it. despite it, you manage -- slurring, slightly.

"haze?"

there's a hum, somewhere.

"did that really feel that good?"

hazel distantly nods, brown locks brushing against your back.

"uh.." hazel frowns, letting out a weak laugh. "y-yeah, honestly."

the mental note gets filed away somewhere deep in the haze of your brain and you grin, when you press your ass one against her just for shits and giggles and hear her gasp, from the sensitivity of it alone.

"that's my girl."

[lueurjun]

neighbours to lovers! jake sim.

neighbour!jake x reader! in which jake sim has been in love with you from the minute he set his eyes on you. thank u so much for your support<3

OKAY LEMME TAKE A MOMENT TO GATHER MYSELF

because NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR JAKE???

WHO HAS BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU SINCE YOU WERE KIDS?

dead. cant breathe.

his family and your family obviously know each other well

and i see his house as being ‘the spot’ during your childhood where all the neighbourhood kids used to play

he had these monkey bars in his backyard that everyone always wanted to play on

but jake always made sure you got to go on them first

#whipped

#nineyearoldrizz

brace yourselves

are you braced?

i’m not sure you’re braced

… HE WAS YOUR FIRST KISS

i know!! so cute right?

fighting back tears rn

you were only eleven so you didn’t really think much of it. he was your first kiss and you were fine with that

jake on the other hand?

he still thinks about it

in fact, that’s one of the scenarios he thinks of to help him get to sleep

boy is hopelessly in love

and everyone knows it too

like he denies it but everyone just knows

because he will drop anything just to do you the smallest favour

“hey jake, are you busy? i could really use your help watering my parents flowers?”

jake, who is in fact busy, “nope. not at all. never. give me that watering can.”

i repeat: w h i p p e d

cant blame him tho. you’re the embodiment of warmth, the personification of excellence. you are simply amazing.

i got more rizz that jake just sayin… ;D

despite knowing you for so long, he still gets all tongue tied whenever you’re around

and you’re just clueless

a perfect little dumbass

no matter how many times your family and friends — and even HIS family and friends — try to tell you, you’re convinced he’s just being friendly

because boys like jake don’t like people like you

you’re not enough for him. and he’s certainly not attracted to you

keep thinking like that. i dare u. i’m outside of your house. ur perfect! MWAH MWAH. take all my love pls

in true neighbours to lovers fashion, your bedroom window faces his

#youbelongwithmecore

and sometimes like the little creep that you are, you peek inside of his room to see if he’s there

unbeknownst to you, little jakey poo does the exact same thing

soulmates fr

twins asf

people that creep on each other, end up with each other

i do not condone staring into your crushes bedroom. do not do that. you may get arrested… but if you do send me your mug shot, i bet u look adorable! KIDDING IM TOTALLY KIDDING PLS DONT GET ARRESTED

anywhooo, one particular night you peek into his room

at the exact same time as him

cue that spiderman meme where they’re just pointing at each other

you both just kinda freeze

staring at each other

because now what? you’ve both caught each other out

eventually, you shuffle forward and open your window which coaxes jake to do the same

the confidence comes naturally because it’s only jake, you know him like the back of your hand

tho ur screaming on the inside because a) you’re embarrassed and b) JAKE WAS STARING INTO YOUR ROOM WHICH MEANS HE WAS LOOKING FOR YOU

it’s almost like he’s in love with u or sumn idk

“are you stalking me, sim?”

his cheeks go bright red and he kinda starts spluttering

“i—no. i promise i wasn’t—i-“

well. that was disappointing. you kinda hoped he’d keep up with your flirty banter

“it’s okay jake, i was doing the same thing.”

honest icon. you truly can do no wrong

even more spluttering. even more blushing

because YOU???? WERE WATCHING HIM??

bro loves stalkers. IM KIDDING ILY

anyways there’s something about the atmosphere

and to jake, it just seems right to say what’s on his mind

which leads to him sitting with his feet hanging out of the window and the darkest shade of red on his cheeks

“i still think about that kiss.”

did u hear me scream?

your mind goes blank

because what tf does that mean?

the kiss?? THE KISS? THE FIRST KISS???

HE STILL THINKS ABOUT THAT???

he can’t look you in the eyes, choosing to fiddle with his fingers instead

and you just stand there dumbfounded

bby talk to him before i lose my mind

when you don’t say anything, jake scrambles back into his room which kinda snaps you out of your trance

his fingers are itching to close the window

“i’m kinda upset that you’ve never come back for seconds”

i literally have a lambo and nine mansions

marry me rn

now it’s jakes turn to be speechless

bro is FLABBERGASTED

“oh.” 🧍🏻

“oh?”

“oh.”

this is painful. it’s 5:30 am rn cut me some slack

you have this poor boy breaking out into a rash from stress

and it worsens when you grab your coat and demand for him to meet you outside

like the true gentleman, he doesn’t leave you waiting long and almost falls flat on his face trying to get through the door

what a loser. i love him

he shuffles towards you, hands in his pockets and a look that says he’s absolutely terrified

are you gonna slap him? tell him you never want him to speak to you again?

“look, i’m sorry if i overstepped—“

“are you gonna give me my kiss i’ve been waiting for or not?“

it’s then that he notices that you’re both in the exact same spot as you were all those years ago when the first kiss happened

literally giggling and kicking my feet rn

“a-are you sure?”

and those are the exact words he uttered the first time too

he was as nervous as he was back then, perhaps even more so this time around

because this isn’t an innocent childhood kiss

you’re grown now. it’s different

in true y/n fashion, you start to lose patience

so you trust your gut and you grip onto his shirt, tugging him closer giving you the perfect chance to collide your lips with his

jake’s hands waft around in stress until they finally settle on your waist and he gains enough confidence to pull you somewhat closer to him

i don’t want a boyfriend. i don’t want a boyfriend. i don’t want a boyfriend.

the kiss is a thousand times better than the first

it's passionate and sentimental, full of longing and tenderness. it’s everything and more.

pulling away is almost a chore as you rest your head against his.

“i could get used to that.”

jake goes to respond, a breathless chuckle ghosts your lips when suddenly a wolf whistle cuts through the street

“AYO JAY OWS ME 20! I KNEW HE’D GROW SOME BALLS EVENTUALLY”

sunghoon, the neighbour across the street who also happens to be jake’s best friend, is leaning out of his window.

that definitely should have ruined the moment but you were far too wrapped up in the bliss of having jake so close to you, that nothing could ruin the happiness you felt

not even sunghoon and his idiocy.

[evermourning]

⋆₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆ 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐤𝐳!! ❆ ₊⋆౨ৎ

pairing: Stray Kids x reader (OT8)

genre: Slice of Life, Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship

warnings: Language, A tad suggestive in Felix's part

a/n: Merry Christmas everyone! This has been queued since Thanksgiving lol I didn't know when to release it. Feel jolly rn.

𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 ･:*:｡❆

It's snowing really hard outside.

You'd have to squint in order to see the dim streetlights, hidden by the storm of ice and the piercing cold brought along with it. You know very well that if you were out there for just a little bit, you'd be shivering, fingertips numb and lips turning blue.

Luckily, you are snuggled into your boyfriend, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you as you sit in solace on the couch. A warm blanket is delicately draped across his broad shoulders.

In front of you, a warm fire roars, warmth emanating from its core of orange and yellow flames. The room is oddly silent, except for the soft pitter-patter of snow against your window and Chan's quiet, melodic hum.

"What are you humming, baby?" you ask with a giggle, absolutely adoring the way his cheeks redden from your words.

"Well...it's a song I've been composing." he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I wrote it for you. It's a love song...and I'm gonna release it on Christmas. Do you like it?"

"I don't know the words, but the melody is really pretty." you assure him, and his fingers intertwine with yours as a content sigh escapes his lips. "I can't wait to hear it."

He maneuvers you slightly so that you're now sitting in between his legs, his hands on your hips. His thumb rubs languid strokes onto your soft skin in the shape of a figure eight.

"I really don't deserve you." he whispers, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. "You're so amazing, so lovely. So perfect for me."

His nonstop kisses make their way to your neck and collarbone.

"Can we stay like this, just for a little while longer?"

So, you will stay in your little bubble with Chan, forever and ever. Until the snow stops, at least.

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐎 ･:*:｡❆

The moon is high in the night sky, bright and full as it blesses the Earth beneath it with light. You're inside, having a small party with family and friends. It's not completely silent, as your home is filled with sounds of lively chatter and glasses clinking against each other, but it is tranquil.

You're standing in the arch of the doorway, talking animatedly to Hyunjin about a present you bought for your boyfriend, who is currently watching from the distance. He is definitely not pouting. Jisung stands beside him, patting his shoulder.

"I think you're overreacting, Min." he says teasingly, eliciting an eye roll from the older boy. "C'mon, they're just talking to Hyunjin. He couldn't hurt a fly."

"But he's attractive. And they've known him so much longer than they've known me...and they haven't kissed me in three fucking hours." he says the last part with such fervor it sends Jisung into a fit of giggles.

"Three whole hours? I'd think you were being starved just hearing that."

"I am!" Minho whines. When your adorable laugh, the one you only save for him, reverberates through the crowded room, Minho feels his blood boil. "Oh, fuck this."

He pushes through the room, soft echoes of "sorry" and "excuse me" falling from his lips. When he reaches you, Minho pulls you into his chest and flashes Hyunjin an unfathomable glance. Hyunjin takes this as his cue to leave (thankfully) and once he does, Minho pulls back, keeping his hands on your hips.

"What was that for?" you ask him with a light giggle. "You seemed so annoyed. Are you and Hyunjin not on good terms right now?"

Minho shakes his head. He tightens his hold on you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His cologne smells so good, you think you might be a little dizzy.

"'Wanted some time with you, just the two of us." he mumbles into your shirt, pressing kisses all along your jawline. "Please? For me?" However, he stops when he hears you chuckle lowly, watching as your index finger extends to point upwards. Minho's gaze follows it until it reaches its destination: a trio of dark green leaves held together in a bow by vibrant red ribbon. You smile.

Minho's arms reach around you, caging you to the side of the door as his lips meet yours in a passionate embrace. He's never intimate in public with you, resorting only to hand-holding, but at this point, he just wants to be with you. He wants to feel your lips on his until the sun rises.

𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 ･:*:｡❆

"Don't let go of me, 'm gonna fall!" Changbin whines, a gloved hand tightly squeezing yours as you gracefully skate across the ice. Your boyfriend unfortunately is not as graceful.

It was his idea in the first place. He wanted to take you here, to show you his amazing skills, until he remembered one very important thing:

He could not ice skate to save his life.

Now, here you are alongside him, expertly gliding along the ice as if you've done this your entire life. You ask Changbin, time and time again, if he wants to hold onto the side so there's a smaller chance of him falling, but he is too prideful. He shakes his head, his cheeks reddening.

"No way! I'm no kid, I can ice skate."

And yet, he still holds onto your hand for good measure. He says it "brings him good luck", and you simply giggle and continue skating through the rink with him at your side.

"It's not my fault that I'm slowing you down. We're at two completely different skill levels." the way he's looking at you now, eyes large and round and the cutest little smirk upon his lips, you can't help but grin at the sight. He's lovely, isn't he?

"I guess you make a good point, Binnie." you sigh, going to pat his shoulder when his hand clamps around your wrist in a vice grip.

"If you let go of me, I'm suing you." he says with absolute seriousness.

"For what?!" you laugh loudly, slipping your arm out of his hold. Changbin wobbles for a moment or two before gliding easily along the ice and when you call out to him, telling him a tip or two, he slows down until he is completely stopped.

"I...did it. Baby, I did it!" he gasps. You let out a sound of joy, skating towards his waiting arms to give him a celebratory hug. Unfortunately, his unsteadiness and your speed ends with the two of you on the cold ice, laughing so hard you can't breathe. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"So proud. Wanna try a twirl next?" You ask slyly.

"No."

𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 ･:*:｡❆

"Turn around for me, love. I want to see the whole outfit. You look divine."

It is not uncommon for such words of praise to fall from Hyunjin's beautiful lips, especially towards you. Hell, you were only going to buy a new sweater for a Christmas party but Hyunjin just had to tag along, and now here you are, in the goddamn Versace store, walking out of the dressing room with your boyfriend staring on in awe.

This outfit is far too expensive. It's amazing quality and it looks great, but it's designer. However, Hyunjin doesn't mind one bit. If you didn't stop him, his credit card would be drier than a desert, used up from buying you all kinds of things.

Hyunjin wastes no time paying for everything you need without you lifting a finger. He leaves with you by his side, his fingers intertwined with yours. When you find yourself in the center of the stream of people once more, his hand is quick to change its position to the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

Your next destination is a surprise: it's a kids' toy store. You have no idea why your boyfriend would lead you here, but once he starts looking, taking out his phone and checking something on a mysterious list.

"Hm? What's that for, Hyune?" you ask, the tips of your fingers brushing against the sleeve of his hoodie. He looks over at you, his beautiful lips curling into a lovely grin.

"I'm buying presents for Angel Tree. I felt like giving back this Christmas. Don’t you agree?” you feel your cheeks warm at his words. He’s such an amazing person and never takes what he has for granted.

You crouch down and begin searching for the perfect presents until you and Hyunjin have more than enough. It feels good, you think to yourself, helping people. It feels even better doing this with the love of your life at your side.

After your vigorous shopping trip, you want nothing more than to grab something warm to drink, so you drag a very unenthusiastic Hyunjin to a nearby coffee shop. As you're walking, you pass a jewelry store. And Hyunjin makes a mental note of the beautiful diamond-encrusted ring in the window.

𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆 ･:*:｡❆

Movie nights with Jisung are always the best.

After a long day in the studio, he wants nothing more than to cuddle on the sofa, a mug of warm hot chocolate in one hand and his other wrapped around you. You're snuggled into his side, the rise and fall of your chest soothing. On the television, Home Alone is playing, although neither of you are paying it much attention.

You pull his mug over to you gently, taking a sip. A speck of whipped cream remains on the corner of your lip, and Jisung's eyes nearly pop out of his head.

"Baby, you've got something riiiight...here." he grins, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your lips. You can't help but giggle into it, smiling widely. You go to lean in for another kiss, but you are met with the soft skin of his round cheeks. He turned his head just before you could get to him, hearing some crash coming from the movie.

"Oh my god, he just burned himself on the doorknob!" Jisung says, laughing loudly. "Did you see that?"

When he checks to see if you're watching, he's met with a pout upon your adorable (and extremely kissable, in his opinion) lips. It's obvious you're trying to make him feel guilty for unknowingly rejecting your kiss earlier.

And it works. It works very well.

Jisung whines, flopping on top of you, his arms wrapping around you so he can hug you tightly. You pretend to be uninterested, to be more focused on whatever scheme Kevin McCallister is cooking up.

"Don't look at me like that." he practically cries, shoving his face into the crook of your neck so his words are muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Babe..."

You giggle, giving the top of his head a kiss.

"I forgive you." you whisper, but he doesn't respond. He's fallen asleep, his arms around you, his breathing soft and gentle. Although he can sleep anywhere, he'll really only sleep around you. You're his safe space. You allow yourself to sink into the pillowy cushions of the sofa, closing your eyes and falling asleep with the man of your dreams.

𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 ･:*:｡❆

The windows are fogged up from the cold, intricate ice crystals forming on every pane of glass. But you don't exactly give a shit what's happening outside. The world could be on fire, but you wouldn't even notice, too caught up in the secure and cozy atmosphere inside.

Ambient Christmas music plays in the back, sweet and festive. Every other room in your homely abode has dimmed lights. Except for the kitchen, of course. You're very busy in there, having the time of your life with your boyfriend.

Strewn across the counter is an array of measuring cups and ingredients, along with icing and gaudy Christmas-themed cookie cutters. You bite your lip in frustration. No matter how much you stir it, the wet and dry mixes just won't combine. How does Felix make it seem so easy?

You feel a pair of hands brush against your hips as your prayers are answered. Behind you stands Felix, who leans forward slightly to make a much appreciated comment on the mixture in your bowl.

"You're doing a great job." he murmurs, the deep timbre of his melodic voice making your stomach do a series of aerial tricks. "One thing, though. You're stirring it, and that's not getting it anywhere. Try folding it...may I?"

Once you nod, giving your approval, Felix's hands covers yours on the wooden spoon. With precision and expertise, he repeatedly folds the dough into itself until it is completely combined.

"Thank you so much, Lix!" you coo, turning around to meet his soulful brown eyes. His hands rest against the counter on either side of you, caging you in his frame. You lean forwards to press a kiss upon his sugary lips, savoring every moment. He smiles, a hand moving to brush a few stray strands of hair out of your face.

Your arms wrap around him, and he reaches for the back of your thighs to carefully lift you onto the counter, the cookies long forgotten.

The way his arms are so snug around you and his lips fit perfectly with yours like some romantic jigsaw puzzle doesn't need to be studied - you already can confidently say it is a surefire sign that you and Felix are soulmates, fated by the heavens. You sigh contentedly as his hand slips under the warm fabric of your sweater and onto your cool skin.

And then, the nagging buzz of the timer interrupts your intimate moment. Ugh. Now you have to wait a little longer until you can have him all to yourself.

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 ･:*:｡❆

You've waited all year for this.

Now that the air is frigid and winter has arrived, lush layers of snow have come along with it. You are excitedly watching, waiting, hoping for the snow to reach a point where you can go out and enjoy it freely.

You're always so busy, you never get the chance to cherish the beautiful joys of nature. But this time, now that you're on a break and spending time with Seungmin, who is adoring as ever and more than willing to follow you on whatever journeys you embark on.

He comes up behind you, arms wrapping around you as he leans his head onto your shoulder, pressing his lips against the soft skin. You close your eyes, smiling at the quiet intimacy of the moment. Words are not spoken nor needed.

Once the temperature is cold enough, you pull on a winter coat and boots while you wait for Seungmin to be ready as well. As you're about to venture into the snow and ice, a gloved hand grabs yours.

"Your shoe is untied, hun." He says gently, kneeling so that he can tie it himself. You feel your cheeks warm up and your heart flutter. At this point, you won't be cold at all out there. "Is that better?" when you nod, he smiles and opens the door to your own winter wonderland.

The chilly air pierces your lungs as you step out into the snow, the crunch of it under your feet sending good vibrations all throughout your body. It's lovely, the feeling of tiny snowflakes landing upon your cheeks...

Until you get taken out by a snowball from behind.

Seungmin stands there, smiling wider than ever, holding a carefully-packed-together snowball or two in his hands.

"Wanna take your best shot?" he asks, a twinkle in his dark eyes.

"That's not fair!" you pout, and he just about melts at the sight. "You played baseball, this is rigged." Seungmin looks down at his feet, his cheeks pink from the cold...and the embarrassment. Were you really offended? Did he hurt your feelings?

And then, he feels something cold and powdery crumble apart upon his head at rapid speed. His expression quickly turns into a smirk.

"Oh, you're on."

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 ･:*:｡❆

You've set aside a special place in your living room for the Christmas tree. It is nestled into the corner, yet is a hub of life, love, and memories, and you want nothing more than to cement your devotion to Jeongin by asking him to aid you in decorating it. He's sorting the ornaments, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Wow. Was this you as a little kid?" he asks, staring in awe at you in your little Santa hat. You feel yourself getting all flustered, hiding your face in his hoodie. He laughs at this, lifting your chin up with one of his fingers to press a kiss to your nose. Who knew your Innie could be so charming? "No, don't be embarrassed! You looked adorable. Nothing's changed since then. You've got the same smile."

He hands it to you, watching with a grin as you hang it on the tree. You would've very much loved to have some sort of color or aesthetic theme for your tree, but all different kinds of ornaments from various points in your life just seemed more...sentimental, you know?

"Where should we put this one? It's the last one." Jeongin asks, showing you a palm tree made of glass. You love this ornament, you recall with gentle fondness. You got it in LA while traveling with him on tour. You were so sure that he was the one for you, that you'd make it to Christmas with him. If you went back in time to tell your old self that you really did make it, you'd definitely swoon.

"Let's put it near the top, so everyone can see it and how far we've come." you point to a spot deemed absolutely perfect for this ornament...until you come to a revelation.

Neither of you can exactly reach up that high. Sure, Jeongin is tall, but he's not really tall enough. And it's a pretty big tree, too. This is going to need some problem-solving. Thankfully, Jeongin is quick to come to your rescue.

"Easy, baby. I got you." he says with newfound confidence, his large hands lifting you up. He keeps you steady while you fasten it upon the evergreen's lush branches, and admires your work once you finish.

And just like that, your connection with Jeongin has become something more. As he clicks the tiny remote and the tree lights up beautifully, you can't help but squeeze his hand and relish the fact that you are so incredibly lucky, this Christmas, and forever more.

@evermourning, ©2023. all rights reserved.

[lovinglyaugust]

HEADCANONS! YAAAAYYYYY and doodles PART 1!! CAUSE I CANT REMEMBER ALL MY HCS RN

sick day!!! Actual hcs below ... could be updated this is mainly a holder for me

REGULAR

BBFFTN

BOTH

When sick custard will absolutely deny it despite visibly sweating, coughing harshly, and being hotter than lava...

Often times he has to be dragged to his bed to rest by either his parents or strawberry crepe cookie (or the main crew!)

Custard loves to take photos of cake puppys and send them to Strawberry Crepe, he has a whole playlist in his phone dedicated to it!

Strawberry Crepe shows affection towards Custard secretly, whether it be writing his nickname in their notes, or putting small barely noticeable hearts next to his name

Strawberry Crepe isnt good with showing their affection towards others and a bit awkward and sheepish with it when they do try

Matching Phonecases!!!

Custard has vivid dreams of warmth and love, but he can never truly reach it

Custards device screens are all cracked, the story how? Hm...

Clotted Cream Cookie takes Custardiii under his wing after the whole timeless kingdom scenario, but hes only really a glorified babysitter, as Custard refuses to leave the Vanilla Kingdom

Strawberry Crepe and Custard often watch over the kingdoms rehabilitation as previously they were the only inhabitors of it.

Strawberry Crepe loves pranking people with their wafflebots help sometimes, their test subject? Custard III of course!

Custard tended to Crepes wounds as soon as the whole battle with the main crew ended saying things like "arent you glad your noble king is here!" To distract crepe from the pain

Before finding Strawberry Crepe in the cryopod, Custard would roam the city for days snacking on jellys he could find long abandoned

It was Strawberry Crepes idea to make the jelly farm

Oftentimes Custard will ration his food out of old habit from before the jelly farms existence.

Dont tell Strawberry Crepe but Custard is very a little scared of the biggest wafflebot

Custards met White Lily Cookie once, before in a fleeting dream, she even held him

Custard is allergic to cake hounds ironically He'll often ignore his allergies in favor of getting closer to them and petting them, often earning a scolding from his peers for it

While crepe is a bit wary of the main 4 custard sees them as good enough people

The man with the waffle cone hat/the creepy cloaked guy is what Custard and Strawberry Crepe dubbed Pure Vanilla as before knowing his name

Pure vanilla has AMNESIA

Custard believes everyone else's health comes first before his, something everyone is trying to teach him that: "no its not, your just a child enjoy your childhood bro."

Custard dubbed himself the ruler of the Vanilla Kingdom a couple days after he woke up from the cryopod

Cryopodding was a popular technique most cookies used during the dark flour war, of course the ones they made were phony and thats why only Custard and Crepe have come out of theirs.

Custard woke up earlier than Crepe

Bbfftn custard prides himself on his healing as he feels its the only thing hes good for (#issues) even sucking up his pride once to ask Pure Vanilla for tips

Strangely Custard feels Pure Vanillas eyes on him ever since his return from Besst Yeast

Pure Vanilla has a savior complex #kanadeyoisaki

I

OKAY THATS IT BYE

[higherthanvic]

SILICONE | painter!getou drabble.

you just couldn't wait until he got home, huh?

AUTHOR'S WORDS – ima be so real wit yall. but i am high as a mf rn LMFAOAAOAOLA and i noticed we hit over 200+ notes on my headcanons...i love yall !!! in celebration of that, i present to you a drabble that i have came up with from the deep depths of my mind sooooo pls enjoy...and ima go back to seein the stars ! amen

"I was gone for only 30 minutes, love. You couldn't wait that long?"

The sight was jaw-dropping. There was you, your nude figure sprawled out on the plush crimson lounge chair located in the living room, fucking yourself senseless with a pink dildo you hoped you didn't have to use again ever since being with Getou. And then there was him, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, staring and calculating your every movement. You suddenly stopped and closed your thighs in embarrassment, a yelp escaping your lips as you pulled the dildo out.

"S-Suguru..! Baby..! I-I can expla-"

"Ah ah. No need." He sat his laptog bag down and unbuttoned the two first buttons on his dress shirt. "It was 30 minutes, baby. I said I'd take care of you when I got home."

You could bear to look at him in his eyes. You looked down at your lap as you spoke. "I-I just... couldn't he-"

You were interrupted by a snap of his fingers, your head popping up to face him, his face softening from a stern expression to a sly smile. "Better. Now, what was that, baby?"

The control he had over you was something dangerous. Your voice was shaky and erratic, nervous saliva forming as the seconds went by. Why were you so scared? "I..I was just...I couldn't help it.."

He walked around the chair to be stood right in front of you, causing you to crane your neck to face him. His calloused painter hands rested on your cheeks, the warmth they carried transferring onto your plump skin. "I'm not mad, y'know. I'm just wondering why you couldn't just wait, baby."

His touch carried a sense of kindness behind its devilish intentions. You melted into his touch, his cologne filling your nose.

He took your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger as he leaned in closer to your face. Grazing his soft lips against yours, he moved towards your ear, smirking against your earlobe.

"You know damn well I can fuck you better than silicone could ever achieve. Is the fact that I've left you shaking and breathless against every single surface of this apartment not enough proof that I keep my word?"

You shook with every word he softly whispered into your ear. How could he remain so composed while speaking on such a vulgar topic? He's told you several times how he's fucked you in every square inch of this apartment with only a smile and a gentle tone; why are you surprised anymore? He's bent you over and demolished your cunt over your bedroom windowsill with your head popping out for everyone to hear, for God's sake.

His hand snaked its way down towards your aching clit, rubbing circles with only his thumb. He slowly inserted two fingers into your soaking pussy, making you fall limp to his touch. He was skilled; he knew where your spot was, and oh did he locate it quickly. You whimpered, squirmed and gripped the headboard of the lounge chair in desperation, Getou's head still grazing against your ear as you arched.

"Can silicone make you sound like that?"

"Mm mn..."

He sarcastically seethed his teeth. "Ooh, sorry, baby, can't hear you."

You attempted to choke out an audible response. "N-no..."

"Interesting. Didn't think it did." He starts to curl and thrust his fingers simultaneously in your cunt, sending you into a spiral. You couldn't help but squirm and shake more, your moans and indistinguishable pleads filling the silent void of the living room.

[awkwardtickleetoo]

Ler!Sapnap Week Day 5 - Tease/Ghost Tickles

hello everyone :D i am back with another (very very very late) fic for @sleepy--anon ‘s ler!sapnap week!!!! wooooo!!!

this is for day 5’s prompt which is teases/ghost tickles!! make sure you check out the original post here, and make sure you show sleepy your love and support for putting this week together in the first place!!!

this one isn’t too crazy or anything, but i experimented a little bit with the formatting in docs and then had to try something different here, and i’ve never done anything quite like this before so i think it’s pretty cool :D hope everyone enjoys!!

orange text is sapnap’s messages, green text is dream’s messages

lee!dream, ler!sapnap, 1.8k words

enjoy :)

--

Dream’s phone screen lit up from where it laid flat on his nightstand, catching his eye as he turned away from the mini fridge he’d walked across the room to grab a bottle of water from. He twisted the lid off the bottle, picking up the phone as he took a sip, seeing that the notification had been a text from Sapnap.

hey

are you super crazy busy rn

Dream smiled, always endeared by Sapnap’s word choice, taking another sip before putting the bottle down and typing out a response.

not rly

i put all the video stuff in files but it’s too late to start editing so i’m just gonna do it tomorrow

why?

Dream sat down on the edge of his bed, placing his phone on the pillow beside him and twisting to his left, then to his right, stretching his back. He watched a new text come in, followed by more typing bubbles.

i just had a really dumb stressful meeting and i’m fucking frustrated

not like mad i just feel like i have so much pent up energy

and i really wanna come tickle you

Dream felt his stomach flip as he read the words, cold water bottle resting against his thigh and sending a chill up his spine. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, and he blinked in disbelief at his phone screen as he read the message over and over again. After almost a full minute, he formed a response.

……what

Very eloquent, if you ask him.

i want to tickle you

you should let me

Dream felt his stomach flip again, warmth spreading through his chest and nerves settling in his throat. He swallowed harshly, taking in a breath and drinking more of his water as he quickly tapped out another text.

why???

to get the energy out

???????

Dream stared at his phone, in complete disbelief and confusion at the words before him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, unable to tell if it was from fear, anticipation, excitement, or embarrassment. He chuckled to himself, nerves sending electric shocks through his veins, making the tips of his fingers tingle as he shook the feeling out. He watched those three bubbles pop up again, and he pushed himself back further on his bed to sit cross-legged as a response came in.

cmoooonnnn

you know you love it

i do not!

shut up!!

don’t lie

i’m sure you’re loving this too

i’m sure you’re already getting goosebumps

sapnap

and you can feel the excitement already running through you

sapnap.

and the nerves too huh

oh i’m sure you already have those nervous giggles don’t you aww :((

sapnap!

Dream took in a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling above him and exhaling slowly. His chest felt tight, and he shook out his tingling hands before pressing his knuckles against his cheeks to check their temperature– to his dismay, they were already burning hot, though he could feel that before he even touched them. A surge of warmth quickly spread through his whole body, the tingles in his hands growing stronger with the quickly forming butterflies in his stomach.

yes cutie?

stop it

please

but i don’t wanna :(

Dream couldn’t help but chuckle at the response, always entertained by Sapnap’s form of teasing, biting his lip to stop more giggles from falling, a soft whine escaping instead.

you can’t just

god sap

you can’t do that

but it’s so funnnn to mess with you

and you’re so cute :((

shut UP oh my god

so can i please come tickle you??

pleeeease :(

Dream would be lying if he said he didn’t hesitate.

He scoffed, squirming where he sat, uncrossing his legs just to cross them the other way, rubbing his palm over his knee and pressing his fingertips into the material of his pajama pants. His toes curled underneath him, and he switched between sitting straight up and leaning over to look down at his phone screen.

no!!

shut up no you cannot

fuck off

dreamie :(

wait

i know how to convince you :)

Dream watched in fear as the three bubbles disappeared, waiting approximately three seconds in stunned silence before he realized what that implied.

what

what are you doing

what does that mean what are you gonna do

sap please

whatever it is just

don’t do it

“Fuck…” He whispered to himself when he received no response, looking around anxiously, his entire body tense as he waited to hear the tell-tale sounds of footsteps approaching his bedroom door. He waited, and waited… and waited…

But they never came.

He glanced down at his phone, just as a new message came in.

A voice memo. It was a voice memo.

He was fucked.

no

i’m not listening to that

yes you are

sapnap.

play it <3

Dream whined again, breaking off into a groan as he shook his head and rubbed his palms against his thighs. He took in another breath, falling into the nervous giggles that Sapnap predicted so accurately, dropping his head into his hands and peeking through his fingers as he shakily pressed play. He squeezed his eyes shut, covering his face with his hand, lowering his phone volume and holding the speaker up close to his ear so he could hear.

“Alright, handsome, here’s how this is gonna work,” Sapnap’s voice played through the audio, nonchalant as he spoke, but his tone was still stern and matter of fact.

“Oh, god,” Dream groaned, curling in on himself more, biting his lip as he pulled his knees up to hide his face there instead.

“I’m gonna send you this, and then I’m gonna head up to your room, and by the time I get up there, I can promise you’ll be begging me to tickle you.”

“Oh my god…” Dream said with a gasp, covering his mouth with his hand, his entire body buzzing with anticipation, curling his toes against the sheets below him once more. His phone went silent, after a small chuckle from Sapnap came through, and he turned it around to see that the audio had ended. His hands shook as he went to type out another response, his fingers unsure of their own words.

this is stupid

i hate you

leave me alone

Just as he sent those, another voice memo came through, slightly longer this time. Dream whimpered, a pout spreading across his face against his own will, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling above him. He could feel the tingling sensation spreading further through his body, through his chest and arms and legs, making it nearly impossible to bite his lip hard enough to hold in his giggles. He covered his face with his hands and threw his head back, trying to regulate his breathing enough to calm his nerves down.

Needless to say, it didn’t work very well.

no more

please

you can’t do this

listen to it dreamie

it’s okay

Dream groaned again, assuming the same hiding position as he hit play on the new voice memo.

“I’m sure you’re already feeling those ghost tickles too,” Sapnap teased through the audio, and Dream gasped and shook his head at how well Sapnap knew how he felt, curls swaying against his forehead. “I’m sure they’re swirling all around your tummy right now, that’s where they always get you most, huh?”

“St–“ Dream stuttered to himself, turning his head away from his phone as if Sapnap was already in the room with him, teasing him in person instead.

“Now, like I said before, I’m gonna come to your room, and– y’know what? I’ll actually be nice, because I really do just wanna wind down and get all cozy and giggly with you, and I know you love that stuff too–“

“Fuck,” Dream whispered as Sapnap spoke, feeling the warmth spread through his chest and across his face once again, the fluttery feeling in his tummy growing even stronger.

He had to admit, it did sound nice after all this.

“–so I won’t even make you ask… I am gonna tease you to no end still, though, but you knew that already,” Sapnap said with a small giggle, and Dream couldn’t help but giggle as well. “Anyway, hope you’re prepared, because by the time you’re done listening to this I’m probably already on my way.”

“Wh–!” Dream yelped, whipping his phone around to see the audio end, and he stared at his bedroom door for a few seconds in fear. He scoffed in fake offense, rolling his eyes and typing out a message.

you’re ridiculous

you know that, right?

Instead of a response, the top Dream’s phone screen lit up with Sapnap’s contact information, the photo of Sapnap and Patches he had set as his photo staring back at him.

Sapnap was calling him now.

He let it ring for a few seconds, tapping the banner to bring the call full screen, before hitting accept and slowly raising the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?” Dream began, voice quiet and nervous.

“Hey, sweetheart!” Sapnap said, voice overly chipper and enthusiastic. Dream swallowed against the lump in his throat when he heard a door close on the other end of the call. “How are you feeling?”

“Sapnap…” Dream mumbled, anxiously twirling the drawstring of his pajama pants around his pointer finger, looking off to the side to try to compose himself.

“What’s wrong, Dreamie?” Sapnap asked softly, as if he was speaking to a scared animal, and Dream would be lying if he said the tone didn’t help him relax, at least a tiny bit.

“You know…”

“Awww, honey,” Sapnap cooed, making Dream groan and cover his face with his free hand. “Are you nervous?”

“Mhm…” Dream nodded, even though no one was there to see it.

“Aw, Dream,” Sapnap cooed more, and Dream could practically hear the pout on his face, making him groan again. “It’ll be okay, you know I’ll be nice to you, right?”

“I do, but still,” Dream explained, switching his focus to picking at a thread on his comforter that had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

“Yeah, I know, you’re just wound up, huh?”

“Mhm,” Dream replied without thinking, making Sapnap chuckle on the other end.

“It’s okay, Dream. You don’t have to wait much longer.

“Wh…” Dream began, looking up at his door as he heard the long awaited footsteps growing closer and closer. “Why– why do you say that?”

“Take a wild guess,” Sapnap replied, and before Dream had the chance to entertain the idea, there was a knock at his bedroom door, making him gasp and squeal and the pit in his stomach feel like it had dropped ten stories. He couldn’t hold in his giggles anymore, gripping his phone tighter as the door opened and Sapnap walked in, a thrilled smile on his face as he continued laughing along with Dream. “There’s my baby boy.”

“Noho, go away!” Dream shook his head, placing one hand over his stomach as he felt the ghost tickles running rampant over his skin. He watched as Sapnap smiled sweetly at him, ending their call and placing his phone in his pocket.

“Alright,” He began. “Let’s get started.”

[tytarax2]

I didn't forget, (well, maybe I did) I'm just fuckin sick rn, so much I didn't go to class.

Requested by anon

Song: Toxic by Britney Spears

There’s something about the way he carries himself, the raw confidence mixed with that edge of danger, that makes your heart race. Everyone else can see it too; they give him sidelong glances and whisper that you should be careful. But none of that matters when it’s just the two of you.

Tonight, he leans against the wall with that usual cocky smirk, his eyes locking onto yours like a predator honing in on his prey. You know this look. It’s the one that makes your knees weak, the one that makes you crave him even when your better judgment says to slow down. But with Dooma, there’s no slowing down. He’s always been a whirlwind of adrenaline, and being with him feels like playing with fire—intoxicating, thrilling, and just a little bit dangerous.

He crosses the room toward you, his presence all-consuming, the space between you two suddenly charged. His hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your head up so you meet his gaze. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, and just a little too serious. His thumb brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You bite your lip, teasing him. “Maybe I needed a break. You’re bad for me, Dooma.”

His grin widens, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You love it.” His other hand trails to your waist, pulling you flush against him. There’s no escaping now, even if you wanted to. But you don’t—never from him. It’s the pull, the thrill, the way he makes your world spin with just a touch.

“You know I can’t stay away for long,” you admit, the words slipping out more breathlessly than you intended. He always knows how to get under your skin, how to make you feel like you’re on the edge of losing control. And you love it.

“Then don’t fight it,” he whispers against your ear, his voice laced with that dangerous charm. “You know exactly what this is.”

His lips brush yours, teasing, but it’s enough to make your heart race. The world around you fades, leaving only the sensation of him—his warmth, the heat between you two, the way he makes everything else seem insignificant. You’re addicted to the rush, to the way he makes you feel like you’re spinning, slipping under, but not caring because you’d follow him into any storm.

He kisses you then, rough but deliberate, and you’re caught in that heady mix of pleasure and danger. There’s no escape, but you don’t want one. You’re falling deeper into his world, where he’s the toxic rush you can’t resist.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur against his lips, unable to pull away.

“And you’re loving every second of it,” he replies, his smile dark and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the hold he has on you. And the truth is, you are.

You’ve always known being with Dooma was like dancing with a loaded gun—volatile, intoxicating, but utterly irresistible.

Kinktober

[qhostqizmo]

Shared Tragedy

this is all over the place but rn so i am

-----------------

Heart hammering against her ribs, Essatha let out a strangled gasping-hiss as Atmara dragged her into a wrestling grasp. One arm locked around her, the other flashes up to her neck with a knife produced from the spy’s person. The cool steel settles against the warmth of her vulnerable throat, leaving the sorceress fearful that swallowing or breathing too heavily would knick the blade into her skin.

“By Gods woman- sorry you haven't been kept in the loop. As Adela pointed you, you don't exactly have a Sending Stone on you right now to get information or to have received notice of our arrival, otherwise you would have known to expect the Hand of Jubaeta.”

Regardless of how incredibly agitated she was, Essie does her best to keep her posture calm and her words factual. It doesn’t stop the anger from biting into the rasp of her voice, and as she looks to her companions; protective and ready to skirmish for her safety, a brief flash of love and gratitude warm her heart. These people weren’t perfect, or always saw the world she did, but they were family, and they cared about her- and she cared about them.

The snarl of the woman behind her; hot breath on her skin, reveals that no one’s words were calming Atmara in the least. Although she couldn’t see her face, the wood elf’s firm arm remained unbending against her middle.

“Release. Her. Now.”

The only one who had remained silent through introductions and correspondence; Amon, finally asserted himself with enough frost lining the rumble of his voice it felt like an arctic chill had entered the room. Essie shivered unexpectedly, wincing as Atmara stiffly dragged her into the outline of her body like a shield, the blade angled into her flesh. The fiery-blue fury of the ex-nobleman’s gaze was enough to give everyone in the room the barest pause for thought.

“I don’t think any of you are in a position to make demands,” the spy seethed. “Answer me this: when did you hear about the supposed ‘assassination attempt’, huh?”

“We don’t have to answer shit,” Face replies with a sneer, angling his crossbow. “My finger may just slip though; I wonder how you’d like a bolt in your eye.”

The tension in the room felt like a rapidly depleting fuse to dynamite. Swallowing tensely, Essie trained her gaze on Amon’s for reassurance. He didn’t return her glance, however; the hate in his eyes trained upon the woman caging her as hostage.

A curse of some sort slips past the elf’s lips, but she didn’t sound afraid. She sounded pissed.

“Tick-tock, my arm’s getting tired.”

“Some agent you are; do you apprehend everyone sent to pass along information?” Penimra chimes in, almost sounding bored.

“Maybe we shouldn’t antagonize a lady with a knife to someone’s throat,” Sulhadur states with a nervous edge. The tip of his tail twitches back and forth; anxious as he looked about the room.

“Why don’t we let her use our Sending Stone to contact Seeker Aero, and straighten this whole thing out?” Adela offers, offering her hands out with palms open placidly.

“Nice try,” Atmara glowered, “the lot of you don’t have a Sending Stone.”

“I have it, actually,” Rava pipes up, reaching for her pocket.

The dagger moved, but Essatha didn’t see it. She didn’t even feel it; not at first. The only reason she knew something was wrong was the moment that Amon tore his eyes away from Atmara’s to look into her own, and she could see his anger melt away for the briefest of seconds into a look of total and complete horror intermingling with terror.

Then the pain came; burning and freezing all at once, as though she had shoved herself into frigid icy waters. She spasmed, coughing and gagging on blood that rapidly filled her airway. It was all over; the metallic tang, the scent of it in her nostrils, coating her tongue. Everything was red. Her neck stung; pain lacing its way through her like a snare grip.

Suddenly she was launched forward at a dizzying pace. The table came hurtling towards her and knocked the wind out of her as her abdomen connected, slumping towards the floor. Of the first things that came through all the sudden shouting and clatter of weapons and explosive magic, the alarmed shrill of Pri’cha as they came diving beneath the worktable for her, their golden carapace glittering in faint lantern light.

Oh Gods. She tried to breathe, and suddenly she was choking, gasping desperately for air.

Oh dear Gods was she going to drown in her own blood?

Helpless and alarmed, the sorceress clawed at the air and at her face, the shock swiftly being replaced by the reality of the situation and the jarring sense of fear as convulsions rocked through her. The whites of her eyes were alarmingly large as she finally attempted to slap a hand over her throat. Looking upon the floor and her chest, a puddle of blood and staining coating her upper clothing made her fingers slick with her ebbing life.

“ESSATHA!”

As the Thri-Kreen reached for her, the table lurched and went hurtling to the side. A violent howl of anger and Pri’cha’s cry of pain as the table landed upon two of their limbs rang through the sorceress throbbing eardrums as she flinched.

“ESSIE!”

Her vision swam as she searched for whoever was howling her name. Even in the cramped space of the basement, with all the noise, it was like a thunderclap. She gargled on saliva and blood; dripping from her mouth. The hand she didn’t have cupped over her wound pressed to the floor for stability as she attempted to stand, but she faltered and her palm slid upon the slick surface left behind by her bodily fluid.

The room was suddenly dimming, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of lanterns being knocked out or that the random flashes of magic spiraling around were making it seem otherwise dark. She felt light-headed.

“ESSIE, HOLD ON, PLEASE-”

Blinking, a shadow suddenly obscured her vision. It took her a moment to recognize Amon’s face; she hadn’t seen so much panic written there in some time. Not since…

Something grabbed at her pants leg as she blinked up at him once more, only, she couldn’t find the strength to open her eyelids again.

A tingling sensation began somewhere around her calf, where the feeling of thin spindly-like digits pressed into her clothes and began to throb in her neck. The sensation was warm, and not altogether unpleasant. But she still felt so sluggish; so bizarrely vertigo from lack of blood.

“It’s going to be alright; I’ve got you.”

Ears ringing, the world began to fall away from her conscious. Something heavy and warm lay atop of her. It smelled of cedarwood, leather, coriander and a touch of rose. The aroma brought a wave of memories and a feeling of sanctuary. She knew the fragrance blend well; knew its layers and knew the guardian of it that blanketed her with care.

“Essie, can you hear me?”

Amon’s pleading was so far away. Her lips trembled as she tried to use them; eyes flickering behind her heavy eyelids. Breathing felt easier, but everything was still muffled and growing further and further away.

“Please-”

She shivered involuntarily, floating; no longer tumbling, into some essence of a void that she had no control over.

“I need you.”

Inhale. Exhale. She couldn’t even feel Pri’cha’s hand upon her anymore; and the fierce grip of Amon’s arms as he pulled her in was like a blissful dream and less real.

“I love you.”

She sank into nothingness; neither dreams of bliss with her nobleman nor nightmares of the woman who’d just attempted to murder her.

Just emptiness, and nothing more.

[cieloclercs]

lover, you should’ve come over , send me a description of yourself + a fandom and gender preference, and i’ll ship you with a character

for f1/f2 please;

ok so,

im 18, she/her and straight. im south east asian but went to boarding school in the uk. im 5'4, tan skin , black hair and eyes. I support mercedes and mclaren (mostly, i also support max which is very easy to do since he wins always lmao, and i love the ferrari boys too). I'm studying law college, specifically criminal law. f1 content and weekends are always the highlight of my week. i play tennis and volleyball (as a hobby). im the oldest (girl) in my family (technically) but i have 3 older half brothers and a younger sister. im going to the sg grandprix this weekend which im so so excited about! my fav szn is autumn, and summer. im both an introvert and an extrovert but it depends who im around. my fav shows are brooklyn 99, gilmore girls and friends (kinda basic ik), because i love the warmth they give me. fav holiday is halloween but i hate finding stuff to dress up as. i want to get a rottweiler and a huskey but i dont think im super capable of having pets rn :(. but yeah thats it! congrats on 1k and ty!

i ship you with charles leclerc!

— ok first of all charles x lawyer!s/o is THE PAIRING omg it makes so much sense to me !! also charles x student!s/o but especially law (maybe i’m biased bc i’m also studying law or maybe not shshsh 🤭) there’s something about charles and a kind of academic s/o that just feels so right, even better with an s/o in the social sciences. i’m not entirely sure why, maybe it’s just the vibes 🤷‍♀️ but charles will definitely help you study. he’ll be so dedicated about it too, bringing your flashcards everywhere, helping you memorise details of past cases that you need to know for your exams. i think he’ll even start to learn them himself because he helps you so often, and if you’re like just talking generally about a specific case he’ll come out with something from your revision out of the blue 🤭 it’s so cute because he’ll look super proud of himself afterwards when you look all surprised that he remembers 🥹

— also, charles with an s/o who plays tennis is JUMPING OUT AT ME RN like i can picture it so vividly. he himself is pretty terrible at tennis (i mean let’s be honest the man has no hand eye coordination 😭) but he’s so enthusiastic about playing with you (definitely not because he loves seeing you in a tennis skirt 😏😏). even if he gets absolutely annihilated, he still loves it because he gets to spend even more time with you doing something that you love 🥹

— i get the feeling he’d be really close with your family too, i mean let’s face it, charles is just a family guy in general and everyone loves him, almost to the point that you start to think that your family love him more than you 🫣 ooh another thing that’s jumping out at me is x mercedes!s/o 😏😏 it’s weird i feel like law, tennis and mercedes all give the same vibes in this context 🤔 anyway, count on him playing up the team rivalry at every chance he gets, even if it’s just a joke. because he’s so competitive about it you make a point of supporting mercedes and mclaren even more, but you do secretly root for him in his races 😉 you’re the first person he looks for after a good result, and you’re always there to celebrate with him 🥹

— omg i’ve never actually seen gilmore girls, but my best friend is a huge fan and you’re giving off the exact vibes that i can imagine with charles it’s crazyy 🤭 i can picture you guys binge watching every season. even though charles complains at first, he definitely ends up getting super invested (and maybe even watches a couple of episodes without you in secret 🤫) you guys are like the cold, crisp autumn, matching knitted jumper kind of couple if that makes sense ?? i’m picturing hot chocolate by the fire, also couples outfits at halloween if you decide to go out !! or if you want something a bit more lowkey, a cozy night in on the sofa watching scary movies (charles definitely uses it as an excuse to cuddle you argue with the wall idc) basically just everything i want, you guys are as a couple 🥹

[sunnie-angel]

had this series on my tbr list for a while and finally took the plunge and. oh boy do i have thoughts (mainly everyone should go read this). to spare everyone's dash, i've put my extensive thoughts below the cut:

jason doesn’t know how to flirt

see from this tag alone i knew this was gonna be a fic i enjoyed and boy did i eat it up

“Oh, it’s Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier,” you reply, a little surprised the guy built like a brick shithouse was asking about your reading.

looooved reader's assumption that jason wouldn't care but also i'm just thinking about how many parallels jason has to rebecca. arrived at a fancy rich man's house. he's 'replacing' a former family member. old servant that is still devoted to said family member.

And all of this is bad news because this guy is obviously bad news. How can he not be, right?

bad news for reader's heart maybe ;)

Silence doesn’t bother you. His silence does.

ooooh yes i love this distinction. it ties back to him

he’s fumbling just because someone cute is reading classic literature.

jason, jason my guy this is so real of you

He’s blowing it, and he cares that he’s blowing it.

literally so sweetie pie of him. he's trying!

That’s just what he was sold: security to a kid fending for himself.

hi mags, where can i send my therapy bill for this?

One of the older kids he used to sell stolen car parts to gave him a stick ‘n poke in the back of his dad’s auto shop. It’d only been a few weeks after his mom died.

therapy bills, plural, now

He’s going to spoil his whole ‘asshole tattoo artist’ persona because he’s not supposed to be reading tragic modernist writers, but he can’t bring himself to fall into his usual routine.

finding it deeply funny both how self aware he is and how powerless he is to change how badly the interaction is going

If you were someone he had to threaten, it would be going better than this.

cackling

He did always have a fucked up sense of humor.

HOW did i only just now make the connection to bird carcass -> dead robin??????

“I’ve got a Metamorphosis tattoo over here,” he says, briefly raising the arm holding yours down.

another banger literary comparison to jason that i'm deeply impressed by

And that’s something you can respect, because you’ve got your own past you’d rather not shell out just because your tattoo artist is hot.

ooooh i wonder if this will become relevant in later chapters?

“No, I didn’t see you get up. What are you, some kind of fucking ghost?”

when these two finally get their act together, they're going to be a real pair of jokesters

It was something his mom had done. Something he didn’t want to give up.

i came out to have a good time and i'm feeling soooo attacked rn

He’s mapping out his plan of how to take over the city, and you’re giving him shit for being late to an appointment for a job he only has for information.

unfortunately for him, he is still very much a lover boy despite his night job

He’d forgotten home could be so warm. The warmth of your arm felt like that.

SOBBING. CHEWING GLASS.

You want to ask if he’s one of Batman’s friends, but you don’t find the words.

oooooh girl that would not have worked out for you

Chapter One: Head Above Ground, Feet in the Grave

Summary: You get a tattoo from Jason and realize your first impression may not have been spot on

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 5,576

Warnings: needles, profanity, canon-typical violence, reader has tattoos but is otherwise not described, jason doesn’t know how to flirt.

SERIES MASTERPOST | NEXT

“So. Whatcha reading?” he asks over the buzz of his needle gun. Your confused look is enough get him talking again. “Saw you with a book out front.”

As soon as he stepped out into the front thirty-five minutes after your appointment was supposed to begin, as peeved as you were, you couldn’t deny he was attractive. One of his broad shoulders leaned into the wall, his thick, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Dark curls with a patch of white at the front.

“Oh, it’s Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier,” you reply, a little surprised the guy built like a brick shithouse was asking about your reading. Then again, he’s probably just trying to make conversation.

Jason just nods.

Maybe he isn’t trying to make conversation.

The bad news is, up close, he’s even more handsome. Now you can see the little scar that angles through his eyebrow and another that curves up along his cheek. His eyes are intense as he works, his absurdly large hand has a firm grip on your forearm, guiding you as he works. He smells like cigarettes, but only just, and what you can assume is the lingering smell of the timeworn leather jacket sprawled across the chair in the corner. And all of this is bad news because this guy is obviously bad news. How can he not be, right?

It’s just this feeling, one that you couldn’t shake as soon as he sauntered towards you, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering on his worn black t-shirt. Like he’s too cool for you. Even as he’s permanently etching a skeletal bird into your arm, there’s this air about him you can’t quite place.

Before he led you back to his station, you were so certain there was going to be some sort of bikini-clad model plastered to the wall. But yet, the space is surprisingly empty. There’s a little corkboard leaning against a small table with old designs thumb-tacked to the board and not much else.

“How long have you been working here?” you ask.

Despite asking, you already kind of know the answer.

You’ve been following the shop’s Instagram for a while now. You remember the post introducing Jason, the carousel of photos demonstrating his work. Not that you’d tell him right now, but you had fallen in love with his style as soon as you saw it. The sure, thick lines. The moody shading. Bones and knives and bugs. He had no Instagram of his own for his work that you could find; only the posts in the shop with the caption ‘by Jay.’

“Couple months,” Jason replies. “I was traveling around for a while before. This is the first steady place I’ve worked.”

“Oh, wow, that’s cool. Where were you before?” you ask. It’s small talk, and you hate it, but the lack of conversation is uncomfortable in a way that usually isn’t the case. Silence doesn’t bother you. His silence does.

You wonder if his home lacks as much personality as his station. You imagine his apartment is the kind with the mattress sitting on the floor, TV on top of a folding table, and a refrigerator full of cheap beer. Something that doesn’t feel completely moved into.

He gives a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “All around,” he replies.

Even small talk seems to be off the table.

You give a curt nod of your head. A couple minutes pass, and you can’t take it anymore. “Sorry, you mind if I grab my book real fast?”

Jason nods in return, pulling the gun away. “Go for it.”

God, you feel him watching you as you slip off the table, heading towards your bag on the little couch in the corner. Why is he watching? Why is this so awkward? Is it you? Is this guy just that standoffish? You pull out your worn bookand get back into position on the table.

“You good?” he asks, his intense eyes still trained on you.

“Yeah, all good,” you say, holding the book open with one hand as the buzzing starts back up again.

This is pathetic.

Jason has spent the last few years spending his time around the worst of the worst. He’s been with assassins, arms dealers, and soldiers so bad, even the U.S. Military didn’t want them, and yet, he’s fumbling just because someone cute is reading classic literature.

Fuck.

He’s supposed to be better than this. Ever since he got back into Gotham two months ago, he’s been making deals with the worst of the worst—as far as drug dealers go—without breaking a sweat, and yet holding a conversation with you turns him into Mr. Darcy. He’s blowing it, and he cares that he’s blowing it.

At least everyone thinks he’s dead. If this had gotten out to anyone, he’d die again.

It’s been five years since he was resurrected. A couple of weeks have passed since he flew back into Gotham with another one of Talia’s connections, this time intending to stay for good. He found a little tattoo shop near Crime Alley. Close enough to keep tabs on everything, but not so close that he’d be crossing paths with Batman regularly. The last thing he needs is to run into Bruce while trying to come up on top of Gotham’s underworld. Not until everything was ready.

That’s his world. Swept off the street and recruited for a war that wasn’t even his, not really. That’s just what he was sold: security to a kid fending for himself.

Bruce may have believed he had something to show Jason about Gotham, but this city raised him more than anything. Without a stable place to call home, the city’s streets were the substitute. What more did Bruce have to teach him when Jason had already huddled for warmth in these alleys? Ran from cops, knew all the hiding spots. What did Bruce have to offer when Jason already saught comfort in a place where comfort died? In a place where hope was trying to grow on salted earth. A place so haunted, it’s more ghost than city.

Jason was made for Gotham.

After he died, Gotham fell to ruins in the greatest earthquake she’s ever seen. An anomaly. The world wanted to watch Gotham burn, abandon the city and everyone remaining inside it. Leave her buried in the fate the world deemed appropriate for a city so infected that everyone around suffered.

He knows what it means to come back again, maybe when staying gone was what should have been done.

While he learned how to kill, he learned how to tattoo. Bruce always went on about the importance of keeping their identities safe; he chose his playboy routine, and Jason chose this.

It started before Bruce even took him in. One of the older kids he used to sell stolen car parts to gave him a stick ‘n poke in the back of his dad’s auto shop. It’d only been a few weeks after his mom died. Bruce saw it within a few days of living at the manor. He didn’t comment, but Jason saw the scowl when Bruce saw the shitty skull on his ankle. He didn’t approve, and that made his chosen path all the sweeter.

In London, the guys he was staying with tattooed each other to pass the time. That’s how it all really started. He watched their hands as they worked, watched the way the ink shot into the skin. He gave his first tattoo in the seedy back room of some haunt for scumbags. He had yet to feel at home within his body again, like it was just on loan. Like his reanimation was contingent on something that could be taken away at any time.

But he kept living. And he picked up tattooing fairly quickly. He gave plenty of shitty tattoos to men whose lives ran off of fucking over innocent people. Some of them wouldn’t even live to regret his uneven lines. A good number of them, Jason watched die.

None of that, however, negates the fact that he still can’t have a conversation with you.

Every so often, he spares a glance at you as you read. You’re holding the book with one hand, awkwardly turning the page with your pinky in a way that he knows won’t last long. He’s trying to rack his brain for something, anything, to talk to you about once you need a break from your position.

When his moment finally comes, he clears his throat.

“You ever read any Virginia Woolf?” he asks.

He’s going to spoil his whole ‘asshole tattoo artist’ persona because he’s not supposed to be reading tragic modernist writers, but he can’t bring himself to fall into his usual routine. He wants to hide behind the metaphorical mask he wears when he’s not wearing his literal mask, but he just fucking can’t with you.

He doesn’t know you. You’re just someone who booked with him a few months ago. You’re a civilian, and he is supposed to be getting ready for his Gotham takeover. Now isn’t the time. He’s got work to do.

Unsurprisingly, you seem caught off guard by his question when you look up from your book. You try to regain your composure. You seem like someone who wants to be polite like that. Jason’s eyes land on your finger as it slips into your book to hold your place.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’ve read a couple of hers.”

Jason gives a single nod of his head. He breathes as if steadying his aim to shoot. “I’m reading Mrs. Dalloway right now,” he says.

If you were someone he had to threaten, it would be going better than this. He could get you to tell him all of your secrets in under a minute no problem. But he doesn’t actually have to know how to do any of this to know that’s the wrong way to go about it. Besides, how could he forgive himself if he brought you into Red Hood’s world? You don’t belong there.

“Are you much of a reader then?” you ask.

Jason recognizes it for what it is. You’re holding out a hand, practically guiding him into a conversation just like you’ve tried so many times. You notice he’s trying too.

His lip quirks up a bit at the corner. “Yeah, I am. But don’t tell anyone. If they figure out I’m not an idiot, they may ask me to help out more.”

You graciously laugh at his joke.

He likes your laugh. It’s soft, like your skin. He’s tried to not think about it, but he has noticed. He knows you’re going to take good care of the bird carcass he’s tattooing.

When you reached out and told him what you wanted, he knew he couldn’t possibly turn the idea down. He did always have a fucked up sense of humor.

You’ll never know what makes this funny. He can’t do that to you. Maybe you can know Jason the tattoo artist, but you can’t know Red Hood.

Jason looks at you with a softness you miss when you glance away for a minute. “I’ve got a Metamorphosis tattoo over here,” he says, briefly raising the arm holding yours down.

You turn your head, trying to get a look of his Kafka tattoo, and Jason feels a little bit of warmth growing in his chest, even if he desperately wishes he didn’t. He’s getting way ahead of himself like a kid. It’s going to hurt that much more when you realize all the reasons you shouldn’t get involved with him. He shouldn’t be drawing attention to himself. He shouldn’t be getting distracted. This job isn’t for him to make connections with avid readers; he’s here to know what’s happening and when.

For all he knows, you could be a spy, aware of the moves he’s trying to make. Could work for the Penguin. But he’s aware that’s a Bruce level paranoid thought, and he’s not proud to admit that. His ties to Bruce are supposed to be severed forever.

Two hours pass far less painfully than you were expecting. Not in the literal sense, because your arm has started to get sore, but in the sense that you and Jason are finally actually talking, more or less. You take a break, trying to get the blood flow back into your arm from being at an angle for so long.

Your stomach started rumbling half an hour ago, and now you’re scrolling through your phone, chatting with Jason on what you should order. He says by the time food would get here, he’d likely be finished up.

Jason’s already told you he doesn’t do a lot of delivery. He says it’s because things are always fresher at the restaurant.

After the last couple of hours spent talking literature, you know your first impression of him was wrong—there’s a joke about books and their covers somewhere in there—but be that as it may, you still haven’t quite figured him as the sort of guy that’s going to be overly snobby about food.

He says he cooks, and you believe him, more because you like to indulge in the thought of him knowing his way around a kitchen. You also just want to believe it for the sake of justifying the crush you feel creeping in every time he shifts your arm.

You’re not going to hold your breath hoping he opens up to you, but you can tell he’s someone with a story. Someone with history. And that’s something you can respect, because you’ve got your own past you’d rather not shell out just because your tattoo artist is hot. That doesn’t stop your mind from wandering though, trying to fill in the blanks.

Maybe he did some sort of stint in the military. That’s your first guess, at least. You didn’t get any more information on the tattoos he’d done ‘all over,’ and he doesn’t talk about it anymore, so you can’t really figure out anything more than that. You also consider the fact that it’s Gotham, and shit just happens. It’s not your right to meddle in whatever tragedy this city has doled out for him.

“One of the apprentices orders delivery here a lot,” Jason says, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s not helpful, nor does it answer my question,” you say. “Even if you don’t get things delivered, you still have to know what’s good around here, right? You’re not bringing a little brown bag lunch to work every day.”

“And what if I do?” Jason asks. His voice is low, almost like he’s daring you. The features on his handsome face are serious, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that hints he’s teasing you. And damn those eyes. You’re thankful he’s been spending the majority of your appointment staring down at your arm, because you’re not sure you’d survive two hours of looking at him, seeing where the thin ring of blue around his iris before it bleeds into vivid green.

You laugh. “Then I’d admire your dedication.”

You think he’s mostly being difficult because you offered to buy him food, a perfectly normal thing to do. But explaining to him that you’ve offered to everyone you’ve gotten a tattoo from doesn’t seem to change his mind. He’s stubborn, that much you can tell.

As you continue to scroll your phone, silence settles between the two of you. The silence doesn’t feel so oppressive this time, not weighted by awkwardness and uncertainty. Now it feels like a surrender. Neither of you bring up the beginning of the appointment. Not how he was late, not the tension that seemed to linger between the two of you, not how convinced you were that he actually hated the fact that you were sitting in his session.

“The fries at Wally’s are the best in Gotham.”

His voice comes from behind you, and you jump, turning over your shoulder quickly. He’s peering over your shoulder, eyes fixed on the screen of your phone. You hadn’t even heard him get up from his stool. Last you’d looked his way, he was sitting across from you.

You spit out a curse. “When did you get back there?” you ask, clutching your chest with overdramatic flair.

“What, you didn’t see me get up?” he asks.

You scoff. “No, I didn’t see you get up. What are you, some kind of fucking ghost?”

And Jason laughs.

At the best of the times, you consider yourself a relatively dignified individual. Maybe it’s a bit of flattery, but regardless, that’s what you’d like to believe. And yet, there’s something so incredibly rare about the sound of Jason’s laughter, something that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. It’s like hearing something long forgotten. Like catching the song of a bird long thought extinct. This isn’t the playful scoff of laughter like when you’d said maybe Northanger Abbey was your favorite Jane Austen book, and he’d said you seemed more like an Elizabeth Bennett than a Catherine Morland; this seems like something secret. Something reserved.

Even if the sound makes your stomach flip, your foul language hardly seems funny enough to warrant such a laugh. Your silly off-handed joke doesn’t seem worthy of the burst of laughter that bubbles up from his wide chest.

“I think the hunger’s getting to you,” Jason replies finally when the laughter settles. He nudges his head back towards your phone to get back on topic. “Wally’s is good.”

You have to yank yourself from your thoughts and will yourself to nod. “Yeah, okay,” you say, feeling like such a loser for the way a single laugh could knock you off your track so quickly. You go back to scrolling through the menu to give yourself something other than gawk at him. “So fries. What else is good?” you ask, not daring to raise your eyes.

Jason crosses back over to his stool and sits. Your face gets hot as you feel self-consciousness creep up thinking maybe you’d been obvious, worried you’ll scare him off. But before you know it, he’s naming off his favorite things. And yeah, maybe you bought more than you alone could eat, and maybe you got the burger he spent a few minutes gushing about. If he doesn’t want it now, he can save it for later.

But nearly an hour later, you have a whole spread of junk food in Jason’s station and a finished bird skeleton plastic wrapped on your arm. Jason rolls his eyes at your generosity, and you threaten to eat everything you bought all by yourself, but he eats the burger and steals the fries you jokingly told him to keep his hands off of.

“So can I ask why you were so late?” you ask.

You’re toeing your boundaries. Maybe you’re intentionally trying to press your luck. Part of you knows you maybe shouldn’t ask. But you do it anyway.

Jason looks up from his burger, wiping a small smear of ketchup off his lip. “You’re gonna think I’m an asshole.” He smirks when he sees you quirk your eyebrow. He was thirty-five minutes late; of course you already think he’s an asshole. At least he’s a good sport about it. “I was out smoking.”

“Mm,” you say with a mockingly serious nod of your head. “Leaning up against a wall, cigarette in one hand, Mrs. Dalloway in the other. I guess you must be so cool I have to immediately forgive you,” you say sarcastically.

“Shut up.”

You smirk and go back to eating your food, unaware of Jason’s subtle gaze your way now that your attention has been diverted.

Jason’s used to a somewhat infrequent eating schedule, otherwise known as he rolls out of bed half an hour before he’s supposed to be at the shop, which doesn’t give him much time to eat. And by the time he’s done with his shift, he’s usually starved. He tries to eat an hour before kicking anyone’s ass so he doesn’t cramp up, so that involves him cramming whatever leftovers he has in the fridge into his mouth the second he gets back to his apartment. Then, he goes back out to work.

He’s become somewhat of a late night chef, putting together whatever he can make as quickly and easily as possible. The sort of skills he’d picked up when he was all on his own, trying to keep himself fed from whatever was available, doing whatever he could to make the best of a bad situation. Shoplifting butter and pasta, crushing up old Corn Flakes in a bag with a hammer to put on top. It was something his mom had done. Something he didn’t want to give up.

For the past two hours, he’s been hoping you’ll say something stupid, like how cool you think Batman is.Instead, he finds you kind in a way he doesn’t really see that often. You tolerate his shit to a certain point, and you push back when he goes too far.

People are scared of Jason, hood on or not. And they should be. They see his scars, his tattoos, his sheer size, and they cross the street. They turn their eyes as he buys bread at the grocery store. They can see him for what he is. But for some reason, you don’t. At least not now.

He’s mapping out his plan of how to take over the city, and you’re giving him shit for being late to an appointment for a job he only has for information. The fact that he met you is just a blip in the greater scheme of things, and yet that’s going to be what he walks away from today thinking about.

A guy came into the shop earlier. A local dealer. Jason played cool, pretended he didn’t have an idea who the guy was. This lowlife didn’t need to know Jason already knew where he picked up his supplies. He’d asked if the guy had any plans for the day, as if Jason didn’t already know about a shipment coming in late tonight. Jason’s plans for the evening had been clear. All he had to do was get through one more appointment.

Except that appointment had been yours.

The shop is closed now. A few stations away, one of Jason’s coworkers is still working. In the lull as you both eat, the faint buzzing of the needle and music playing from the speakers up front. Even if Jason wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s comfortable with you, there’s something of a surrender in the time you spend together.

You don’t know the things he’s going to do once you leave, and you wouldn’t assume them of him. What are you seeing in him because it’s sure as shit not something he’s ever seen himself.

At some point, Jason knows he’s going to fuck it all up. You’ll probably get ready to leave, and he’ll say something as you walk out the door that will make you question all of this. Make you second guess this good opinion of him you’ve managed to come up with. It’ll be for your own good.

His eyes drift over to your arm, your bicep still wrapped up in plastic. He can still feel the warmth of your skin lingering on his palm.

For so long, he’d been used to the dull cold of the apartment he squatted in, frigid air seeping in through neglected walls. As hard as he tries not to, he remembers arriving at Wayne Manor for the first time. He’d forgotten home could be so warm.

The warmth of your arm felt like that.

Since coming back in Gotham, he’d given plenty of tattoos, touched plenty of arms. Body heat is body heat, except when it’s yours.

“Where do you go from here?” Jason asks, looking up from his burger.

You shrug your shoulders. “Home, probably. Gonna get that good post-tattoo sleep.”

It’s cold out. You’re bundled up in your coat, aware of the tenderness of your arm where the fabric brushes up against the flesh.

You’re walking towards your train stop. The sounds of sirens echo somewhere in the distance. Purple light filters out through the blinds of one of the apartments you pass, loud bass temporarily overpowering the distant wail of emergency vehicles for a moment as you walk by, until it fizzles back out into quiet. As the music fades, you hear the sound of a couple arguing from an apartment somewhere up above you.

Across from the stairs up to the station is a bar, patrons hanging around outside smoking cigarettes and laughing. You can feel a huddle of men watching you as you move, but you don’t glance their way, just make your way up the stairs.

Yellow-tinged lights line the station, a lamp every fifteen feet or so. From what you can see in the beams of light weakly dispersing from the streetlamps, you’re alone. You find a spot under a nice shelter, though nice is relative considering the lingering smell of piss and obscene graffiti on the walls, but it’s not out in the open where anyone stumbling onto the stop will find you.

The light above you flickers sporadically. You wish there was somewhere else you could wait.

Jason hadn’t seemed thrilled that you were going out to wait for the train all on your own, but you assured him, somewhat indignant, you could handle yourself.

“You sat really well,” he’d said, and you couldn’t help but entertain the idea of inviting him along on the train with you, but you were not going to stoop to that level.

The sounds of approaching footsteps reminds you to keep your focus. You can kick your feet about Jason once you get back to your apartment.

Three guys stumble up the stairs. And just your fucking luck, you’re pretty sure they’re the guys from outside the bar. They’re laughing, and their voices carry from the opposite side of the tracks. You hope they’re going northbound, that they’ll have no reason to cross the tracks. You keep your eyes fixed away from them, down the tracks, now feeling even more impatient for the arrival your train, hoping somehow it will turn you invisible.

But their boisterous conversation suddenly turns much quieter.

Your shoulders tense, and as subtly as you can, you try to slip your hand into your bag for your pepper spray. Blindly, you feel around, trying to move as little as possible so as to not draw any more attention to yourself, because you have no doubts you’re the reason their conversation has become so hushed. If this doesn’t end horribly, you’ll have to try to remember to clear out all of the junk you have stashed away.

One of the men laughs, and then their conversation stops all together.

Your fingers curl around the tube of spray in your purse.

Without looking, you know they’re moving towards you now. Their shuffled, stumbling footsteps are growing louder. They’re drunk and not looking for their night to be over just yet. Unfortunately, you just happened to be in their way while they were looking for the next phase of the evening.

“Hey!” one yells.

You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe they’ll be drunk enough to think you genuinely can’t hear them and give up. It’s wishful thinking, but what does that matter?

Now you’re regretting pretending you were so tough for Jason because these guys sure as shit wouldn’t even give you a second glance if you were standing next to him.

They’ve crossed the tracks now, and there’s still no sign of train headlights. Your grip on the pepper spray tightens, not wanting it to slip now that your heart is starting to race.

“Hey! You!”

You don’t look.

One of them grabs your arm and tugs you out from the shelter. You wince at the contact against the fresh tattoo. “We’re talking to you,” he laughs.

You’re about to use your pepper spray when it clatters to the ground.

All three men look down at it.

“What’s this?” the second man says, bending down and picking it up.

But before any of them can say anything else, a figure just outside of the ring of light the four of you are standing under. You can’t make out any details about him besides the sheer size of him.

“Walk away while you still can,” he growls. The sound of his voice isn’t quite right. It sounds distorted. Your skin prickles with nerves from the sound of it.

The man who picked up your pepper spray turns it towards the figure, threatening to spray.

The figure just chuckles. It sounds cold, metallic. The sound of a gun cocking follows as the figure steps just into the light. The pepper spray wouldn’t do the man any good.

A man wearing a red helmet walks into sight, gun trained on the man holding my arm, but his grip drops instantaneously as he knocks through his other two friends to run, but the other two follow behind almost immediately.

And that leaves you and the guy in the helmet alone.

Gotham has its fill of guys in mask, and sure, there seems to be a new one popping up all the time, but you don’t know this one.

You look up at him, eyes wide with fright. The second the men are gone, he puts the gun back in one of the holsters on his thick thighs, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has them. You don’t know who this guy is, who he works with, whether he’s any better than that group of men or just more armed.

“You alright?” he asks when you don’t say anything. He has a voice modifier, you realize now, though you piece that together slowly.

After a beat, you nod your head. Your hand curls over your throbbing arm. You don’t like that you can’t see where he’s looking. Just two unblinking white voids where his eyes must be. “Yeah,” you breathe. Your eyes fall on your pepper spray. The man holding it must have dropped it when he ran.

When it’s clear you’re not moving to pick it up, the man bends down and grabs it. He holds out a gloved hand, offering it back to you.

Your trembling hand raises and you take it from him, offering a barely audible thanks as you slip it back into your bag.

He nods.

There’s still no sign of a train, and he’s not moving.

“I can give you a ride someplace. If you want.”

Don’t take rides from strangers. You’d heard it just as much as anyone, and the man standing before you is the definition of a stranger. You can’t even see his face; you have no idea who he is beneath that helmet. The one thing you do know is he has a gun, and he’s built like a fridge.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he adds, but his modulated reassurances don’t ease your concern. He senses your hesitation and takes a step back. “Do you want me to leave?”

A few more seconds pass as you consider the question. What if those guys come back? What if some other group comes along? But is giving your home address to the guy with a gun a better idea? And would him standing beside you as you wait for your train make you feel any safer? Could you so willingly accept he wasn’t going to just wait for the moment your guard is down to do something, just the way this city works?

Finally, you shake your head. Neither decision seems like the right one to make. But he did help you. Now you just have to hope to god he’s not going to take advantage of your vulnerability.

You want to ask if he’s one of Batman’s friends, but you don’t find the words.

Instead, you two fall into a silence. For you, it’s tense. You wonder if he feels the same, or if this is just a regular night for him. He stands near you but keeps his distance, like he’s aware how intimidating he could be.

The train is so late. There must be some hold up. One of Gotham’s usuals causing a delay in public transit. Go fucking figure.

“Are you new?” you ask finally. If the train never comes, you might end up taking him up on his offer for a ride, so you may as well try and figure something out about him. Any sort of indication of if you can trust him or not.

There’s another distorted chuckle, though somehow, this one seems less malicious than earlier when threatened with your pepper spray. “You could say that.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, so you don’t.

Silence settles between you again. You can see the lights of the train in the distance. You’re hoping that nothing happens on the train. All you want is to crash into your bed.

The man in the red helmet stands beside you, not pushing any further to make conversation. He waits with you. As it screeches to a halt in front of you, you turn to thank him, but you notice he’s already gone.

NEXT

[canbecryptico]

The Moon had to Go Out Soon.

Huge venting load that I'm about to drop is what I can feel rn.

I was thinking of a quote the other night while remembering that the moon was shining the brightest tonight there, outside. I forgot it, hopefully if I come to remember, I'll type it down.

I can't put my gaze over the full moon anymore. Reason being that someone special to me back then used to send me lots of moon pictures.

The person knew very well how much I used to love it. It may seem dramatic but of course I've spent hours on my roof looking at the same sky every day and night without having no reason to look anyway. I might fail to describe how much I loved the sky. The moon was the regular visitor but of course her existence felt like a blessing amidst this chaotic world.

Some precious memories, hmm, precious?

Life update coming up:

Thankful to lord that I'm waking up every day to see the world. I'm keeping myself busy as much as I can. Things are getting a bit pulled through the whirlpool of the time itself. I'm taking care of everyone around me, or at least I hope that I am.

Here comes the bad part, My Uncle died, another uncle was on life support, he's okay now. But there remain such matters which are literally getting me driven crazy like, unemployment, education, family, friends, social arguments, contradictions, conflicts, accidents, deaths etc. Never thought being a student would be this much uh...thrilling. Then again it does feel like now I understand how much caged in the male mental health becomes over time and age. It makes sense, yeah? Anyway, it's alright, well, hopefully, it's going to be alright, as long as I'm breathing everything should be fine.

It's just sometimes I get dragged down to the warmth of earth that still fails to just destroy me. However, it's not like I want to get decimated, I just want something that can't be found here, but hey, helping others sure is helping me somehow. I'm feeling good making people laugh and smile a bit. Kind of find a bit of contentment and satisfaction through so.

I wish I could show you how far I'm still going. Oh yeah, I remember the quote. It was some sort of like-

Never Knew that We Would Have the Shortest Forever.

(Probably from Louis Tomlinson's song "Headline" from the album Faith in the Future)