#so for now it is continuing to be untitled

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

This story, for which there are seven parts, is dedicated to everyone affected by Hurricane Helene. It was not written because of that, but a water-based natural disaster is part of the plot. It does not focus on it, but is a story of hope. The text of section one is under the cut. I hope to post all sections before the end of the Inklings Challenge. Despite this being my third year, this is the first I've actually posted anything other than snippets, so I hope I'm doing this right. I haven't yet written more than this, but I do have an outline for the other six parts, so hopefully that will work. @inklings-challenge

One: Admonish the Sinner

First of all it must be understood that every world is connected, as every village is. Some are just further away.

This is not a story of Earth; this is a story of a world nobody bothered to name, in a village nobody called anything other than the village. But that does not make it any less beloved—by people or by God. Sometime, a long time before this story is set, someone from Earth came to this nameless world and gave them the greatest gift of all, truth: but that is another tale entirely.

The night sky of this world is strikingly different from ours. Most prominently, two moons watch the world below, and every forty-seven years or so, flooding hits the island. They call it Big Tide, for it is the pull of the two moons combined that does this. It is regular enough, and has enough warning signs, that everyone should be perfectly ready for it.

As is common in humans (and these are humans like us, though the world is different), not everyone believes the evidence laid out in the world.

This is a story of Big Tide, specifically the one of the year three thousand, two hundred and twenty by their reckoning. This is a story of Paula McArthur.

%%%%%%%

The wattles were flowering, and it was Paula’s favourite time of year. There were several different wattles, but this was the deep gold ones she loved the best, the ones she gathered by the armful and adorned her home with. Now she only held a single sprig and enjoyed it to the full. It was too close to Big Tide to unnecessarily damage the wattle trees; they could be badly damaged by the rushing waters, and might need everything they had to survive. But one twig wasn’t going to hurt it.

The sky was a clear pale blue shot with fine clouds, a mass of them shining near the horizon with the sun gentle on them. Paula raised her face to the sunlight and closed her eyes, smiling. It was spring, and she never felt more alive than in springtime. 

She had been working all morning to prepare for Big Tide, largely transport. Her hands were tired of the precise positions needed to be held in order to hover exactly enough to transfer items in mid-air between hoverboards rather than landing to do it, which would waste time. Tide waited on no man, but Paula was skilled enough to know when she could be sloppy about hoverboarding, and enjoyed hoverboarding in a more slapdash manner than most people she knew. She had graduated earlier than most of her classmates from a controller to haptics. Tomorrow, though, she might use the controller again to make sure she was fresh enough to hover efficiently overnight during Big Tide itself. 

Presently she took out her lunch, and ate it while walking. In the distance a kookaburra laughed; Paula came to an abrupt halt as a green-blue iridescent flash clued her into the presence of a river dragon nearby. It turned and looked at her, bright blue eyes wise and calm. After a moment of silence and mutual respect, the dragon moved properly into her view and arched its sinuous back, raising its crest. Paula lifted her chin and brushed back the dark fringe to look more intimidating. The only sign the dragon gave of seeing any change was to raise its scales in a largely vain attempt to inflate its size. Abruptly it put down its scales and ran in a blaze of colour, uttering a high keening cry that faded as it retreated.

Paula turned to see who had disturbed her, smiling as she recognised the intruder. “What brings you here, Martha?”

Her friend grinned in response, lighting up her tanned sombre face. “You, actually. I came in search of you.”

Paula half gestured to herself, merrily. “Why trouble yourself?”

Martha grew serious at once. “I care about you. Aren't I allowed to?”

“Certainly, as I do.” 

Martha smiled a little incredulously. “Anyway, surely it's time to go back now?”

Paula raised a single eyebrow, then tilted her head back and assessed the position of the sun. “I guess. Why did you come to find me, Mar?”

“Oh, you know, I hardly see you now.” Her manner was evasive, which baffled Paula. “You're always out walking.”

“It's spring.” Paula waved the sprig of wattle at her. “The best time of the year. What's your favourite season?”

“Winter,” said Martha definitively. “Cold and empty and bleak.”

“Why do you like it that way?” she asked in surprise. Last time they'd talked about the seasons, she thought Martha had waxed poetic about the dying fire of autumn. 

“It's silent,” was Martha's quiet response. “Nobody bothers you.”

Paula paused to assess the time, decided they had to go back and led the way; Martha trailed her. “I thought you liked people.”

There was a short silence. “People don't tend to like me.”

“That's nonsense,” she responded immediately. Martha smiled, sad and sarcastic. 

“I don't tend to like me.”

Her calmness bothered Paula, and she sped up slightly. “Well, I do. You're fun, conversational and well read.”

“Which is why you disappear alone for hours.” She caught up and shot Paula a sidelong look, as if to say, I know your secrets. Except there were no secrets to know. 

“I like spring. It feels so alive and fresh, like all the past year's mistakes are washed away and there's new growth instead.”

“Very poetic.” Instead of amusement, Martha's tone was sour. She dodged past Paula and trotted quickstep the whole way back.

%%%%%%%

“I don't know what I did wrong,” finished Paula, twisting her hands nervously. “She got mad and I don't know why.”

Her mother glanced hurriedly across to check the next load wasn't ready, then turned to Paula again. “When people aren't happy it can be a temptation to take it out on others, especially those who are.”

“She said she was worried, and then she just changed and didn't want to talk to me.”

“Rebecca!” The shout made her mother focus on her own work; Paula moved her hoverboard closer to her father so he could load it up. This one was three bags of flour, heavy on the back and requiring stabilisation, which Paula remained still for while her father adjusted the controls. When it was done, he gave her a thumbs up and she gestured with her gloves, rising away from the site and on the journey to higher ground. It wasn't as easy to handle the unbalanced board; she would have done a lot more, and easier, with a transport hoverboard rather than the jury-rigged family board, but it was more economical and the decree had been that fuel, not time, was of the essence, since they'd planned well in advance. Indeed, today being the day before Big Tide, they had expected to have no more transport to do apart from the people, but someone had been digging too enthusiastically in their garden and cracked an underground storage container, so all of that had to be moved. 

She was most of the way there, wind in her face, when a fast personal hoverboard raced up beside her, village elder crouched to stave off the wind. He matched her speed, then unwound and said, “I'll take over from here. Take my board and go back—we need you to persuade people to go.”

“What?” She was already moving, assessing how to swap boards without any risk of either of them tumbling into the trees below while stepping across. “Why?”

He grimaced. “Turns out there are people who haven't prepared and don't want elders coming to help. Your dad suggested you could try and help instead.”

She started to shuck the gloves, then changed her mind and pressed buttons, keying them to the elder's hoverboard instead. As ownership switched, both boards lurched violently, and Paula barely held her position. The elder was wearing magnetic boots and so didn't run the risk of falling. Once she had stabilised it, she said, “So where do I start?”

“Ask your dad when you get back.” His expression was calm and focused as he adjusted the settings to accommodate for his weight. “For now, just get going. Time is of the essence. Big Tide waits for no man.”

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Doey X Reader Ch 1

Update: Now on ao3, updates will be posted there (and linked via tumblr) -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/63346465/chapters/162287860

So uh. Decided to do this. I'll put it up on ao3 eventually (with slightly more editing maybe), probably sometime after I get chapter 2 written. And after I figure out a title.

Summary: After the destruction of the Playtime Co factory, Doey finds what little remains of himself falling through the cave systems and into a river, where he's brought practically to your door.

----

Doey had been so sure he’d been killed.

He’s died three times after all. It’s a familiar feeling.

Darkness. Numbness. A chilling cold that reaches through his body and wraps around his very consciousness, pulling him down…down…down……

Surely this time he won’t be pulled back. Who’s left to even try? The Doctor’s dead, Doey’s family at Safe Haven are all dead…whatever few remain alive in the factory’s underbelly are probably close behind, if Poppy has anything to say about it.

Doey’s not sure how much time passes between that thought and the explosion. A minute? An hour? A week? A year?

He’s not formed enough to see, nor to hear. But he feels the depths of the factory, of the very caves themselves, shudder and then quake as a fierce explosion rips through the labs. Fire and smoke rush through the lab, then the prison, then Playcare, and finally the factory proper, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

Not everything is burned. Much of the lower levels are made of steel and rock, after all. The heat that does pass over the puddle of dough that had once been Doey is intense, and would probably leave humans and plush toys singed, but it only serves to dry Doey out ever so slightly. Not enough to make much difference though. He’s still too weak and liquified to pull himself together, assuming he could even care to try such a thing.

Silence settles over the factory and the caverns below. Once again Doey is not sure how much time passes before the peace, if it can be called that, is broken.

Something, some support or load bearing wall, finally gives way somewhere in depths, starting a chain reaction, and the whole wretched place begins collapsing in on itself, just as Poppy had wanted. What the fire had spared the collapse does not, and the floor below Doey slants, causing him to slide along it as gravity takes hold.

He doesn’t even try to stop himself from spilling down through the caverns, the bits of dough that still contain hints of who he used to be rolling and tumbling down the crevices. Even the unpleasant sensation of sliding into a frigid underground river can’t motivate him to try and re-form his body.

Doey fades in and out of consciousness, each time wondering if he’s fading in and out of existence. The water eventually warms, and Doey’s aware of occasional glimpses of light as the river carries him out of the underground.

After awhile, the rushing river fades into a shallow, trickling creek. Doey’s dough bumps numbly along the smooth pebbles of the creek bed for a time until getting caught on a fallen log.

He can almost muster the strength to be surprised that he’s made it out of the factory. Almost. But he can’t imagine he’s meant to survive much longer.

So he waits. Waits to sink just a little bit further into the cold, to sink far enough that he won’t be pulled back ever again.

Time continues to pass. Several days, maybe even several weeks. He still can’t bring himself to stay conscious long enough to mark time, but it goes from dark to light and back again more times than he can count.

He lets the days pass, feeling the creek wash over him. He begins to hear again, just a bit. It’s muted from where he is beneath the water, but he can still make out some noises. So he contents himself with listening to the babbling of the creek, the chirping of birds, and the wind through the leaves. He thinks he’s in some kind of forest. How far from the factory he is, how far away from anything he is, he can only guess.

Maybe this is what death is. A drifting, vague awareness…barely aware of his own body, his own senses, but just feeling the world pass by around him.

It’s not terrible. Certainly not the worst thing he’s been through.

Doey has just enough time to adjust to his new existence when he hears something he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Voices.

*

Hiking through nature is always the first thing people seem to want to recommend to you when they sense you’re dealing with some kind of struggle. Especially those who realize you live on a few acres of mostly forested land.

To be fair, they aren’t entirely wrong…though admittedly you do find it a bit tedious to be recommended the same thing over and over when it’s already been a habit of yours for a few years.

Especially when you hadn’t asked.

But what are you to do when your main source of stress actively--physically--follows you on said hikes?

Ethan Barlowe, who owns the acreage just to the west of yours. You’re not sure how long he’s owned it, but it’s at least a few years more than your family’s owned your plot of land.

He’s roughly middle-aged, a bit older than your parents would have been, you think. He’s taller than you and decently fit, usually wearing some combination of flannel and denim. His face has the slightly weathered look of one who’s spent most of their life outdoors.

“They can even divide up the plot so you can keep your house right where it is,” he’s saying. “You don’t even have to move!”

A sales pitch you’ve heard dozens of times before…and it’s no more compelling today than it had been six months ago.

“Ethan, I said no,” you say for what feels like the millionth time. 

“Oh come on! It’s not good for a kid your age to be living alone, without even any neighbors,” he protests.

You give him a deadpan look. Do you point out that, at twenty-four, you’re not exactly a “kid” anymore? Or tell him he’s currently doing a terrible job of selling you on the idea of neighbors in general?

“Look, I’m sure your dad would have rather the house itself stayed with you, even if the land doesn’t.”

That’s a new one.

You stop so abruptly he almost crashes into you. “I think I knew him better than you, Ethan,” you say tightly.

“In some ways, but--”

“In every way!” you shout, actually causing his eyes to widen for a brief second as he takes a step back.

It’s that shout that attracts Doey’s attention. He’s so used to intervening in fights in the Playcare as Matthew, then in Safe Haven as Doey, that it doesn’t even occur to him to do differently now. He immediately begins re-forming his body, listening closely to the conversation as he does.

You suck in a shaky breath. “Get off my property. Don’t ever come here again,” you say coldly.

Ethan stares at you in stunned silence for a moment before scoffing and shaking his head. “You can’t do that. Your dad and I had an agreement about the pond--”

“Yeah, and that’s done,” you say tersely. “Now leave, or I’ll be calling the cops.”

Ethan scoffs. “Right, because you have such a great track record with them,” he sneers.

Doey’s body reforms, and he realizes with a surge of dread that there’s not nearly as much left of him as he’d been assuming.

He’s barely six inches tall!

He’s not sure what he’s going to do now…although, in retrospect, he’s also not sure what he would have done before. You and Ethan would have been too shocked by the nine-hundred pound dough creature for Doey to have done anything in the way of mediating or intervention.

…Though it definitely would have ended the argument.

You and Ethan are a few feet away, on some kind of dirt path. The type that seems to be formed from repeated hikes rather than a deliberate attempt at making a pathway. The path runs alongside the creek, and Doey currently stands hidden in some tall grass and reeds that grow at the edges of the water.

The surrounding area is dominated by the rusty browns of late autumn, the yellows and oranges have faded away as the leaves begin to fall.

Doey’d been down in the factory for so long he’d nearly forgotten that seasons even exist.

“Th-That doesn’t matter!” you protest, though the uncertainty in your tone is clear.

“Doesn’t it? You really think they’ll believe some hooligan kid over me? I got a clean slate, kid,” Ethan smirks, stepping towards you.

Your eyes widen at his menacing tone, and now it’s your turn to step back.

Doey can’t help but glower at the implied threat. He generally tries to not pick sides, but if he were to pick a side, it certainly wouldn’t be Ethan’s.

Ethan grabs your wrist, pulling you towards himself as he glares down at you, and you’re suddenly very aware that you’re out in the woods alone. The only nearby houses are yours and Ethan’s, and you left your cellphone at home.

It’s all Doey can do to keep silent as he tries to come up with a plan. If he were his proper size, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself rushing forward and putting himself between you and Ethan.

“Now listen, kid. There’s no way you’re making enough to keep this place. You think you’re fine to coast along on that little nest egg your dad left, but it’ll be gone before you know it. Trust me. I know how the world works. I’m doing you a favor.”

“L-Let go…” you finally manage to utter a meek protest.

Ethan’s gaze hardens, his grip only tightening when you try to pull away.

Doey’s eyes narrow as he resists the urge to let a low, angry growl at how this man’s treating you. If he thought running at the man only to be effortlessly kicked back into the creek would somehow help you, he’d certainly do it, but…he’s not convinced such a gesture would help.

In a split second, the solution comes to him. Well, a solution, anyway.

He steps back into the tall grass, hiding himself.

“Hey, what was that?” he calls out. He pitches his voice up slightly, hoping it sounds convincing as a second person, and answers, “Dunno, sounded like yelling?”

Ethan blanches and quickly drops your hand, taking a few hasty steps back.

Doey grins. The plan’s working! Switching back to his normal voice, he calls out, “Hey, everyone okay over there?”

“Perfectly fine!” Ethan quickly calls out. He clears his throat awkwardly, his eyes darting to you. His brow lowers in a warning glare. “Think about it, kid,” he says quietly.

With that, he turns on his heel and leaves, heading down the dirt path while you stare after him.

Doey pumps his fist in a silent cheer. That went perfectly! Better than he thought it would, in fact. He’d been hoping Ethan would simply cool it with the intimidation if he’d thought there could be witnesses. Him leaving entirely had been but a distant hope.

Once Ethan rounds the corner and disappears from view among the trees, your gaze snaps towards the voices. They’d sounded close…so close you’re surprised you don’t see any sign of the ones who’d spoken.

“Hello?” you call out, walking towards the creek.

Doey’s smile vanishes and he tenses. He hadn’t considered the possibility that you or Ethan would try to find the source of the voices.

“Who’s there?” you call. You walk forward, the edge of the shallow creek lapping at your boots as you stand only inches from Doey’s hiding spot. “N-Not that it’s…a big deal, but…whoever you are, you…you do know this is private property?” you call out timidly, only to wince at how meek you sound. You’re not exactly feeling confident about protecting your land from intruders at the moment…

Doey flinches. Shoot. Maybe tricking you into thinking there were two more people wandering your property without your knowledge or permission hadn’t been the greatest idea.

“Um, we um, won’t be staying long!” he calls out hastily.

You frown. Why did they sound so much more nervous now? Are they up to something? Or just fretting over their (presumably accidental) trespassing?

And why did their voice sound so close…and so low to the ground? Sound can carry oddly in the forest sometimes, but usually people sound further than they are, not closer…

“You’re not…lost or something, are you…?” you ask.

Something about the simple question tugs at his heart--or whatever mass of clay in his chest serves as such.

Because, he realizes, he is lost. In every sense of the word. More than he’s ever been in his entire life.

He lifts his gaze to you, watching as you continue to glance around for the source of the voice, your brow knit in worry. Worry for yourself, at the prospect of unknown strangers wandering around on your property? Or worry for said strangers, lost in the woods?

Doey could show himself and ease both worries, but that might just cause a whole new set of problems. Not for Doey, of course…unless you have some freezing gas on you, it isn’t as if you can really hurt him. So whatever your reaction, he’ll be no worse off than he already is.

He doesn’t want to frighten you…Many children in the factory, and even adults sometimes, had been frightened of him, especially at first glance. While his height is about average as far as Bigger Bodies go, he’s one of the more stoutly build ones, and his lack of fluff and fur make him a bit less approachable than many of the other Bigger Bodies.

There’s a reason Doey the Doughman was usually portrayed as tiny in the commercials.

…Actually, that’s about the height he is now. So maybe the sight of him won’t be that startling to you after all.

“H-Hello?” you call out, pulling Doey from his thoughts as he realizes he’s been silent for several moments.

“Yeah! I-I’m here!” he says quickly.

“Where?” you ask, still glancing around, clearly looking for someone closer to your own height.

Well. Time to see if he’s going to be punted into the creek. “D-Down here.”

You glance down, seeing the tall grass part. A small blue figure peeks out. You don’t for a minute assume this little thing is the owner of the deep, resonant voice you’d been hearing. You don’t think the figure itself has any sort of voice…it just looks like a little toy made of colored dough. It looks familiar, but you can’t quite place it.

You crouch down for a closer look and Doey scoots back nervously. He’s…really not used to being towered over like this. But he forces a small, awkward smile, lifting a hand in the wave. “H-Hiya!”

You hadn’t expected the figure to move so fluidly. Even his face and eyes change shape as he speaks, and there’s a slight wobble to his round belly and big arms as he moves that a mere remote-controlled toy wouldn’t have.

He’s REAL.

The abrupt realization causes you to squeak in surprise, stumbling back. Your boot catches on a rock and you fall sideways into the creek. As you try to catch yourself, your hand hits the pebbly creek bed, causing a bolt of pain in your wrist.

The creek’s only about four inches deep, but falling onto your side and then thrashing about as you try to scramble away from the creature has left you completely soaked.

Doey winces. Evidently the sight of him is still shocking, even at this size.

But…he supposes you’d’ve never seen anything like him. Unless maybe you’d gone on a tour of the Playtime Co factory as a kid, but even then…grownups almost always dismissed the living toys as some kind of animatronics, sophisticated puppetry, or other such illusion.

Did anyone outside of the factory even realize that living toys had been in existence for…decades now?

“S-Sorry, pal…didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says, holding up his hands. He slowly approaches you, much the way he would have a frightened child in Playcare…despite you being well over ten times his size. Not to mention an adult.

“Wh-What…a-are you?” you manage to stammer out. Your eyes are locked onto him as he moves towards you, but manage to resist the urge to scramble back any further.

“The name’s Doey!” he says, puffing his chest out slightly. He reaches up to remove his hat, only to find it missing. Of course, there’s no way it would have stayed with him on his involuntary journey. Pity…he liked that hat.

But the problem is easily remedied.

He forms a new hat in his hand, this one the same light blue clay as his upper body instead of the darker blue plastic of his old accessory. Hat in hand, he brightens and takes a bow. “Doey the Doughman!” he finishes, placing the clay hat atop his head.

Doey grins up at you, watching your look of fear fade to curiosity. He can almost see the tension--some of it, at least--leave your shoulders as you relax ever so slightly. You clutch your injured wrist to your chest, canting your head as you regard him.

His kind tone and jovial nature seem to be winning you over, just as they’ve won over so many orphans and factory visitors (and even a few staff) before.

“Doey the Doughman…?” you repeat. You suddenly double take, blinking rapidly as you finally place both the name and his appearance. “A-As in…Doey-Dough?”

“Yep! That’s me!” he says proudly. “And what’s your name?” he asks in the gentle yet exaggeratedly eager tone of an adult trying to get an answer from a very shy child.

“Um.”  You’re still reeling from being in the presence of some kind of…talking clay creature, so it actually takes a moment to process and answer the question. But, after a moment, you manage to speak your own name, mostly without fumbling. Mostly.

“That’s a nice name!” he says kindly, his eyes closing into happy crescents as beams up at you. His smile fades slightly, his expression growing concerned. “But that looked like a nasty fall. You alright?” he asks gently.

“Y-Yeah, I um…just tweaked my wrist a bit…” you say distantly.

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. He’s so small…not to mention being made of sculpting clay. It’s hard to imagine such a creature is even capable of doing you harm, and he’s certainly not acting like he wants to.

You’re just about to extend your arm to him when he lets out an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, but you’d probably wanna get out of that creek first, huh?”

Despite your shock, you manage a small laugh at the quip. Not only because you’d managed to forget you were even sitting in a creek, but…well, Doey’s laugh is more than a little infectious.

“R-Right…” you manage. You pull yourself out the creek, taking a few steps to find one of the larger, flat rocks beside the creek to sit on. You don’t take your eyes off Doey for even a second. Not because you think he’d do anything, but…this whole thing feels so surreal, you can’t help but wonder if he’d disappear entirely if he left your line of sight.

You’re debating if you should offer him a hand up, but to your surprise he stretches his arms high above his head (nearly a whole two feet) and grabs onto the edge of the rock, pulling himself up effortlessly.

“Now, let’s have a look, huh?” he asks, holding out his hands.

“I-I think it’s just a sprain…and not even a very bad one…” you say, holding out your wrist to let him examine it.

“Well that’s good!” he says earnestly, taking your wrist in his hands. Holding a human wrist that’s almost as big around as him is a bit jarring, but he doesn’t let that show as he checks over your injury.

You’re surprised that his hands actually give off a bit of warmth. Not much, but more than you’d expect from clay that’s been sitting out in the autumn chill. It also has a bit more give than you’d expected. Not quite as soft as human hands, but just slightly squishy, similar to putty or clay that’s been worked for awhile.

He holds your wrist in one hand, using the other to carefully move your hand up and down, watching you closely for any signs of pain.

“S-So um, where’s the other one?” you finally ask.

He glances up at you blankly. “Other? Oh!” He laughs, shaking his head. “Just me,” he says. “Figured one witness might not be enough to drive the guy off, but two probably would be.” He releases your wrist, giving your hand a light pat. “You’re all set! Just be careful with it for a couple days.”

You’d been too surprised at just the existence of this creature that you hadn’t had time to ponder the reasoning for what he’d been doing. But as you do, you cant your head in confusion. “Why’d you want to drive him off?”

Doey seems surprised at the question, mimicking your head tilt as he looks up at you. “Because he was bothering you.” He pauses, wondering if perhaps he’d misread the situation. “...Wasn’t he?”

You grip your sore wrist, lightly rubbing at it. “Well…yeah, but…you just…decided to help me? A stranger? For no reason?”

Once again he meets your confusion with his own. “It’s not for no reason…I don’t like seeing people get picked on…”

“But isn’t it dangerous for you? What if he’d seen you?”

He blinks, momentarily surprised at your concern, but then grins up at you playfully. “Worried about me? A stranger?”

You pause a moment, then give a slightly sheepish laugh. “Heh…point taken…”

“Besides…I’m pretty durable,” he says, placing a hand on each side of his head and briefly squishing it like a bouncy ball.

You don’t find the action as amusing as Doey’d hoped you would. You blanch slightly, giving a slight shake of your head that looks more like a shudder. “This…This is impossible…” you say in a small voice.

His grin falters a bit. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that the wonder and whimsy of a living toy is easy to accept as a kid in a toy factory…less so as an adult out in the woods.

“Where did you come from? And why are you just…out in the woods like this?” you ask. Despite the situation, there’s a note of concern in your voice at the thought of the little guy out here alone. Even if he does insist he’s quite durable.

Some fragments of Kevin and Jack stir unpleasantly at the questioning, but Doey manages to quickly still them. He’s not sure how much he should tell you…how much he could even stand to tell you. But he’s not partial to lying, and some amount of explanation would probably put you at ease.

The slight pause before he speaks is barely noticeable. “I’m from the Playtime Co factory, of course!” he announces cheerfully.

You frown. “The one that was demolished?”

His face falls. “...Demolished?”

Not demolished! Lies. Destroyed. By mean Poppy, mean Doctor, mean employee…HURTS. HURTS US.

Doey shudders, staggering back and wrapping his arms around himself. “We’re okay…you’re okay…” he mumbles to himself. To all the pieces of himself.

His pained expression pulls at your heart, pushing aside the impossibility of the situation. You suddenly realize that whatever journey he’d taken from the now-demolished factory to way out here was probably not a pleasant one.

“I-I’m sorry!” you say quickly. You reach forward, cupping a hand beside him to steady him, though not touching him. “I…I shouldn’t pry…you don’t have to tell me if…it’s painful…”

To your surprise, he slumps against your hand, a dejected look on his face. He’d seemed so bright and cheerful a moment ago…you guess you’d bumped up against quite the wound to have his mood do such a turn.

Well…you can certainly relate to that.

Doey’s not even looking at you as he stays slouched against your hand, hugging himself and occasionally muttering things you can’t quite hear.

He’d managed to slip into his old role of protector and caretaker when he’d stepped in to help you. Calming you down and easing your apprehension had been much like his time before the Hour of Joy, when he’d play with the kids of Playcare. He’d always been good at making kids feel safe…and he’d been relieved to see those techniques could work on you, even if you’re an adult.

He could almost pretend it was the old days. The setting had changed a bit…and you may not be a child, but you still needed protection from bullies and comfort for only minor, very manageable injuries.

Nothing perilous.

Nothing life threatening.

He could still be the protector, the caretaker…just as he had back when the crown had been lighter.

“Um…Doey?” you prompt gently, pulling him out of his spiral and causing him to blink up at you in confusion.

He pulls away from your hand, his own hands fidgeting awkwardly as a halfhearted smile returns to his face. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to answer if you’d rather not, but…is…is there somewhere you’re going? Somewhere I can help you get to?”

Doey’s eyes widen slightly as he’s caught off guard at the question. He laughs, waving a hand. “Oh, no no, pal, you…you don’t gotta do anything for me!”

“You didn’t have to do anything for me,” you counter. “Besides, maybe it’s…none of my business, but…the woods doesn’t seem like a great place for a little guy like you…” As you speak, a poorly-timed (or well-timed, perhaps) gust of wind cuts through the trees, making your already chilled, wet clothes positively frigid. You shiver, puffing warm air on your hands and rubbing them together. “And I think it’s going to be cold tonight…they say it’ll snow this weekend…”

Doey’s not technically capable of changing color, but you swear the blue clay of his face gets a couple shades paler as a look of pure dread crosses his face. “Well I’m…I’m not…heading anywhere…” he finally says.

“Then…would you like to come with me?” you ask, holding out your hand again.

“With you? To where?”

You laugh awkwardly. Maybe you could have phrased your offer a bit more directly. “My house,” you say.

Doey sputters in surprise, at a loss for words. “Y-Your…house?” he finally manages. “I…you’d…take me in? Just like that?”

“You did help me,” you say. “And I wouldn’t feel right leaving you out here all alone…” you add, your expression softening.

His hands fidget nervously as he glances at your open palm beside him. “If it’s…really not too much trouble…” he says, resting his hand atop one of your fingers.

You smile, shaking your head. “It’s really not,” you say kindly.

He hesitates once more, then finally climbs onto your hand. “Th-Thank you…” he says softly…almost somberly, in fact.

You slowly lift your hand, cupping your free hand near him protectively. You carefully slide off the rock and begin the walk home. 

Doey’s a bit of an enigma--in more ways than one. You should be reeling from his mere existence. Maybe you’re just in shock or something, and the staggering reality of a living clay toy will hit you like a brick wall later on.

You suppose you’ll just have to hope it’s a bit gentler than that.

But what’s mainly on your mind at the moment is his behavior. He’d seemed so at ease when you’d first encountered him. Almost more concerned about you than himself. But mentioning the demolition of the factory had shattered that.

You reach the same conclusion you had earlier--whatever circumstances had led a lone, sapient toy to be lost in the woods--so lost and alone he can’t even suggest a place for you to take him--can’t be good.

You keep the hand he’s seated in close to your body, cupping the other hand near it to keep him from falling. Not that you’re walking anywhere near quick enough for that to be a real concern. He’s actually a little surprised at just how carefully you hold him, even after being told he can’t be hurt.

“So um,” he begins hesitantly, wanting to fill the silence. “Does that guy bother you…often?”

“Ethan?” you ask. “It uh…depends on your definition of ‘often’, I guess, but more often than I’d like. He’s my neighbor. He’s been coming by during my walks to try to talk me into selling my land…I guess I’ll just have to change what time I go for walks.”

You’ve already tried that three times now. The first time had brought you a couple weeks of peace. The second had brought one week. The third had brought even less.

“He wants to buy your land?”

You shake your head. “Not exactly. He has some…housing developer or something that he’s in touch with. He wants us both to sell our properties together for a subdivision. I guess they’ll pay more if they know they can get both properties? I don’t…really know all the details,” you admit. “I haven’t been interested in finding out. I just know that I want to keep this place.”

“Is there anyone you can ask for help? A parent or a counselor, maybe?”

You quirk a brow at the “counselor” suggestion…but if he was in the factory, maybe he’s just more used to talking to children? He probably just doesn’t know what options adults out in the real world have at their disposal.

“Well, I don’t have a counselor, and both my parents passed away,” you say simply.

“Oh…you’re an orphan?” he asks, looking up at you sadly, gently resting a hand against one of your fingers in what you assume must be meant as a comforting gesture.

“Er, not exactly? Dad only died a few years ago…I was an adult,” you clarify. “People usually only say ‘orphan’ if you’re still a kid.”

“Do they? I…I hadn’t realized…” he admits thoughtfully. “Still, though…” he adds, looking up at you worriedly, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

It’s the same unspoken question that always seems to hang after you tell people your parents are dead. A question you usually brush off with some platitude about being fine and just trying to live a life that would make them proud before steering the conversation away.

But…Doey’s sadness seems so genuine. Not that you think other people fake it per se, but a lot of them seem more awkward about the potential landmines they might step on or just at a loss for words, but…Doey seems like he’s actually more concerned about you rather than any sort of social etiquette.

He’s probably worked with orphans before, you realize. There was some sort of adoption program or orphanage associated with Playtime Co. You don’t know all the details, but maybe Doey had worked with those kids?

You smile sadly. “I’m alright. They’re at peace. And I’m um…getting there,” you say. Usually you just say you are at peace, but something about his earnest sympathy invites honesty. “I just um…try to do right by their memories, y’know?” you add.

Doey’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’d be very proud of you. You’re very brave, you know,” he says. It’s a line he’d repeated hundreds of times to hundreds of orphans in the Playcare, and then in Safe Haven. And he’s meant it every time, including now.

You, though, are not used to being spoken to so warmly, so soothingly about the matter. Even your grief counselor had been…well, not cold but…she’d had a job to do, you suppose, so her tone and manner had seemed more…distant, than the way Doey’s been speaking to you.

It catches you off guard, to put it mildly.

You glance away, clearing your throat and pretending to scratch at a spot on your cheek so you could wipe away a stray tear without Doey noticing. “R-Right, th-thanks…” you mumble hoarsely.

It’s been years since you’ve gone to pieces in front of anyone, and you’re not going to break that streak now.

Doey frowns at your reaction. It hadn’t been quite the one he’d hoped for.

You force a smile at him, not wanting him to think you’re upset with him. “Sorry. It’s just…been a busy day. I’m a bit…um…tense right now, I guess,” you say in a flimsy attempt waving off your reaction.

“You don’t gotta apologize, pal!” he says easily, patting your hand.

You emerge from the forest and begin crossing the small patch of grass that surrounds your house, serving as the lawn. You tilt your head towards your home and Doey follows your gaze.

“We’re just about here,” you say.

Doey peeks over your fingers, following your gaze towards the house. It’s one story tall, and…well, it’s hard for Doey to guess much more of that. He thinks it’s slightly bigger than Matthew’s old home but slightly smaller than Jack’s, but between his new size and how hazy those old memories are, even that rough guess is hard to put much stock in.

You enter through a small side door that opens into a mudroom. You kick off your boots and step onto the kitchen. “Do you mind waiting here while I change? I can show you around a bit more once I get into some dry clothes,” you say.

“Of course!” he says easily.

You make as if to set him on the counter, only to pause. “Um, would you rather be on the counter or the floor?” you ask.

He looks amused at the question, chuckling. “Eh, you can just toss me wherever,” he says playfully, waving a hand.

You laugh, shaking your head as you set him carefully on the countertop. “I’m not going to toss you, Doey!”

Once again, something in him warms as you take far more care with him than you need to.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” you say, heading to your room on the other side of the house. You lift your hand in a small wave, which Doey returns with his usual large grin.

Once you’re gone, he glances around the kitchen. It doesn’t look much different from any of the kitchens Matthew, Jack, and Kevin had glimpsed in their time before coming to Playcare. Off-white laminate countertops and floors, brown wooden cabinets, flowery wallpaper that’s peeling in a couple places, and the usual assortment of appliances.

You change quickly, not wanting to leave Doey alone for too long. You’re still pulling on your hoodie when you re-enter the kitchen. “Are you cold at all?” you ask. “Do you need like…a blanket or anything? Something to eat?” You pause. “Erm, do you eat?”

Doey’s expression goes slack for a moment and you’re not sure what to make of the reaction, but clearly the question has struck something in him.

“I um! YES--NO!!” He cuts himself off so abruptly it almost sounds like he’s being silenced by someone else. “YES--SOMETIMES!!” He clutches at his head, clenching his eyes shut. After a moment he seems to relax, running his hands down his face to reveal an utterly exhausted expression. Somehow it even looks like he has bags under his eyes.

“Hey, it’s alright…just relax…” you say gently. You reach out to put a hand against him, only to pull back without touching him. You’re not sure if being patted by a hand nearly as long as him would really help with the whole relaxing thing.

“S-Sorry…” he mumbles, looking away shamefully at his outburst. “I um. I…I forgot how hungry I am. I…I usually just…try not to think about it.”

“So you do eat…” you say. “And it sounds like you haven’t in awhile…?”

“I…don’t have to. I’ve gone months without eating. It doesn’t seem to matter. The hunger is…it’s just a feeling. I can tune it out most of the time,” he says, not meeting your eye as he wrings his hands.

You pull back in surprise. “Doey, I’m…I’m not going to make you go hungry!” you protest, aghast.

“But…it’s just…food’s not free, right?” he asks hesitantly, finally lifting his gaze to you.

“Well, no…” you admit. “But it’s not gold bars and diamonds, either.” You smile gently. “Besides, you’re six inches tall…I doubt you eat more than I do,” you say lightly.

He gives a sheepish smile and nervous laugh, which you chalk up to general nervousness. “Heh…right…”

“I was about to make dinner…I usually make enough for a couple meals, so it’d be no trouble to fix you a plate. Whatever you don’t finish can be breakfast tomorrow. Anything in particular you like?”

Doey briefly pulls a face as if he’s literally biting his tongue to keep from speaking…though you’re not sure if he actually has a tongue. “Um. Wh-Whatever you’re eating is fine. Doesn’t have to be anything special, I…I can eat just about anything…”

He hasn’t liked any of the “food” he’s had in years. Not since Hoppy found that last box of candy up in Playcare…and even then, it had expired years before she’d found it. But easing the hunger, even for a moment, had always been such a relief that he’d actually started to forget that flavor is even a factor in food.

You rest against the counter, debating whether to press the issue. After a moment you decide not to. “Mac and cheese?” you offer.

He gives a sigh of longing that sounds halfway like a sob. “Y-Yes. That…that sounds wonderful.”

“Then mac and cheese it is,” you say warmly.

You begin the prep work, letting the conversation lapse as you wonder at your strange new guest. You’ve barely scratched the surface of who and what he is, but it still breaks your heart how reluctant he is to accept any sort of hospitality from you…especially with how readily he’d stepped in to help with Ethan.

It’s possible he just naturally has a very giving and self-sufficient personality, but you can’t help but wonder if someone, or several someones, in his past had made him feel just…undeserving.

The boxed mac and cheese you make is a family-sized meal, so even scooping out two full portions for yourself and Doey leaves plenty for tomorrow’s leftovers.

Doey’s eyes widen at the sight of the full bowl. He tries to utter a protest--you don’t need to give him that much, that just half a bowl would be more than enough, but fragments of Kevin and Jack bubble to the surface, silencing him as their hunger roars within him.

You take the bowls to the table before returning for the silverware. You’re not completely oblivious to Doey’s inner turmoil, but you don’t even come close to guessing the extent of it, assuming he’s just a bit shy about accepting your hospitality.

As you’re reaching for forks, you pause. The forks are longer than Doey himself…would he be able to use one? You open the other drawer, grabbing the smallest measuring spoon you have. It’s still a bit big--but trying to eat mac and cheese with a garden trowel is still easier than eating it with a pitchfork, you suppose.

You set the silverware on the table and return to the counter to get Doey. Before you can, however, he leaps from the countertop, causing you to let out a wordless cry of protest, scrambling to catch him.

He lands with a splat, his lower body flattening against the floor. But before you can even wonder if such an act is painful, he bounces back up, his lower body rounding back out so quickly his feet actually leave the floor for a second.

Doey gives a sheepish giggle at your fretful look. “Eheh…sorry pal, didn’t mean to scare you.” He winks, waggling a finger at you playfully. “I did tell you I’m durable, though,” he reminds you in a slightly teasing tone.

You feel your cheeks warming with embarrassment. “R-Right…it’s um…just a bit jarring to see, is all…”

“Well, I’ll be sure to warn ya next time then,” he chuckles.

You hold out a hand, assuming he’ll still need help getting onto the table. He laughs again, shaking his head as he walks past you. “You don’t need to carry me around either, much as I appreciate the offer,” he says.

Not that he’d minded being held, but…well, it’s probably not something you’d choose to do if you were aware of just how mobile Doey is, even at his smaller size.

You get to your feet as he walks past you. “Oh um, alright…” you say, figuring he knows what he’s talking about.

And indeed he does, for he stretches his arms upward, gripping the side of the table. He then lifts himself so quickly that his momentum carries him over the edge. He rolls as he lands, ending up sitting atop the table facing you. He grins widely, giving you a thumbs up.

“Heh,” you laugh weakly, returning the thumbs up before taking your seat. He’s more physically adept than you’d initially assumed…maybe his time in the forest hadn’t been as harrowing as you’d thought.

Doey manages to keep the more impulsive fragments within him in check. It’s incredibly difficult to pick up the little measuring spoon and eat with anything resembling decorum, but Doey manages to convince Jack and even Kevin that good manners will get them more meals. You’re not going to want to keep making him food if he splatters it all over the table and walls, or even if he just grosses you out with poor mealtime etiquette.

Jack is pretty easily swayed by this argument, as it matches up with his childhood memories from home. Kevin is less convinced--he wants to take all he can before you change your mind, but he’s overruled, and even he can’t completely discount how readily you offered the meal even knowing Doey doesn’t technically need it.

Still, while his manners are far more polite than not, he doesn’t even come close to hiding how much he’s relishing the meal. Each bite causes him to emit a happy little hum at the delicious flavor--oh how he’s missed flavor--and occasionally do a little bounce or kick his feet as he savors the taste.

You try not to react at first, not wanting to make him self-conscious, but eventually a small giggle escapes you, causing him to flinch sheepishly, giving you an apologetic smile.

“S-Sorry, it’s…it’s just very good!” he says with an awkward giggle.

“No sorries!” you say quickly, waving a hand. “I’ve just never had anyone enjoy my cooking nearly that much. If anything, it’s flattering!” you assure him lightly.

Well, that’s a relief, though Doey’s still not convinced flattery would be the first thing on your mind if he allowed himself to eat as greedily as he wants to.

He only eats a little more than half his portion. Not quite enough to fully quiet his long hunger, but enough to appease the fragments of Kevin and Jack. He doesn’t want to appear greedy, and despite your earlier comments, he can’t help but feel he’ll quickly wear out his welcome if he eats as much as a human, especially at his small size.

It’s still a far better meal than he’s had in over a decade, though.

“Mmm…that hit the spot,” he sighs contentedly, laying back on the table. His belly is noticeably distended, to a degree that would be concerning for a human. You debate asking him about it, but decide against it. He seems happy and content, and despite how jovial and even playful he seems a lot of the time, you’ve also seen how quickly that can turn.

Again, you can relate.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says in a more somber tone as he lays back, staring up at the kitchen ceiling. “F-For dinner, and…e-everything…”

“Thank you for helping with Ethan.”

He gives a vague hum of affirmation. “Didn’t do much…Should help with…the dishes…” he mumbles.

You quickly stash the leftovers in the fridge and return to the table. “Doey? Are you alright?” you ask, letting a bit of urgency slip into your tone.

His eyes are closed, his hands folded atop his belly. “Hmm?” he mumbles tiredly.

“You’re…um, you’re just falling asleep, right? Do you…need anything?”

“Mm-mm,” he mumbles. “Just sleepy. Haven’t really…slept in awhile…”

Your brow knits at the statement. Does he mean that literally? Or just that he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in awhile? Or is sleep “optional” for him the same way food seems to be?

“Well, why don’t we get you somewhere more comfortable, then?” you offer.

He doesn’t answer, but you faintly hear the sound of the slow, steady breathing of someone fast asleep.

You don’t want to leave him on the table. You’re not sure how much ergonomics matter to a little dough man, but…surely a bed would be more comfortable? If only mentally.

You gently scoop him up, cradling him in both hands. He stirs slightly, but gives no indication he’s really awake or aware of what you’re doing.

He feels slightly heavier than he did before. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, and you just expect him to feel heavier after that meal.

You carry him to the rarely-used guest room, gently setting him down on one of the pillows. You pull the blanket up slightly, covering him up to his waist. Covered enough that if he gets cold at night he can find the blanket and tuck himself in more, but not so covered that he’s liable to get lost in the (to him) huge blanket. 

You lean against the wall beside the bed, watching him for a moment. You can barely believe he’s even real. Part of you thinks you’ll just wake up tomorrow and realize it was all some silly dream.

But…you hope not.

“Goodnight, Doey,” you say softly, finally heading out of the room, turning off the light on your way out.

You wonder if taking him in like this, letting yourself get attached, is really a good idea. You don’t know much about who he is, and you probably know even less about what he is. You don’t know what he might want or need, or what he might do. What he could do.

Then again…he’s a six inch toy made of dough. How much trouble could he really cause?

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 6)

He helps you deal with a problem in his own thoughtful way—unconventional (and illegal) it may be.

nav: one, two, three, four, five, six (current) or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, mentions of death, descriptions of a panic attack, problem-solving the n109 zone way

There’s nothing quite like dragging someone into your nonsense—especially when they always let you get away with it.

After that impromptu Frostlight holiday hangout, the long-overdue coat-and-sweater handover felt far less nerve-wracking, even during the meetups that followed. Over the past few weeks, you’ve managed to whisk the busy fruit vendor away to some of the most random spots the city has to offer.

Sometimes, your plans are scenic: the aquarium, park strolls, cozy cafes, trendy restaurants, and curated museums. Other times, they’re chaos incarnate: amusement park rides, escape rooms, and that one rage room session sparked by your urge to send your manager to the afterlife. While Sylus’ schedule frequently takes him out of the city doing whatever it is that in-demand fruit vendors do, you’ve come to appreciate the effort he puts into showing up whenever he can.

(You’re yet to successfully pay for anything. No matter how sneaky you try to be with the waiters and cashiers, he always seems to be one step ahead, swiping his card before you can even reach for yours.)

Funny enough, the more time you spend together, the less you view him through rose-tinted glasses. You've grown to look past his conventional looks and genuinely enjoy his company—especially his deadpan tendencies and razor-sharp wit. That doesn’t mean you’ve stopped obsessing over your appearance before hanging out with him, though. You still agonize over your outfit, fuss over your hair, and polish every detail you can catch in the mirror before stepping out of the house. You can’t help it. But in many ways, you’ve also grown comfortable enough to be yourself around him and bother him with your shenanigans.

Like so.

[You] You sent fruit man a link. [You] let’s go ୧(•ᴗ•)୨ [fruit man] Now why would a kitten go to a cat cafe? [fruit man] Visiting your colony mates? [You] because i said so [You] LETS GO

And so, here you are at the cat café you frequent, gently petting the resident caracal you've grown so fond of.

The café staff often marvel at how calm he is with you, noting that while he doesn't harm anyone, he tends to hiss at every guest and employee. No one else seems to have managed to break through his haughty exterior like you have. Now, the giant feline is practically putty in your arms, its massive paws kneading biscuits into your thankfully jean-covered thighs. 

You tell Sylus as much, smugly stroking its floppy ears.

“Well aren’t you comfortable?” he drawls, glancing at the cat.

“He sure is!” you coo, planting a big, fat kiss on its fluffy head.

You miss the way he narrows his eyes at the feline. “Your drink’s getting cold,” he says, pointing at your neglected cup on the table. “Shouldn’t you finish it while it’s warm?” 

You hold the caracal’s face, its big, round eyes tugging at your heartstrings. “Yup!”

You continue cooing at the cat, massaging its ears. Sylus scowls.

“This café seems to have quite the selection of pastries,” he comments airily, head tilted back as he skims through the barely readable menu above the counter. “Do you have any recommendations?”

That perks you up, snapping your gaze back to him and pausing your petting. “I think they have some seasonal goods this time of the year! I’ll take a look for you. Stay here.”

With that, you get up, sneak in another scratch under the big furball's chin, and take your leave. Once you’re out of earshot, Sylus smirks at the cat, who hisses at him.

“Know your place, little one.”

He’s met with another discontented hiss.

As your eyes trace the elegant cursive of the overhead menu board, you absently note the familiar chime of the café door. Your focus flits from brownies to croissants, savory dishes to frothy lattes, until a featured seasonal s’mores cookie catches your attention. Your mouth waters. Maybe Sylus would like this?

The decision is cut short when you’re abruptly shoved against the counter, the edge biting into your abdomen. A sharp yelp escapes you as pain blooms, forcing your palm to press against the throbbing spot. Rattled, you spin around.

“Excuse me—“

The words die on your tongue.

Standing before you is a man in a crisp white button-up, the sleeves rolled neatly above his forearms. He must be important—if the expensive-looking suit jacket draped over his shoulder is anything to go by. 

But it’s not the over-gelled hair, the tacky accent color of his suit pieces, his inability to use his inside voice in a small café, nor his apparent lack of spatial awareness that has you frozen in place.

This is the guy that killed your family.

You're sure of it.

You can’t be mistaken. How can you be mistaken? 

That smirk—cocky and insufferable—has been seared into your memory since the day you sat in that cramped police room, papers shaking in your hands as his lawyer delivered their settlement offer. You’ve never fully remembered the details of that day, but the sinister curl of his lips as he shook your hand would haunt you till the day you die.

He’s talking. Laughing. With a woman at his side and a man on the other. Maybe they’re his colleagues? You’re not sure.

You’re going to be sick.

Ears ringing, you hold a hand out as you move to the café’s door. The dull gleam of the sun registers faintly, along with the jagged pattern of the sidewalk bricks and the discarded, empty cup beneath a bush. As you stumble outside, the cool air bites sharply, unforgiving against your exposed skin.

Then you’re in the alley, doubled over by the dumpster, heaving until there’s nothing left but bile and ragged breaths.

What are you doing?

You know time doesn't stop. It never has, and it never will—not even in the face of mortal loss. The world doesn’t get to pause for your grief; people will still go to work, teachers will still hold their classes, the sun will still rise, and people will still find joy and laughter in their everyday lives. Death is inevitable and universal. Some face it sooner, some in ways more cruel than others—but in the end, it claims everyone.

You know this. You know this.

So why does it feel like your graduation day all over again?

You don’t know how long you’ve been hunched over, knees and palms pressing painfully against the rough concrete. Gradually, the ringing in your ears begins to subside, and you slowly discern the distant garble of words behind you and the grounding hold on your back.

“...You’re okay. I’m here, sweetie. Come back to me. You're okay.”

Large, calloused hands cradle your jaw with careful tenderness, gently guiding you to meet a pair of worried scarlet eyes. The moment your unfocused gaze regains some semblance of clarity, he lets out a slow exhale, the cold air puffing around him.

“There you are,” he murmurs, smiling slightly.

“...Sylus?”

He traces a finger along your cheek. “Did something happen?”

The spell breaks, and a wave of heat rises up your neck as you finally register your form on the ground, your unpleasant mess just beside you. Worse, you’ve inconvenienced him. And for what? For some overreaction to a man you had already agreed to settle things with?

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you say with a shaky laugh, trying to push yourself up. But your knees give way, and you collapse back onto the ground. Shuddering from the impact of the cold, wet concrete, you flash him an embarrassed smile. “I, uh, might need a few more moments.”

Without a word, he lifts you by the armpits, a startled squeak escaping you as he effortlessly cradles you in his arms. He gently guides you to sit on one solid bicep, then scoops up your fallen bag with his free hand. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck.

“Wait—”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he says as he begins his trek toward his parked SUV. “You’re not obligated to explain yourself to anyone.”

Your breath catches. He opens the door to the passenger seat and carefully lowers you onto the plush leather. Leaning down, he meets your gaze, his forearm resting on the roof’s edge.

“But know that you don’t deserve to have your feelings or experiences downplayed—especially not by yourself.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Sylus settles into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life as he starts the drive, presumably toward your house. He must be thinking that a familiar, comforting place would be best for you right now.

A wave of guilt washes over you for cutting your time together short, especially since you were really looking forward to surprising him with that s’mores cookie. But the words won’t come, lodged tight in your throat.

By the time you reach your neighborhood, the sky has darkened. Just as he pulls up, ready to open his door, you reach out, placing your hand on his forearm.

"Sylus, I..."

Your voice falters.

To your surprise, he takes your hand in his, his fingers brushing over yours in a gentle caress. He doesn’t rush you. No hint of impatience. Just a quiet, comfortable presence, giving you the space to breathe and find your words.

Slowly, you tell him everything.

Keeping his earlier words in mind, you tell the facts as they are, your emotions as they unfolded. You describe the accident, how it happened, and the events that followed—the pressure to accept the settlement offer, the intimidation. You talk about the loneliness that set in, the growing distance between you and those you once felt close to, all because their happiness became too much to bear. How the world kept moving, while you felt trapped in the same place, stuck in time.

You talk about how you saw the driver again in the café earlier, how it resurfaced all those unpleasant memories and unearthed emotions you’d buried. Despite his advice on not minimizing yourself, you let an apology slip for letting things get to you and cutting your hangout short as a result.

You don’t tell him, but his presence in your life—albeit unexpected and fairly new—has done wonders in pulling back the heavy darkness weighing you down. You hope the depth of your gratitude comes across in the way you hold his hand, gripping it tightly, like it’s the only thing keeping you from sinking.

“Wow, I feel much better,” you finally say, laughing shakily at how silly your earlier reaction seems now. You squeeze his hand gently. “Thanks for listening to me, Sy. I really appreciate it.”

You miss the way his eyes flash at the nickname.

You watch as he examines your reddened eyes and watery lashes, his expression unreadable, before squeezing your hand in return. “I’m just honored that you trusted me enough to share that with me.”

You muster a grin. “I promise to make up for earlier. I've been dying to try this new recipe I found. How about a box of experimental cookies?”

After a brief pause, he lets out a low chuckle. “As long as it’s edible,” he says, lips curling into a smirk, effectively dissipating the lingering tension.

You give his arm a soft whack. “You’re gonna regret it when they turn out actually good!”

He sighs, gazing at where you swat at him with faux pity. “What, with that little kitten pat?”

After a few rounds of bickering—with you insisting that it was not a little kitten pat—you finally exchange your goodbyes. Stepping out of his SUV, you wave cheekily, heading toward your doorstep. He returns the gesture, his wave a little slower, as he waits for you to reach the door.

As soon as you turn your back, the bright scarlet in his eyes dulls to a dangerous crimson hue, black-red tendrils barely contained within a closed fist.

—

You stare up at the building in front of you, mouth agape.

At least eight stories high, its grandeur is impossible to miss, even amidst the notable luxury shops and high-end establishments of the uptown plaza. Massive windows stretch across the facade, their panes glinting like polished gems in the late afternoon light. At its center, a grand arched entrance commands attention, flanked by twin marble columns with gold detailing. The architecture is reminiscent of those vintage and timeless mansions you always see on royalty-themed documentaries.

Discreetly, you pull out your phone to scroll through your conversation with Sylus, double-checking the maps link he sent.

[You] sy!! [You] the cookies turned out pretty good!! [You] i wanna give you some [You] should we meet up?? [fruit man] Congrats on the successful outcome of your baking experiment sweetie. [fruit man] When do you want to hand them over? [You] i was thinking today if it’s ok! they taste best while they’re still fresh [fruit man] I might run late due to a meeting. why don’t you head here while theres still light out? [fruit man] We can go have dinner after. [fruit man] fruit man sent you a link. [You] oooh is this the place you’re staying at? [fruit man] Its an old guest lodging I run. [fruit man] Its convenient for whenever I have business in Linkon.

You stare at the screen incredulously, then glance back up at the towering behemoth before you. This is the old guest lodging he was talking about? You’re no lodging connoisseur, but you’re pretty sure this is a five-star hotel.

Deciding not to question it further lest you get a headache, you square your shoulders and step inside.

Immediately, you feel like an outsider as you pass through the elegant interior, your gaze flitting between the extravagant glass chandelier and the plush velvet sofas in the vast lounge area. Even the guests moving about look like they own at least three vacation homes around the world, like they spend their weekends at the golf club for fun.

A staff member approaches to greet you, her gloved hands neatly clasped as she dons an excellent customer service smile.

“Welcome to the Noir Manor! Do you have a reservation?”

“Um, no." Crap, even your voice sounds out of place. "But I’m here for Sylus?”

Her eyes widen. She reaches into the pocket of her work skirt and pulls out a small notebook, swiftly scanning its pages. She reads your name aloud, her eyes flicking to you for confirmation.

“That’s me, yes,” you say, fingers fiddling with the handle of your wooden picnic basket.

Without missing a beat, she pulls a walkie-talkie from her breast pocket.

“Attention, over. We’ve got white dove in the lobby. Please be advised. Over.”

She then tucks the device back and turns to you with a more genuine smile.

"Mr. Sylus is currently in a meeting on the top floor, but he’ll be finishing shortly. Please, make yourself comfortable in the lounge area in the meantime."

You don’t need to be told twice. The wide lobby space and high ceilings are starting to make you feel claustrophobic. After relaying your thanks, you beeline for the single sofa chair at the farthest end.

You’re content enough just admiring the impressive architecture and interior design of the place, but strangely, hotel staff keep coming up to you every few minutes, bringing fresh pastries and tea. They also keep bringing in soft throw pillows, helping you settle more comfortably in your comically large seat. The attention has you mortified—both from the employees and the guests casting furtive glances at the table they brought over, laden with your private snack spread.

Desperate to shake off your nerves, you scan the room again, your eyes immediately locking onto the massive widescreen TV mounted on the pillar near the lobby desk. It’s muted, but the bold headlines and auto-generated captions on the news report are more than enough for you to follow along.

You barely make out the words flashing across the screen. Something about the new CEO of a prominent national bank chain drunk driving down the highway and crashing into a streetlight pole. The family has apparently urged the local police to investigate for foul play, citing the unnaturally high speed he was driving. An image of the driver flashes on screen.

You stand up abruptly, your pulse hammering in your ears.

It's the guy at the café.

Your family’s killer.

He’s dead.

“There better not be a missing cookie in there,” an amused voice says from behind you, making you jump.

Sylus. He’s wearing a patterned maroon button-up. Normally, the exposed collarbone beneath his inner white shirt would have you looking away, heat rising to your cheeks. But you're too stunned by what you’ve just learned to even register it.

Your thousand-yard stare has him frowning. He rests a hand on your shoulder, the other tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“Everything alright, kitten?”

Words catch in your throat as you weakly point a finger toward the TV, the report now showing a live interview with the former CEO—the driver’s father. Apparently, they’re filing for bankruptcy by the end of next year’s first quarter and are asking for prayers during their difficult time.

You don’t see Sylus’ face, your eyes drifting in and out of focus on the gold pendant of his necklace. Instead, you feel him gently guide your head against his chest, a hand softly patting your back in a soothing rhythm.

“If anything, he had it coming.”

The vibration of his voice hums against your ear, and you exhale, your eyes fluttering shut. "It just feels surreal, I guess," you mumble, your hands hanging limply at your sides. "I mean, I just saw him, what, two weeks ago?"

A brief silence hangs between you before he pulls back, carefully cupping your cheeks and guiding your bleary gaze to meet the intense scarlet of his.

“How about showing me what you've made for me? I've been looking forward to tasting it with you all afternoon.”

You nod absentmindedly, allowing him to guide you to the private elevator concealed behind the lobby desk. With your bow-adorned basket in one hand, he flicks a finger over his shoulder. Instantly, the staff moves with practiced ease, swiftly tidying up your previous spot in the lounge.

As the elevator doors close and begin their ascent to his office on the top floor, he gently coaxes you out of your dazed state, sharing stories about a fishing excursion he recently took up north. He laments his lack of catch during the three-day trip, especially since it was supposed to be the prime season for a rare species in the area.

Had you been more present, you would’ve noticed that, despite his apparently horrendous luck, he seems awfully chipper.

note: i'm 6 parts in and i still can't decide on a title 🧍‍♀️

nav: one, two, three, four, five, six (current) or: read on ao3

tag list: @thepotatoislost, @xxfaithlynxx, @browneyedgirl22, @vorfreudevortex, @midiplier, @wisteriaflowersss, @euclase0, @leighsartworks216, @keyiswatching, @goldenbirdiee, @delaythings, @datura109, @iloveboysinred, @everythingistaken00, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @blueberrysquire, @mourning-into-dancing, @bookfreakk, @everywherenothere, @vvhira, @laidenbreecatchall, @kyushii, @lucifer-says-hii, @sylus-crow, @carmelves, @nishayuro, @comatosebunny09, @withering-dream, @rmjace2, @tinnyrabbit, @socutesotall

check out my other works!

[hwaslayer]

haze (jwy) | one shot.

—summary: a night in with wooyoung consists of good weed and good sex.

—pairing: stoner!jung wooyoung x f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) established relationship au | fluff, smut

—word count: 1.8k

—warnings: cussing, mature language/sexually implied content, use of marijuana/weed, lots of kissing/making out, breast play, marking, high (unprotected) sex with woo, oral (f. receiving), fingering, cum eating, light choking, light spitting, two orgasms, cute lil cuddles!

—on rotation: sativa - jhene aiko | naked - marques houston | wus good / curious - partynextdoor | u already know - 112

—a/n: surprise! this is very self-indulgent with all the wooyo brainrot i've been experiencing. tsbut will be back next weekend for sure, then untitled. 🤍 4 pg letter will be released at some point.. heh. enjoy!

The room is hazy.

Could be from the blunt you smoked with Wooyoung awhile ago, or it could be the fact that he’s running the fuck out of your hot water while showering right now.

Could be both.

Your hands are busy sliding the weed onto the rolling paper, sat criss-crossed on your bed in nothing but a cropped tee and a cute ‘lil thong. Occupying yourself with making a new blunt for later— TV on blast with some How to Get Away with Murder re-run. Body still feeling relaxed, but the high from earlier wearing off. Just as you’re shifting complete focus to the blunt in your hands, Wooyoung walks out of your bathroom in his boxer briefs. He’s running a small towel across his short, wet black hair, water droplets still on his shoulders, chest.

Cloud of steam following him out.

“Run my hot water like that again and I’m booting your ass out.” You furrow your brows as you try to get the paper to stick together, running a lighter across the edge to stick it close.

“You wouldn’t.” He snorts, tossing the towel off to the side before shutting off your bathroom lights and slipping himself into your bed next to you. “Shower felt good, though.”

“Or are you still high?”

“Nah, not really.” He taps your leg with the back of his hand. “Is that ready?”

“Just about.” He tugs on the flimsy material of your thong before letting it snap back against your skin. 

“So cute.” He chuckles. “Could be cuter without it on.” Wooyoung gently squeezes your side and bites his lip.

“Shut up.” You glare at him before passing him the newly rolled blunt and lighter. You watch as he majestically sits back against your headboard and takes the first hit— inhaling deeply before exhaling and letting the smoke climb back through his nose with the next inhale. 

“Fuck.” He says, hollowing his cheeks to take another quick puff before handing it over to you. He rests his head back; his turn to watch you. He can’t help himself when he stares— hand crawling to your thigh while you take a hit and exhale. His eyes are roaming across your features: your lashes, plump lips, perked nipples poking out from underneath that cropped tee, thong almost useless and leaving little to the imagination.

The way you look so damn sexy right now.

“C’mere, baby.” He says lowly, pulling you by the hand onto his lap just as he takes his turn. You giggle, crawling onto his lap and lazily wrapping your arms around his neck. He grips your chin with just enough intensity, bringing your lips close to his as he exhales into your mouth. “Good girl.” He smiles when he sees you take it in like the good girl you are, thumb brushing down your bottom lip. It’s a continuous back and forth until the blunt is done, Wooyoung’s hands resting on your thighs as the high settles in.

Rushes through.

He brings you closer to his body with his hand on the small of your back. He presses soft kisses against your cheek, eyes, nose, jaw, corner of your lips— wherever he can touch and kiss, he’s on it. He looks at you through hooded lids, hands now roaming up your back slowly. To your rib cage.

Your chest.

You let out a small gasp when his thumb brushes against a nipple, making Wooyoung chuckle softly as he takes note of the way your body responds to him, his touch. Goosebumps rising to the surface of your beautiful, soft skin.

“You’re so fucking pretty, princess.” He whispers right near your ear, gently nibbling on your earlobe before pressing a kiss below it. Your nails rake through his still-damp hair, tilting your head so to give Wooyoung more access to your neck.

You.

You let out a soft moan when you feel his tongue glide across the surface, teeth nipping lightly; lips soothing his little love bites across the column of your neck, down to the base.

“Love leaving these marks on you.” He says, his grip on your hips tightening when he feels you subtly grinding against him. He’s quick to shed off your tee and toss it to the floor, eager to continue ministrations down to your collarbone. Chest.

Swirling and sucking on your hardened buds like his life depended on it.

“Wooyoung.” 

“Hm?” He hums, eyes turning up towards you as he continues to suck away at a nipple.

“Please?”

“I’ll give you what you want.” He sighs. “I won’t make you ask me again, baby.” He comes up to press a kiss to your lips, but it’s slow. Sensual. Something he takes his time with, just like his hands exploring your body. He gently lays you down near the edge of the bed and hovers over you— careful not break the heated kiss. Your tongue glides over his expertly, Wooyoung biting onto your lip in between kisses. 

Soft moans. 

Tiny whimpers.

He tugs your thong to the side, leaving a heated trail of kisses down your chest, stomach, abdomen. Kissing every inch like you’re a delicate piece of artwork. So fragile, so rare. So, so beautiful. Wooyoung doesn’t waste any time planting his lips onto your heat. Your back slightly arches in response to his actions, tongue lapping and flicking away at your core. He sucks onto your lips, feinding to taste every drop of you. You let out a louder moan when he spits onto your pussy— making a mess on you before he can actually make a mess of you. 

“God, yes.” You breathe out as Wooyoung continues to keep your cute thong shifted to the side so he can work his mouth on you. 

He’s high, and you’re high.

Everything feels heightened, to the top.

Cloud nine.

He pulls away and slips in two digits— pumping away as if it's extra reassurance to hear just how badly you need him. He’s hard as a fucking rock, especially when he sees you dripping on his fingers. 

“Just like that, Woo.”

“Like that?” He almost growls, pumping in and out at a steady pace. He’s making sure to keep your legs cocked open for him; enough that even the mood lighting can highlight just how wet you are, how you’re glistening.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry, hands gripping at his hair when he latches back on and finger fucks you to your first orgasm. It doesn’t take long for push you over the edge, and it could be that the high is making you extra sensitive; but, when it overcomes your body, you feel yourself tighten. Body tensing, twitching.

Thighs closing in on Wooyoung’s head.

“That’s it, pretty.” He coos as he raises himself from the position. “Open up.” He presses his fingers to your mouth, watching as you obediently let him slip it in— tongue swirling and sucking on them. “See how sweet you taste?” He hums. When you’ve gotten enough, Wooyoung gets on his knees and strokes himself while his eyes glaze over the way you look beneath him. He loves how fucked out you look already, how high you both are. Swears this shit is all he needs. “Such a good girl. So fucked out already.” He lets out a small, somewhat cocky laugh, teasing his tip at your sensitive clit. He rubs his cock in between your folds before easing himself in, letting out a deep moan.

“Wooyoung.” He loves the way his name falls from your lips, especially when you repeat it over and over again. His hand snakes up your chest, head damn near falling off the edge of the bed when he picks up his pace. His eyes are glued to where you two are connected— eyes shutting close when he feels the desire grow seeing your slickness coating his length. 

“Feels so good. You’re so tight around me.” He breaths out in between pants and ragged breathing. “Fuck.” He picks up his pace, now pounding into you.

Sounds of skin against skin filling the room.

The TV.

But, it’s no match against your moans and Wooyoung’s.

“Yes, yes, yes—” You repeat, crying out loud. His hands are digging into the flesh of your hips hard, gripping onto them as he fucks into you harshly. 

Roughly.

Got you seeing into the next lifetime.

“You like that?” 

“Yes, Woo. So perfect.” You whine. A hand comes up to your neck, Wooyoung squeezing at just the right pressure. Enough for you to release a choked moan. Enough for him to use it as leverage to fuck you harder.

Cloud nine.

“Gonna make me come— Wooyoung. Gonna—” You continue to whine and whimper and it drives Wooyoung insane. So pretty, so obedient for him. Barely able to make out your words, to think coherently.

“Yeah. Look at me when you come, baby.” He grips your chin, forcing contact as he comes down closer— face only inches away from yours. “Want you to look at me.” He repeats in between pants, hips pistoling in and out quickly.

In and out.

In and out.

“I’m coming—” You manage to mutter before you let out a loud, strangled moan. Your body tenses again, but the shaking is more visible this time around.

It’s beautiful, and you are a delicate piece of art.

“Fuck, yeah— there you go, sweetheart— come all over me—” Wooyoung’s moans are broken, keeping his grip on your chin as he lets out another deep growl; hips thrusting erratically as he releases and fills you up. “God damn.” He takes a moment to try and come back down from his high. His breathing is irregular as he sits up and pulls out, letting the rest of his seed spill out onto your pussy lips.

“Holy shit. Too high for this.” Wooyoung laughs and nods, the both of you still trying to catch your breath. He gets one good look at the way his release paints you beautifully before taking a napkin from the nearby nightstand to wipe you down.

“Swear I could do this shit all day, though.” He lets out a hefty sigh before tossing the napkin into the trashcan and plopping back onto the bed. He makes grabby hands at you, making you giggle as you lay down next to him. You let him pull you onto his chest, resting comfortably skin to skin. Wooyoung presses a small kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing at your arm. You let out another giggle when he presses feathery kisses to your forehead, temple, eyes.

“Woo.” You playfully swat his chest.

“What? Tryna go again?” He smirks.

“Stop!”

“We can roll up another.” You laugh, shaking your head before you squeal when he tickles you. "Those giggles. Gonna be the death of me." He smiles when he stops, eyes glued onto you. "Love you, baby. So much."

"Love you, too."

—perm taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @thechaotictheoryy

[tobesolonely]

untitled angsty but then sweet piece...

hello guys!! it's been like over a year lol. I was going through my google doc and found this and I feel like I never posted it? so now I am posting it. maybe this can be a part 1 but also we know I'm great at starting multipart stories and not finishing them so lets see

૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

warnings: none (~1.2k words)

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

“You're just gonna ignore me then, babe?”

Y/N continues silently puttering around in the kitchen, going out of her way to make sure her back remained turned on Harry. There weren't many ways to get under his skin, but throughout her years of being with him she learned that being on the receiving end of the silent treatment usually made him fold pretty quickly. She was annoyed with her husband and the fact that he seemed clueless as to why made her even more upset.  

“I take your silence as a yes?” 

More puttering. More re-wiping the already clean counters. Starting the tea kettle. Washing her hands. Anything to not acknowledge Harry, really.

“I can’t make it better if you don't tell me why you're so upset, love,” he takes a tentative step toward her. “I know we've been together for ages but I still can't read your mind. Think ‘m gettin’ real close, though.”

This is said jokingly, and she knows her husband is just trying to dissipate the tension that's thick in their kitchen, making the spacious room seem impossibly small. She doesn't acknowledge his joke, doesn't crack a smile because that would give him too much satisfaction. Nothing made Harry cockier than being the reason for Y/N’s laugh, a sound so sweet she’s pretty sure he’d forbid everyone on the planet except him from listening to it because he wanted it all to himself. He always told her it was music to his ears.

The fact that he doesn't even know what he did is what finally causes her to break, muttering about how fucking ridiculous he is under her breath. It's not lost on Harry. 

“Now you've moved on from ignoring me to cursing at me?” he sounds more curious than upset, taking another step toward her. She backs away, defensively crossing her arms over her chest and she doesn't miss the way Harry’s brow furrows at the action. “Can y’please tell me what I did, Y/N? Please?” When she looks down at the ground, ignoring his please, he begs some more. He’s not above groveling, really. 

“Please, angel? Lemme fix it,” his eyes are wide and wild as he wildly searches hers for some clue as to what he did wrong. “Tell me-”

“Am I always just gonna come second with you?” 

She can almost see the wheels in her husband’s head turning, knows he's choosing his words carefully before he speaks so as not to upset her any further. 

“Okay, love,” he runs a ringer hand through his hair. “Can you be a little bit more specific?”

“We had plans this afternoon, Harry. We were gonna try that new café that just opened. I was looking forward to it,” she doesn't care if this makes her sound selfish and childish. “I know you were working and I know you how much you love to do that, but sometimes I feel like-”

“Don’t even finish that thought,”  Harry cuts her off and his tone is sharp, calloused. “That’s not true.”

“You know, at first I was worried something happened when you didn't show,” Y/N continues like she didn't hear him. “But then I realized nope, you probably just forgot or couldn't get out of another meeting. Just like always.”

A look of sadness flashes across Harry’s face, which quickly transforms to indignant anger. “Don't throw this in my face, Y/N. You know how much I hate that.” 

“So I’m supposed to be mindful of the things you hate, but you can't be mindful of the things I hate?”

“You don't get it,” he mumbles under his breath, growing increasingly done with the conversation the longer it drags on. “You're not in the industry. I can't just always leave-” 

“Then blame it on me! Make me the bad guy, Harry,” she finally turns all the way around to face him completely. “The people you work with get to see you more than I do…the fans…” Y/N trails off, letting her unfinished thoughts hang limply in the air. 

It’s quiet between the couple for no more than thirty seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. Harry breaks it first - he always does. He inhaled a deep shaky breath, trying to call forward the breathing techniques his therapist taught him to use in high-stress situations. Right now counts as a high-stress situation. 

“You’re right, angel,” the pet name slips off his tongue easily which comforts Y/N. Harry’s not as upset as she thought he was. He’s still her Harry. “That’s not fair of me, is it?”

All Y/N can do is shake her head, lower lip jutted out. She knows if she tries speaking she’ll start crying, and she doesn't want to cry. All she wants is for Harry to understand. Harry however, knows her too well. He knows the look she gets on her face when she's trying really hard not to cry and he knows she goes silent because she doesn't trust her voice not to come out shakey. He decides to continue talking.

“I should've called you and let you know I’d be late- or told you we needed to reschedule. I’m sorry I left you hanging, darling.” He pauses, selecting his next words very wisely. Harry knows his wife is sensitive. The last thing he wants is for her to think he's blaming her for anything. “...but it seems like this is about more than me missing our lunch. Which, again, I'm very sorry about. I'm taking you wherever you want for dinner tonight and I'll make you dessert when we get home. Let's talk more about this though, yeah?”

“You also have to be in charge of picking up after Hershey for a month,” Y/N responds with a small smile on her face. Hershey was the couple’s tiny brown poodle who was the cutest puppy in the world. “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums, knowing his wife was trying to keep the conversation lighthearted since she hated confrontation. Since being with Harry her communication skills have improved tremendously since he was so good at it and wanted to talk about everything, but healthy communication clearly still didn't come as easily to her. “Talk to me, angel. What’s this about?”

Harry’s in front of her now, arms wrapped limply around her waist. He walks her backward until the small of her back hits the counter then he tells her to, “jump” so he can lift her onto the counter. Once she's situated he settles himself in between her legs and places his arms back on their place on her waist. Harry looks intently into Y/N’s eyes and she knows she won’t be leaving that spot until she tells him what's bothering her, so she just says it.

“I want a baby.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows in quick surprise before breaking out in a wide grin- the kind that causes his nose to scrunch up and wrinkles to form around his eyes. 

“You want a baby? W’ me?”

Y/N doesn’t return his smile, which quickly makes Harry’s turn into a frown.

“Why don’t you look happy?”

Y/N sighs, her eyes avoiding Harry’s. He gently places his index finger under her chin and pushes it up, forcing her to look into his eyes. He’s desperately searching his wife’s eyes, trying to figure out why she isn’t more excited about coming to this big decision. Harry has been ready for years of course, but he never wanted her to feel pressured.

“You’re never here, Harry. I don’t want to feel like a single mom.” Y/N looks down again and Harry doesn’t lift her chin back up this time. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. It’s silent for what feels like a couple minutes but is actually maybe only twenty seconds, the faucet leaking being the only sound heard throughout the whole house.

“Y/N…love,” Harry inhales a shaky breath, removing one of his hands from her hip to run his fingers through his curls. “I never want to make you feel like you’re alone. Not just with this, but…with anything.” Harry gently knuckles away a stray tear falling down Y/N’s cheek. 

“I know you don’t mean to make me feel this way, H. I guess it’s just what I signed up for when I married a popstar, yeah?” Harry can tell Y/N is trying to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t like that he’s the reason for he feeling this way.

“You didn’t “sign up” for anything, love. I’m your husband and you’re my wife and we’re supposed to be there for each other through it all, good and bad.” Y/N opens her mouth to say something but Harry gently pinches her hip, muttering for her to let him finish. “I want a baby with you. I want everything with you, Y/N. I want to be here for everything. I’m going to be better about being here.”

“H…I love you and I know you’ll try, but you’ve said this before-”

“I’ll take a break, babe. Cancel everything,” Harry’s talking faster now, excitement about his plan evident in his voice. “We’ll focus on ourselves and start our family. Go out of the country and leave my bloody phone here, if you’d like.” Y/N giggles at that, which makes Harry give her a big, dimpled grin.

“Will it be okay? With Jeff and everyone?” Although Y/N’s sure people on Harry’s team won’t be happy with his sudden change in plans, she can’t deny how charming the idea sounds. She could already picture them at their favorite villa in Italy, the one Harry purchased as a wedding gift to her and where they spent their unforgettable honeymoon. In all honesty, she’s surprised they didn’t get a baby out of that trip.

“Let me worry about that. You just worry about buying yourself some new bikinis, yeah?” Harry places a lingering kiss to Y/N’s jawbone. “Perhaps a few things for me to rip off you too, hmm?”

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

hooray for happy endings :')

[reidmarieprentiss]

Unauthorized Documentary 1.0

Summary: The next installment of Matthew Gray Gubler is filming his untitled documentary, everyone hates it (not really).

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, crude humor (16+)

Warnings/Includes: talks of sexual harassment, women feeling unsafe on set (for the bit)

Word count: 3.4k

a/n: i need him to be inappropriate and weird with me

main masterlist 0.5

The camera opens on you and Shemar huddled near the side of a trailer, both of you keeping your voices low as you glance around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. You were partially hidden behind the trailer, your body angled like you were trying to disappear into the shadows.

“AJ said that?” you asked in a hushed tone, your eyes wide with shock. Your disbelief was clear as you leaned closer to Shemar, your expression a mix of concern and outrage.

Shemar nodded, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face grim. “Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice steady but heavy with frustration. “Apparently, he’s still harassing her. She said that cocky motherfucker dropped his files on purpose, just so he could get a good look at her ass.”

Your mouth fell open in stunned silence, your shock rendering you momentarily speechless. Finally, you found your voice, though it came out in a disbelieving whisper. “What kind of sick freak does that? Is AJ okay? Does she need to talk to someone? HR? Like, what the hell?”

Shemar shrugged slightly but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “She seemed pretty shaken up,” he admitted, his voice softening slightly. “She even mentioned not wanting to do scenes with him anymore. Said it’s been happening for weeks now, but she didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

“That’s a huge deal,” you said firmly, your hands gesturing wildly before dropping to your sides. You glanced over your shoulder instinctively, lowering your voice even further. “No one should have to deal with that bullshit. Especially not her.”

“Exactly,” Shemar agreed, his tone sharper now. “But you know AJ—she doesn’t wanna stir the pot unless she absolutely has to. She’s probably worried about how it’ll look, you know, with everyone watching her all the time.”

You frowned deeply, shaking your head. “That’s not right. She shouldn’t have to keep quiet just because some creep doesn’t know how to act. If he’s making her uncomfortable, someone needs to shut him down. Immediately.”

Shemar nodded in appreciation, his jaw tightening. “You think you can talk to her?” he asked after a moment. She trusts you, and maybe… I don’t know—hearing it from you will help her feel like she doesn’t have to handle it alone.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’ll talk to her. And if that doesn’t work, we’re going straight to HR. Screw that guy.”

The camera lingered for a beat longer, capturing the silent agreement between the two of you, before fading out.

—

The next time the camera catches you, you and AJ are sitting on a bench behind one of the sets, deep in conversation. AJ’s body language is tense, her shoulders hunched forward as she nervously picks at the corner of her script. Her sigh is heavy, filled with frustration and exhaustion.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” AJ confesses, her voice low and wavering slightly. She glances around to ensure no one is within earshot before continuing. “I tell him to stop, beg him to cut it out. I even tried to bribe him, Y/N—bribe him!” She pauses, her voice dropping even further. “And you know what he said?”

You throw your head back with an exaggerated groan, your hand flying to your forehead as if bracing for impact. “Oh god,” you reply dramatically, your tone laced with dread. “What did he say?”

AJ leans in closer, her eyes darting around once more before whispering in a barely audible voice, “He asked if I run to work… because riding in a car wouldn’t make me look like this.”

For a moment, you’re completely still, processing the sheer audacity of the comment. Then your jaw drops, and you let out a strangled, disbelieving laugh. “What?!” you hiss, your eyes wide as saucers. “Are you kidding me?”

AJ shakes her head, her lips pressed tightly as she mutters, “I wish I was.”

You sit back, your hands flying up in exasperation. “That’s not just creepy, that’s—ugh—so gross! What the hell is wrong with him?”

AJ nods miserably, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I just feel so… powerless, you know? Like, no matter what I say, he just finds new ways to make me uncomfortable.”

“Hey, heyyy, ladies,” a familiar voice calls out, breaking the tension like nails on a chalkboard. You and AJ both turn your heads slightly, just in time to see Matthew strolling around the corner, his trademark grin plastered across his face.

AJ immediately stiffens, her body going rigid as her discomfort becomes obvious. Neither of you respond, and the air between the three of you is heavy with unspoken words.

Matthew stops a few feet away, glancing between the two of you. “What’s with the silent treatment, girls?” he asks, his voice dripping with mock hurt. “Are you not happy to see me?”

AJ looks at you out of the corner of her eye, her lips pressing into a thin line. You meet her gaze briefly, sharing an unspoken agreement to let the silence speak for itself.

Matthew, oblivious as ever, chuckles to himself and tries again. “Oh, I get it,” he says, his face lighting up with a theatrical smile. “You were talking about me.”

Neither of you respond, but AJ’s eyes narrow slightly as her discomfort grows. Undeterred, Matthew dramatically places a hand over his heart and lets out a laugh. “Please, please, proceed,” he says, bowing deeply and sweeping one arm in a grand, over-the-top gesture as though giving you permission to continue.

AJ shifts uncomfortably, her eyes darting anywhere but at him. You cross your arms and level a look at Matthew, but before you can say anything, he straightens up and spins on his heel, still grinning. “Ladies, I’ll leave you to it!” he calls over his shoulder as he saunters off, humming to himself like he hasn’t a care in the world.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, you and AJ exchange a look again, this time with mutual disbelief.

“Is he for real?” you whisper, shaking your head.

AJ sighs, exhaling a long breath she’d been holding. “I don’t even know anymore,” she mutters, her voice laced with frustration.

—

“I just don’t know what to do,” a producer muttered under his breath, unaware that a camera was rolling just around the corner.

Another high-up, standing beside him with arms crossed, nodded solemnly. “It’s not like we can just replace Reid’s character…” He hesitated for a moment before adding, almost as an afterthought, “I guess we could kill him off.”

The first producer groaned, running a hand through his hair. “He’s just so popular,” he lamented, clearly torn.

“But everyone hates Matthew,” the other responded flatly.

Silence hung between them for a moment as the weight of the problem settled. The only sound was the faint chatter of crew members in the distance.

Finally, the first producer exhaled sharply. “God, I wish we could just keep Reid but—”

“Lose Matthew,” the second finished dryly, nodding in agreement.

The two shared a long, tired look before shaking their heads. Neither had a solution, but the mutual suffering was palpable.

From behind the camera, someone muffled a laugh. The producer closest to the camera snapped his head toward the sound, eyes narrowing. “Wait… was that rolling?”

A brief shuffle. A cough. Then—

Static.

—

The scene picks up later in Matthew's trailer. The camera finds him sprawled across the couch in the most dramatic pose imaginable, one arm thrown over his forehead as if he's in the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. A half-empty bag of gummy worms rests on his chest.

“They're trying to kill me," he groans, voice thick with betrayal.

From behind the camera, someone—probably a PA who's been assigned to monitor his antics—clears their throat. “They said they were thinking about killing off Reid—not you.”

Matthew sits up so fast that gummy worms go flying. “I am Reid,” he insists, pointing at himself. “They can’t separate us. I made him.” He pauses for dramatic effect before whispering, “He is me.”

A heavy silence. Then—

“I mean,” the PA starts, unsure if they should be engaging in this conversation, “I think they were just, like… spitballing ideas. You’re, uh, really popular with fans.”

Matthew squints suspiciously, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“…But everyone hates you.”

Matthew lets out an offended gasp, clutching his chest. “What?!”

The PA, clearly regretting their entire existence, winces. “I mean, not me! Obviously. Just… you know, other people.”

Matthew stares, eyes narrowed. He seems to be calculating something, or perhaps deciding if this is the moment he fakes his own disappearance and reinvents himself as a reclusive artist in the French countryside. Then, abruptly, he leaps to his feet.

“Okay. Fine. If they’re gonna try to Game of Thrones me, then I’m gonna give them no choice but to love me,” he declares, pacing the trailer like a man possessed. “I’ll be the greatest employee this show has ever seen. I’ll be humble. I’ll be professional. I’ll—” He spins on his heel. “I’ll make AJ a cake.”

The PA tilts their head. “Why… why AJ?”

“She’s the only one who still tolerates me,” Matthew admits, shrugging. “Barely.”

Before the PA can respond, Matthew grabs his coat and storms toward the door, his face set with determination.

“Where are you going?” the PA asks.

“To fix my image,” Matthew says dramatically, yanking open the trailer door.

The moment he steps outside, he immediately trips over a production cable and crashes to the ground.

Silence.

From the ground, his voice muffled, he groans, “Did anyone see that?”

The camera zooms in slowly.

Cut to black.

—

The camera cuts to AJ standing near the craft services table, arms crossed as Matthew proudly holds out a lumpy, misshapen cake on a flimsy paper plate. The frosting is uneven, slathered on in thick, chaotic strokes, and a few gummy worms are inexplicably sticking out from the side like decorations. It looks more like a failed science experiment than an edible dessert.

“Uh… thanks, Matthew,” AJ says slowly, her voice laced with deep suspicion as she cautiously takes the cake from his outstretched hands. She eyes it like it might explode.

Matthew beams, completely unfazed. “You’re welcome! I just wanted to do something nice for you, you know? As an apology for any… minor inconveniences I may or may not have caused in the past.”

AJ glances at you, who is standing just off to the side, watching the exchange with barely contained amusement. You shoot her a look that screams What the hell is happening?

She looks back at the cake. “Is this… edible?”

Matthew gasps, clutching his chest in offense. “Wow. Hurtful. I slaved over this.”

You snort. “You literally walked past craft services and asked, ‘Hey, can I borrow some ingredients?’”

Matthew glares at you but quickly snaps back to AJ, his hands clasped together like he’s expecting a glowing review. “I made it with love.”

AJ pokes at the cake hesitantly. The texture is questionable at best. “What… uh… what’s in it?”

Matthew waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, just, you know… eggs, sugar, flour, uh—” He pauses, thinking. “And a little bit of creativity.”

AJ and you both stare at him.

“…What does that mean?” AJ asks flatly.

Matthew doesn’t blink. “It means that I forgot to measure everything, so I just felt it out.”

AJ immediately pulls the cake back at arm’s length. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fine!” Matthew insists. “It’s rustic! It’s artisanal!”

You lean in, eyeing the cake. “Dude… is that pasta in there?”

Matthew blinks. “Oh, huh. I did grab the wrong box at one point.”

AJ shoves the plate back into his hands. “Matthew, I love you, but there is absolutely no way I am putting that anywhere near my mouth.”

Matthew pouts dramatically. “Wow. So ungrateful.”

You put a hand over your mouth, barely holding back laughter. “I think the real apology would be never talking to her again.”

The camera zooms in on Matthew’s face as he stares at the cake, looking genuinely confused as to why this heartfelt gesture wasn’t an overwhelming success.

—

The camera opens on your office, where you're seated at your desk, eyes locked on your computer screen as you type away, clearly occupied with something actually important. The door creaks open, and without looking up, you already know who it is.

“Y/N…” Matthew drawls dramatically as he steps inside, hands stuffed into his pockets, his expression unreadable.

You don’t bother glancing up. “What, Gubler?”

Matthew closes the door behind him and leans against it, clearly building up to something. “Did you, uh… hear the rumors?”

You finally pause, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. “About what?” you ask, still not looking at him.

He hesitates. “You know… me.”

Now, that gets your attention. You glance up at him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “What? That you eat children? That you think you’re actually related to Shemar? Or—” you pause for dramatic effect, tilting your head, “—that you have a tiny penis?”

Matthew gasps as if you’ve just hit him with a physical object. His hands fly to his chest, fingers splayed out like you’ve personally wounded his soul. “Wow. Wow, Y/N,” he says, shaking his head. “I come in here vulnerable, seeking comfort in my darkest hour, and you—” he gestures wildly in your direction “—you slander me like this?”

You fight the urge to smirk. “Oh, so it is about the tiny penis thing.”

Matthew lets out an exaggerated groan and collapses dramatically onto the chair across from your desk. “No! It’s about the other rumor! The one about how everyone hates me and wants to kill off Reid!”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, Matt, I heard. What, you think I’d miss an opportunity to witness your inevitable downfall firsthand?”

Matthew shoots upright in his seat. “Okay, first of all—rude.” He crosses his arms. “Second, don’t you think it’s a little unfair? I mean, sure, I may be a bit… eccentric—”

“You wore a cape to set last week.”

“—but that’s part of my charm!” he insists, ignoring your interjection entirely. “You like my antics! You laugh at my jokes! You secretly love me!”

You deadpan. “I tolerate you, at best.”

Matthew clutches his heart again. “You wound me, truly.”

You sigh, finally setting your computer aside to give him your full attention. “Listen, Matthew. No one actually wants to kill you. And no one actually hates you—or at least not a lot.”

“AJ literally refused to eat my apology cake.”

“Because you put pasta in it, Matthew!”

He opens his mouth to argue, then quickly closes it, realizing he has no defense. He slumps forward instead, resting his chin in his hands. “So… you don’t think they’ll actually kill off Reid?”

You consider this for a moment, leaning back with a thoughtful hum. “Well… I wouldn’t rule it out completely.”

Matthew gasps again, his eyes wide with betrayal. “Y/N!”

You smirk. “I’m just saying. If I were you, I’d start sucking up to the producers now.”

The camera zooms in on Matthew’s face, which is now frozen in a look of absolute horror.

—

On a quiet corner of the set, Shemar and Lola are casually leaning against a table near craft services, seemingly unaware that they’re being recorded. The lighting is slightly dim, and the conversation is hushed as if they’re discussing something they shouldn’t be.

“Did you hear they wanna get rid of that scrawny-ass hipster?” Shemar mutters, taking a sip from his coffee cup, his tone laced with amusement.

Lola snorts, shaking her head as she picks up a snack from the table. “Yeah, and honestly? Couldn’t come soon enough.” She lets out a deep, exhausted sigh before adding, “Maybe then the set would stop feeling like one of the damn crime scenes.”

Shemar chuckles, nodding in agreement. “Right? Every time I turn a corner, he’s just… there. Lurking. Watching. Doing some weird-ass bit that no one asked for.”

Lola shudders dramatically. “I swear to God, last week I found him in a dark hallway just staring at the wall. When I asked what the hell he was doing, he said he was ‘practicing emanating a mysterious aura.’”

Shemar almost spits out his coffee. “Man, I tolerate that idiot, but damn—he makes it so hard sometimes.”

Lola groans, rubbing her temple. “Yeah, and don’t even get me started on the time he ‘haunted’ his own trailer because he wanted to see if he could get it declared an official ghost site.”

They both break into laughter, shaking their heads at the absurdity of it all.

Suddenly, the sound of a distant gasp is heard. The camera immediately swings around to reveal Matthew standing a few feet away, frozen in place, his hands clasped over his mouth in pure horror.

“You betrayed me,” he whispers dramatically.

Shemar and Lola exchange a glance, unfazed.

“Bro, how long have you been standing there?” Shemar asks, raising an eyebrow.

Matthew’s lips tremble as he slowly points at them. “I trusted you,” he croaks as if they’ve just committed the ultimate crime against him. “I thought we were friends.”

Lola shrugs, taking a bite of her snack. “Well, you are creepy as hell.”

Matthew lets out a strangled noise, clutching his chest like he’s about to collapse. “I—I have to go,” he stammers before dramatically turning on his heel and sprinting out of frame.

Shemar sighs, shaking his head as he watches him flee. “He’s gonna be so much worse now, isn’t he?”

Lola sighs deeply. “Oh yeah. A hundred percent.”

The camera lingers for a moment, capturing their shared look of exhausted resignation before fading to black.

—

With the cameras put away and most of the crew leaving for the day, the energy on set had finally shifted into something more relaxed. The sound of laughter echoed down the hallway as AJ and Matthew strolled into your office, still grinning from whatever ridiculous conversation they’d just been having.

“That was hilarious, by the way,” Matthew said, bumping his shoulder into AJ’s like an overly affectionate younger brother.

“Thanks!” AJ beamed, clearly proud of herself. “I knew it would be funny! Plus, you openly admitted to doing that whole file trick before you asked out Y/N.”

From your desk, you froze mid-motion, your head snapping toward them as a delighted, mischievous grin spread across your face. “What?!” you gasped, giddy with amusement.

Matthew’s face turned an immediate shade of pink, his smug energy from earlier vanishing instantly. “Thanks, AJ,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed chuckle.

“Anytime,” AJ smirked, clearly enjoying this way too much. She patted him on the shoulder before turning back to you. “Y/N, can you still give me a ride home? My car is still in the shop.”

“Of course!” you said, already gathering your things.

“Shotgun!”

The exclamation came simultaneously from both AJ and Matthew, their voices overlapping like two siblings fighting over the best seat in the family car.

You snorted, shaking your head as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “AJ wins.”

Matthew’s mouth fell open in pure, unfiltered betrayal. “Babe,” he gaped, gesturing wildly at you. “What the hell?”

AJ cackled in triumph, already making a beeline for the door. “Sucks to suck, Gubler.”

“I thought we had a thing,” Matthew whined, dramatically clutching his chest as if your decision had physically wounded him.

You shrugged, suppressing a laugh as you locked your office door behind you. “Thing?”

“This is favoritism,” Matthew huffed, following you both out to the parking lot, still sulking like a child who just lost a game of rock-paper-scissors. “I thought you loved me.”

AJ, already getting into the front seat, rolled down the window just to rub it in. “Guess you should’ve let her drop some files in front of you first, huh?”

You burst into laughter while Matthew let out a deeply dramatic groan, slumping against the side of the car.

“Worst. Day. Ever,” he declared to no one in particular as you got into the driver’s seat.

The camera would’ve zoomed in on his sulking face… if it were still rolling.

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

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[arvandus]

FICS FOR GAZA

Hello everyone, I've decided to join the @ficsforgaza fundraiser. I've had a couple people express interest, and I think that every little bit helps. I will be offering WIP donations as well as drabble requests.

Donations are to be submitted to a vetted fundraiser. Do NOT send donations directly to me or to @ficsforgaza. Once you have completed the donation, send me a private screenshot of proof of the donation. Once I receive proof, I will update my WIP and request list and begin writing!

If you have any questions about the donation process, please view the pinned post for @ficsforgaza. If you have questions about the WIPs or requests, please reach out to me.

Total funds raised (after dollar conversions) : $73.29 USD

REQUESTS

$2 donation = 100 words

1k word maximum ($20 donation)

Send me a character/characters and a dialogue prompt, trope, or just an overall idea that's been plaguing your brain lately and I'll write a short drabble/ficlet for you!

Fandoms I will write for: BNHA, Obey Me!, Wind Breaker, JJK, Haikyuu, Blue Lock, Black Butler, AOT, Bleach, Tokyo Revengers, Bungo Stray Dogs

Characters I will write for: Any! Bring it on, I love a challenge.

Will write: x reader (any gender), character ships, OCs, aged-up characters; SFW/NSFW, dark content (noncon/dubcon, yandere, etc). NSFW & dark content requests must provide proof of being 18 or older (request made off anon with age indicator in your tumblr bio). Note: If you want to make a NSFW/dark content request but remain publicly anonymous, send me a private message OR the same request off anon so I can verify. I will respond to your request using only the anon submission once you're verified.

Will not write: pedophilia; NSFW minors (even if no adult character is involved); anything involving bodily fluids that aren't saliva, tears, or blood; eggs, oviposition; a/b/o. If you're unsure about your request, you can message me privately and I'll be happy to answer, no judgment. :)

REQUESTS COMPLETED:

The Art of Looking (Haruka Sakura x f!OC)

REQUESTS PENDING:

Picture Perfect (Haruka Sakura x f!OC)

Sponsored: 1,000

Completed: 1,832

WIPs

This list is extensive but by no means complete (I have many more ideas but they haven't been started yet). Here's to hoping your support will help me to clear some of these out of my drafts. :)

$1 donation = 100 words

No donation limit!

OBEY ME

The Confessions of Flowers (Barbatos x GN!Reader) - oneshot; SFW; fluff; friends to lovers

Synopsis: You and Barbatos exchange gifts of flowers and herbs as a way to communicate your feelings to each other.

Current WC: 971

Estimated Total WC: 1,500

Sponsored WC: 0/529

Love and Duty - Chapter 2 (Barbatos x f!Reader) - multichapter; SFW (for now); one-sided fake dating; Barb catches feelings (eventually)

Continuation of my multichapter Barb fic. Chapter 1 can be found here.

Current WC: 3,796

Estimated Total WC: 7,000

Sponsored WC: 0/3,204

Just A Game (Barbatos x f!Reader) - oneshot; NSFW; predator/prey; consensual non-con.

Synopsis: It was your idea. You were the one who asked Barbatos to play this game, to hunt you throughout the empty castle while the prince is away. But you didn't expect him to be this good at it.

Current WC: 347

Estimated Total WC: 4,000

Sponsored WC: 0/3,653

Untitled oneshot (Mammon x f!Reader) - oneshot; NSFW; hurt/comfort; car sex

Synopsis: Mammon has had it with the teasing and bullying at his expense. But at least he has one person in his corner - you. You, who tells off his brothers. You who seeks him out. And you who finds him sitting alone by himself in his car.

Current WC: 1883

Estimated Total WC: 3,000-4,000

Sponsored WC: 0/2,117

A Formal Affair (Barbatos x f!Reader x Diavolo) - oneshot; NSFW; public sex but away from prying eyes and ears; casual sexual arrangement; threesome with focus on Reader (reader sandwich!); size kink; anal; oral; questionable uses for a tail... who knows what else, I just go where the hormones tell me.

Synopsis: A formal date with Diavolo to a classical performance, with Barbatos in tow as his loyal shadow, devolves into a night of pleasure and sin that you never expected.

Current WC: 2,892

Estimated Total WC: 8,000

Sponsored WC: 0/5,108

BLACK BUTLER

Blood-bound (Sebastian Michaelis x f!Reader) - oneshot; NSFW; toxic/dark themes; enemies to lovers (but still enemies); blood feeding/drinking, bandages, injuries, rough handling.

Synopsis: The was no one you hated more than Sebastian Michaelis. He was arrogant, sinister, manipulative... and, the most obvious reason, a fucking demon. Which made it all the more infuriating when you woke up to your fatal wounds sealed shut and a hot, raging fire of desire coursing through your veins. A desire that only burned for one arrogant, sinister, manipulative demon.

Current WC: 9,139

Estimated Total WC: 13,000

Sponsored WC: 0/3,861

BNHA

Dabi Christmas Special (Dabi x GN!Reader) - oneshot; SFW; fluff.

Synopsis: You've been repairing Dabi's clothes for him, strengthening their fire resistance with your quirk, for months now. But you never expected him to show up on Christmas Eve, of all nights.

Current WC: 680

Estimated Total WC: 1,500 - 2,000

Sponsored WC: 0/1,320

Tethered (Dabi x f!Reader) - oneshot; NSFW; weed & alcohol consumption; Dabi's an asshole but he's hot.

Synopsis: Insomnia is nothing new for you. It's nothing new for Dabi, either. It's why he's already sitting at the hideout's bar drinking his memories away when you show up for your own night cap. You think nothing of it... just another night of bantering and sarcasm. That is, until he makes you an offer you didn't expect.

Current WC: 6,794

Estimated Total WC: 8,000

Sponsored WC: 500/1,712

Total Sponsored Completed: 500/500

The Fall (Overhaul x f!Reader) - oneshot (two parter that will be posted simultaneously); childhood friends to lovers; angst; violence; eventual NSFW in later parts; yandere undertones as things progress.

Synopsis: You'd known Kai Chisaki since that fateful day you saw him, young and filthy, enter the Shie Hassaikai grounds on the heels of the Boss. Over time, a tentative bond between the two of you formed, growing stronger as you got older. But it wasn't enough to keep the young man from spiraling, losing himself in his obsession of purging the world of quirks. After all, he was doing it for you. He was doing it all for you.

Current WC: 9,355

Estimated Total WC: 20,000

Sponsored WC: 2,700/10,645

Total Sponsored Completed: 0/2,700

Cat and Mouse (Bakugou x f!Reader) - oneshot; NSFW; enemies to lovers; hero vs. villain.

Synopsis: Bakugou prides himself on his ability to stop any villain in their tracks. His record is impeccable, his reputation flawless. That is, until he crosses paths with you, a cat burglar with a quirk that always leaves him three steps behind. Oh, it also doesn't help that you drive him absolutely, utterly wild.

Current WC: 2,603

Estimated Total WC: 6,000 (hopefully?)

Sponsored WC: 0/3,397

Protector (title is tentative) (Bakugou x f!Reader) - oneshot; angst, hurt/comfort; love confession; NSFW

Synopsis: Bakugou's one job was to protect you. You weren't supposed to get hurt. But you did, and now he had to deal with the fallout. It calls into question everything he thought and felt about you. He thought he hated you. He thought you were a pain in the ass. And he thought he couldn't wait for this fucking assignment to be over. But the threat of loss, he realized, hurt more than the threat of failure. And coming so close to losing you has him rethinking every assumption he'd ever made. If only he could figure out what you were thinking. If only he could understand why you jumped in a protected him.

Current WC: 120

Estimated Total WC: 5,000

Sponsored WC: 0/4,880

Untitled oneshot (Aizawa x f!Reader) - oneshot; established relationship; NSFW; somnophilia (consensual)

Synopsis: A heavy work day leaves you exhausted and drained. Luckily for you, you have Aizawa waiting for you at home with the promise of a much-needed massage. Unfortunately, it's impossible for you to stay awake once you're in the comfort of your bed and you have his warm, rough hands on you... but that doesn't stop him from loving every inch of you.

Current WC: 2,053

Estimated Total WC: 4,000

Sponsored WC: 600/1,947

Total Sponsored Completed: 0/600

JJK

The Ties That Bind - Chapter 1 (Inumaki x f!Reader) - multichapter; arranged marriage; canon adjacent future AU; slowburn; pining; hurt/comfort; mild enemies to lovers.

Synopsis: Inumaki didn't want this. He didn't want any of this. But his loyalty to his clan, and the potential fallout if he refused, forced his hand. Now he's bound for marriage to a total stranger all in an attempt to preserve the Gojo clan bloodline and keep the Six Eyes technique from extinction. The only problem is, you don't want to be here either. And neither of you want to have children.

Current WC: 4,584

Estimated Total WC (for chapter 1): 7,000

Sponsored WC: 0/2,416

A Promise To The Dead - Chapter 1 (Gojo x f!Reader) - multichapter fic; Nanami's widow!Reader; pregnant!Reader; canon divergence; childbirth and child-rearing; angst; drama; JJK politics; slowburn; pining; friends to lovers; violence & NSFW in future chapters

Synopsis: Nanami was never supposed to marry, but he did anyway. He was never supposed to have children, but here you were, belly round and filled with life. And Nanami was never ever supposed to die. Now it was Gojo who was left to pick up the pieces, trying to force them together into something believable, something you would accept. Because Nanami never told you what he really was. He never told you about the world of curses and sorcerers. He did it to protect you, of course... to keep you and his unborn child far away from violence and death. But Gojo knew better. He knew that there was no way to keep it from you forever. And when your child's sorcerer abilities manifest at the age of five, he's forced to take you and your child in. It doesn't matter that you hate him. It doesn't matter that you blame him for your late husband's death. And it doesn't matter that a deep, secret part of him has wanted you since the very beginning. Because he made a promise a long time ago that if anything were to happen to Nanami, that Gojo would make sure you were protected and provided for. And Gojo cannot not bring himself to break a promise with the dead.

Current WC: 396

Estimated Total WC: 8,000

Sponsored WC: 0/7,604

[nishimuramp4]

untitled #2

synopsis: you're the one responsible for riki's ostracization in school. but after you catch your boyfriend cheating, it's him you use for comfort.

content warnings: dubcon veering towards noncon, public sex, humiliation

wc: 3.5k!

it wasn’t like you had hated him from the start. on the contrary, when riki had walked into homeroom in october, a month after the school year had started, you had actually found him attractive enough. he was tall, with pouty lips, a scowl that you would soon learn was permanent, and dark hair that fell into his eyes. his eyes, which you couldn’t stand. their gaze was disconcerting; they held a quiet sort of power, a hidden well of dominance. it made your skin crawl. 

you had watched him from the back of the classroom. the tables in your classroom were clustered into tables of six. you and your friends always took the back of any room, so you could get away with sneaking a hit of the ubiquitous vape that got passed around. riki, after mumbling his name to you all with his head bowed, had shuffled to one of the empty seats at the front. 

“new kid’s not bad,” yiyeon had said. she twirled a mechanical pencil between her fingers, her eyes running over the back of his head. 

“he needs to get his ass on the basketball team,” sungho had said, garnering a few chuckles from the others. your boyfriend, heeseung, didn’t say a word. he was sitting beside you. he, too, was staring at the new kid. unlike yiyeon, his curiosity stemmed from a source you recognized well. insecurity. a transfer student with handsome features, height that rivaled heeseung, a low, rumbly voice, and the faint beginnings of self-assurance. 

you had snapped into action quickly. “he’s all right,” you had said, glancing at heeseung for approval. he was still unmoving, eyebrows creased in annoyance. unwilling to let things continue, you had scoured your desk. finding a small white eraser, you waited until the teacher had their back turned to the class before throwing it at riki’s head. he rubbed the spot, reached down, picked up the eraser, examined it. it had bothered you that he didn’t immediately turn around to see who it was. 

finally, riki slowly looked behind him, one hand still on his head. you gave him a sarcastic smile and a little wave, which finally made heeseung laugh. “careful,” heeseung had said, ruffling your hair, “he’ll get a crush on you.”

“please,” you said, emphasizing the pronunciation of your words so riki could read your lips. “incel over there wishes.”

sungho slapped the table, fighting off a laugh. “he does look like an incel,” he had said, gesturing at riki. “school shooter-looking ass.” riki had been wearing a large black hoodie over a pair of camo pants that day. you remembered it well. 

“school shooter,” lee, a girl you vaguely suspected was trying to steal your man, said with an overly effusive laugh. “he really does, though.”

heeseung had grinned at you as though you had made the joke, and you beamed at him. riki had turned back around, head hunched and shoulders bent. 

you hadn’t intended on bullying him, necessarily. things just happened that way. he happened to have the locker near yours, so you would tell him to eat shit and threaten to slam his face into the metal. he happened to share the same gym class as your boyfriend, so you’d break into his locker and cut holes into his uniform. apparently he was broke, like a lot of the students here were, so he had to walk around wearing tattered clothes. how were you supposed to know? 

the incel comments weren’t your fault, either. you had made the first move, but riki perpetuated it by always wearing baggy clothes, lumbering down the hallway with his headphones over his pierced ears, by mumbling when he spoke. 

once, you had tossed your milk container on the contents of his locker. you had had a shitty day, and your friends were all busy that lunch break, so you had been wandering the halls aimlessly. now you got to see riki’s hands lock up, his mouth gaping as he stared at his soiled belongings. 

“it’ll reek,” you had said, crunching the carton in your hands and tossing it inside his locker. it landed on his wet school binders. “you’re used to smelling like shit, so this should be nothing to you.”

riki’s lip had trembled, but not out of fear. no, this was the indignance of a child that had been spanked, knowing that an injustice had been dealt but lacking the strength to do a thing about it. “why do you do this?” it was rare for riki to speak, so hearing his gravelly voice surprised you. you masked it with an easygoing shrug. 

“why not?” you had replied breezily. 

“why me?” his voice had a cloying, pleading tone that warmed you to your bones. it pleased you so much, you nearly reached out to pinch his cheek. then he looked at you, and his eyes frightened you. there was that steely resilience again, that iciness underneath a countenance best described as “simpering.” it disturbed you, enough that you took an imperceptive step back. 

“because,” you had said. “i just don’t like you.”

riki had looked up to the ceiling, biting his lip, before looking down at you again. “you don’t even know me.”

“don’t need to,” you had said, wiping a drop of milk that had landed on your sleeve. 

students streamed by the two of you, ignoring the spectacle. for the better. you hated an audience. it was heeseung who liked to have all eyes on him, who liked to command attention, assert himself. you were comfortable being his girlfriend, lavishing in the privilege of getting to blend in. people were like nails: if they stuck out, they needed to be hammered into submission. 

“you’ll get yours,” riki had said softly, crouching down to examine his binders. the surety with which he said the words disturbed you, so you slammed the locker beside his, just to see him flinch. 

“you keep believing that,” you had said. “you keep believing that bad things happen to bad people. childish dumb-fuck.”

“they do,” riki said, and you resisted the overwhelming desire to wrench some of his hair into your hands, twist it, make him scream, make him cry. you couldn’t make a scene. heeseung would hear about it, anyways. 

instead, you crouched to riki’s level. “then you must be a bad person,” you had said. “bad things just keep happening to you, huh?” 

there was a small droplet of milk resting on his lip, stray spray from the carton you had thrown. he had noticed you staring at his mouth and wiped it off himself. “like i said, you don’t know anything about me.”

“ooh,” you had said, mockingly raising your hands in the air. “look out. tough guy riki.” riki stood up, having finished his assessment of his binder, and you realized just how tall he was. you quickly scrambled to your feet. “see you around.” with a final bang on his locker, you had left, the memory of his stare lingering in your head. 

of course, you loved bothering him. there was something satisfying about seeing a guy so tall, so broad, flinching when you threw something at him. when you walked by him, you reveled in the way he would avert his gaze, awaiting the next cruel taunt. it didn’t help that you were constantly flanked by your friend group, including heeseung. besides being tall, heeseung had long since developed a reputation at the school. the best parties were at his place, he organized the bonfires in the woods at the school, he had an older brother who could get his friends weed. being his girlfriend awarded you with social capital you wouldn’t have on your own.

which is why you almost fell apart when you walked into the parking lot after school and saw heeseung sucking face with lee against his car, a beat-up honda civic. a part of you wanted to confront him, but you knew that a public confrontation would turn into a private fight, and possibly a breakup. you didn’t know if you wanted to break up with him. the three of you had all had academic obligations which required you to stay later after school, so the plan was to finish up, have heeseung drive you to his place, pre-game, then go to a party at sungho’s. you had finished up a little earlier, so you had wanted to surprise heeseung. instead, you watched as your boyfriend of six months and a girl who had previously referred to you as her friend made out with each other in broad daylight.

spinning on your heel, you stormed into the school’s building, searching for a place to cry. you had to recollect yourself, find a way to regain control of yourself. the bathrooms were no good: at any given time, there was a cluster of girls in them smoking or vaping or passing around a plastic bottle of vodka. a teacher might come into an empty classroom, and the last thing you needed was to bare your soul to someone who loathed you as much as you did them. 

finally, you decided on the computer lab on the second floor. it was still open at this time, and it was very rarely occupied by other people. it was hardly a lab, a collection of 12 computer monitors organized into two rows, back to back, in a classroom tucked into a corner of the school. 

you spotted a mop of straight hair. riki.  of course he would try to hide out where no one could find him. he was drawing, using something on a computer screen as a reference. riki wasn’t the best in academics, and the ostracization from others had prevented him from ever getting involved in sports, but you could begrudgingly admit that he was a good artist. he was supposed to receive some stupid school award for it. 

the tears that had been threatening to spill mere moments before dissipated as you closed and locked the door behind you. riki looked up at the sound. you loved the way he cringed, tried to make himself seem smaller, shrinking himself in his chair. 

striding over towards him, you snatched up his sketchbook and flipped through it. unfortunately, there was nothing you could say about his art, so you would have to lie. “looks shit,” you said. maybe you could rip a few pieces out. instead, you put the book down on the table and scrutinized riki. he was looking at you warily, his sharp eyes analyzing your every move. 

“they’re not shit,” he said. 

“you wouldn’t know. you have bad taste in just about everything.”

riki must have been feeling pretty confident from that little award, because he met your gaze and said, “so do you.”

you walked closer to riki, who was sitting in the blue plastic chair. he straightened out his posture, hands clasped together. first heeseung, now riki was getting cocky on you? “and what makes you say that?”

“your boyfriend is pretty ugly,” he said, and his eyes widened like he couldn’t believe himself. 

your blood boiled. the disrespect towards your boyfriend, the reminder that he was hardly your boyfriend right now, the fact that riki thought he could say that to you. you grabbed his hair and yanked his face towards yours, relishing in his sudden fear. if he had maintained his new persona, you would have done something drastic. 

“you think you’re better than heeseung?” you hissed, jerking his head again. he yelped quietly. “answer. you think you’re better than heeseung?”

riki’s eyes were squeezed shut. all the better for it. “yeah,” he mumbled. “i do.”

still clutching his hair, you reached under your skirt and tugged your underwear. riki stared at your panties, jaw slack and eyes hazed over. you slipped them off and shoved them into your hoodie’s pocket. then you swung your leg up, resting your foot on the desk. “prove it. prove how much better you are.”

riki had this stupid look on his face. “what?”

you didn’t have the patience for it. you brought his face towards your pussy. “eat me out,” you said, “or i swear to god i’ll get heeseung and the others to jump your scrawny ass.”

riki tried to pull his head away, but you yanked at his scalp, eliciting another cry from him. “i don’t know how,” he said.

“first time seeing pussy? you really are an incel,” you said. the hand that wasn’t in riki’s hair rubbed at your clitoris. “you see this? you just have to lick this. it’s not rocket science.”

haltingly, riki’s pink tongue poked out before he retracted it and looked at you. “i’m not…i don’t…”

twisting his hair, you said, “do it or heeseung will fuck you up. that’s a promise.”

with a little whimper, riki kitten-licked your clit. it had been a while since heeseung had properly eaten you out, citing a lack of interest, so you were responding more to riki than you cared to admit. you couldn’t let riki catch wind of any pleasure you were deriving from this, so you clamped your mouth shut. still, every inexperienced lick caused frissons to dance through your body.

riki tentatively reached out to hold your hips in place, and you flinched as you felt his large hands on you. you thought about pulling his finger back so he would let go of you, but he licked your clit in just the right way and the thought escaped you. you bucked your hips into his mouth. “faster,” you ordered. 

he sped up, lapping at your clit. riki’s grip on your hips settled, and you bit back a moan. then riki pulled his head away from you, and you sputtered. “the fuck are you doing?” 

“am i doing it right?” absent-mindedly, he wiped some of your arousal off of his face with his sleeve. then he looked at the wet streak and frowned. 

you groaned in frustration and shoved his face towards your pussy again. “shut up.” 

riki returned to licking at your clit, experimenting this time. he flicked his tongue against the small nub, something you hadn’t even known you liked. “you watch a lot of porn?” he didn’t answer, thankfully, so you continued pressing your cunt into his face. “i bet you do. gross coomer, holed up in your fucking room.”

his tongue was wide and agile, and you almost hated yourself for how quickly your orgasm was approaching. you gritted your teeth and fixed your eyes on the top of riki’s head. if you looked away, you were admitting defeat. 

when you came, it was a full-body orgasm. waves of pleasure trickling from the center of your body down to your very fingertips.  “how does my pussy taste?” you taunted, blinking slowly so that the stars flooding your vision wouldn’t overtake you. it had been good, too good. you lifted your leg off of the table and straightened up, even though all you wanted to do was take a nap. 

riki’s face was coated in your arousal, and you found that the sheen complimented his pretty, plump lips well. “find out,” he said. he made a rough noise at the back of his throat, stood up, and spat in your face. 

you spluttered, wiping your face and smearing any liquids on his clothes. “are you fucking crazy?”

riki shrugged, rubbing your juices off of his face with his sleeve again. “maybe.” 

“i’ll kill you,” you said, stepping away from him. “i’ll fucking kill you.”

to your evergrowing annoyance, riki’s gaze was as imperceptible and cold as always.

you didn’t kill him. instead, you stewed about the incident for a week straight. heeseung was acting sheepish around you now, burying his head into your neck and giving you soft, warm little kisses. lee didn’t make eye contact with you, talking to you with such sycophantic fervor that even you felt embarrassed. annoying. if they were going to cheat, then do it wholeheartedly. 

you didn’t bother riki for the entire week, and you could tell it was starting to bother him. you would catch him glancing at you curiously before whipping his head away when he saw you pick up on his staring. freak probably got a crush on you after you made him eat you out. or maybe he thought you really would have heeseung jump him. it only served to benefit you. you had a surprise to give him at the assembly, and you wanted to catch him off-guard. 

the assembly was held in the school gym during homeroom. the students crammed in the bleachers, talking amongst themselves. normally, you would have skipped along with your friends, but you told them that you had to be there. you had given them your pissed-off face, so they had dropped the issue. 

while you filed out of the classroom with the rest of the students, you trailed behind riki. seemed like he was really proud of himself, between the accolade he was about to get and his act of defiance yesterday. when you entered the gym, you sidled next to him. he looked at you uneasily. 

“let’s sit together,” you said. it sounded innocent enough, but you knew that riki would understand the threat behind your words. his head whipped around the gymnasium, and without an escape plan, he sighed. 

“fine,” he said. “where?”

“back row,” you said, nodding your head at the far corner of the bleachers. you all but shoved him towards that spot, settling down beside him so that he was caged between the sides of the bleachers and you.

for the first fifteen minutes of the assembly, you hardly moved a muscle. the principal was talking about school announcements, a topic so banal your eyes would have glazed over had you not had revenge on your mind. creeping your fingers towards riki’s thigh, you ghosted your hand over his crotch. he flinched, whispering, “what are you doing?”

“shut the fuck up,” you replied. “don’t make any noise.” you mimed a knife being dragged over your throat, and riki swallowed. 

with that, you started rubbing him over his baggy blue jeans. he tried to fold his legs, preventing you from touching him, but you pinched and pulled at his inner thigh until he spread his legs again. he was big, bigger than you thought, and you didn’t bother hiding the fact that you were ogling his bulge. it made you smile, knowing that no one else had touched him like this. his very first handjob, and it would be sloppy, messy, and very public. 

riki squirmed under your grasp. “please stop,” he whispered. you looked up into his face and saw that, for once, that sharp, cold gaze of his had been replaced by desperation. instead, you pressed your hand down harder, drawing your touch out to an agonizing degree. riki let out a shaky, pained moan. “stop,” he pleaded, one hand gripping his thigh. his knuckles were turning white.

“fine,” you said, lifting your hand off of him. “i stopped.” you crossed your legs and smoothed your skirt down, smiling at him. 

shuddering, riki leaned his head against the back of the bleachers and closed his eyes, panting heavily. to your delight, he actually canted his hips into the air, ever-so-slightly, at the lack of touch. 

“you want more, don’t you?” you asked. 

“no,” he whispered, “no, no, i don’t…” but his lips were twitching, and his bulge was so prominent it was almost obscene. he was a complete virgin, would probably cum in a minute if you kept going. his foot bounced against the bottom of the bleachers. 

“are you sure?” you dragged your knuckles over his clothed cock and riki squeaked. 

“i hate you,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes. “i fucking hate you.”

“aw, you’re using big boy words,” you cooed, running your hand over his crotch again. riki grunted and looked away from you, his teeth gritted. briefly, you glanced around the auditorium, making sure that no one was looking at the two of you. thankfully, everyone was either focused on the announcements, looking at their phones, or whispering to each other. you softly kneaded riki’s bulge, and he let out a shaky little sob. his foot stopped bouncing, and his breathing quickened. you stroked his entire length, noting that he might feel good after all. if heeseung ever pissed you off, maybe you could have fun with riki.

his cock twitched under your hand, signaling his imminent release. riki covered his mouth with his hoodie’s sleeve, eyes scrunched shut as he finally came. you could have crowed with laughter, seeing the way the front of his jeans dampened. today, riki had opted to wear a hoodie that cut off at his hips, meaning that there was no way to hide the offensive stain. 

riki’s name was called for him to receive his award, and you did let out a small giggle as you watched him hastily unzip his hoodie and wrap it around his waist in a feeble attempt to hide the cumstain. there he went, plodding down the stairs. 

you had won, for now.

[cevansbrat0007]

https://x.com/auxgod_/status/1854935706742706397?s=46

ari’s reaction if bird tried to walk out the house with this on 👀

Untitled Sweet Renegade Series Ask & Drabble

Please enjoy the Sweet Renegades Series Drabble found after the cut. Warnings include: Mature Themes, Implied Smut, Ari Being a Possessive Menace, Brat!Reader, Manhandling, Crude Language, and Cursing. Minors DNI.

Listen, Ari considers himself to be a rather progressive man. He has two sisters that he respects and adores. And a little niece that fills him with pride. He plans to teach his nephew about the importance of respecting women - of treating them with the utmost reverence and care.

However, the moment Ari laid eyes on his sweet, stubborn little Bird, it was if something in him snapped. It came from somewhere deep. Primal. And the beast in him demanded that he stake his claim. Before her, Ari had never really considered himself to be the possessive type. He just assumed that jealousy wasn't a part of his makeup.

But now? Her smile. Her laugh. Her light. Every delicate inch of her gorgeous curvy body. All of it belongs to him. In the most primal, feral sense.

And he does not like to share.

So, while he wants to encourage Bird as she continues down the path of consistent, healthy body positivity, he's also man enough to admit that that there's no way in hell he'd let her fine ass out of the house wearing a dress like that. And here's why:

"Baby..." He rasps, caging you in as he backs you against the door. "You look fucking stunning." Two thick fingers trail their way down your body, stopping once they reach the valley between your breasts. "But I'm afraid I can't let you leave. Not while you're wearin' that."

"What's wrong with it?" Your words come out as a gasp when you feel a hand wind its way into your curls, holding you still as he continues his assault. The seconds drag on as his head dips, his mouth finding yours.

"Because, sweet Bird." Ari presses, forcing you to take his delicious weight. Making your pulse spike as he grinds his increasingly hard cock against your abdomen.

"B-because?"

"Because..." He draws out the word as he wrenches your head back so that he can whisper maddening little love bites along the curve of your jaw. "This is the kinda dress you wear when you're out with your man." You have a hard time breathing as his free hand skims lower before coming to rest on the swell of your bottom.

"Oh yeah?" You continue to goad - against your better judgement.

To be honest, you'd known what you were risking when you saw the dress hanging on the rack. You had no business playing with fire. But that's part of what made all of this so fun.

"Absolutely." Ari's normally bright blue eyes darken with arousal as he watches your chest heave. Almost as if he's imagining what it might be like to slowly peel the garment off you, piece by piece. "Because these hips and that ass - they're enough to give a man ideas."

His soft lips find their way to your ear, his warm breath making you shiver.

"And when they start wantin' to entertain those ideas," he muses, more to himself than you. "I need to be there as your man to shut 'em down."

"I see." A sharp nip of teeth has you clenching your thighs together.

"Because I am the only man who's allowed to know what it's like to bury myself between those luscious thighs." Using two fingers, he tips up your chin, wordlessly demanding that he look you in the eyes. "And only I get to know what you taste like when you cum on my tongue. Which therefore makes me the only man with exclusive rights to your tight, little pussy."

"Okay Beast." You can't help the giggle that bubbles its way out of your throat. "I think you've made your point."

"Have I, little Bird?" He growls, releasing his grip on your chin to capture your wrists, trapping them above your head. "Or do I need to remind you that I'm not the sharing type?"

The steady tick in his jaw lets you know that you and your dress have once again pushed this man to the edge. But the real question was...

Just what did you plan to do about it?

Batting your lashes up at him, you decide it's time to let the brat in you win out once and for all. Go big or go home, you know?

"Eh, it's been awhile, big guy." You purr, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. "I'm thinkin' you might need to refresh my memory."

END

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[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Mr. Ring-a-Ding x Reader - Chapter 1

EDIT: Now on ao3, new chapters will be added there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65905306/chapters/169777987

Oh boy me and my poor impulse control again. I do plan on continuing this but it'll be more of a side project until I finish one of the fics I'm actively posting on ao3 atm. But have it anyway, cuz why not.

Reader will be gender-neutral, but a lot of Ring-a-Ding's nicknames will lean to what a lot of people would consider feminine. Doll, Sweetiepie, etc, and the word pretty will probably be used in later chapters. I mean all of this CAN be gender-neutral but if it's not your cup of tea please handle with care. :) Chapter 1 - Palazzo

The light of creation…

Lux had been everything, and yet nothing. It had lasted an eternity, yet had been over in a second. Eventually, he meets the fate that all immortal gods meet after achieving their machinations.

Boredom.

Boredom, boredom, boredom. The one true enemy of all immortals. Sure, sometimes they’ll play dead or sulk in some other realm for a time and let the mortals think they’ve won. Sometimes their power is so depleted it’s even necessary to do so, but those are temporary setbacks. In reality, the only real threat to those with infinite time is running out of things to fill it with.

So what to do?

He’ll have to start small, obviously. Nothing that would be worth recording, nothing that would become legend. Little more than a warm up--a simple dalliance.

He’ll start at the last place he’d been, in the only form he’s ever taken. The familiar is simple and as good a starting point as any for his little excursion.

Slowly, he gathers himself, pulling himself back to a singular point in space and time--where and when the Palazzo next plays the Mr. Ring-a-Ding reel.

Back to Miami, back to the Palazzo…and back to being Mr. Ring-a-Ding.

*

Cleaning out the projection booth isn’t supposed to be part of your job. Yet here you are, sweeping the dirt and grime that’s piled up after 73 years of the theater being abandoned. At least it’s winter, and a fairly cool winter at that, making the inside of the unairconditioned theater “muggy” rather than “unbearably hot and stuffy”.

The power itself is on, so there’s some lighting, though the majority of the light bulbs have long since burned out, leaving the place fairly dark, especially now that the sun has set.

You’ve been told to try to salvage whatever old equipment or “antiques” you might find. Your boss has even offered to split any proceeds 70/30 in your favor--your his “magnanimous” way of compensating you for the extra responsibilities.

Never mind that hauling the equipment, restoring it, and finding a buyer would probably be a part-time job in and of itself…one which, like your current job, won’t pay much, especially after the split.

But you can’t turn up your nose at it, either. So you go through the old books, papers, and machinery that lay scattered on the floors and shelves. Whatever antiques may have been worth anything probably are too ruined to sell at this point. The massive hole in the side of the building from the film closet exploding all those years ago had never been repaired, so the theater hadn’t exactly been shielded from the elements. Even the door to the projection room had eventually rotted and fallen away, leaving the room open to critters and even more dirt and leaves and detritus carried in by the wind.

You guess the projectors themselves are the only thing in the room that may be worth the effort of hauling anywhere but the dumpster. But they’re so covered in dirt and grime you can’t imagine that any of the interior mechanisms could possibly work.

…Do collectors of antique projectors even care if said projectors actually work? You suppose you’ll have to research that later. In any case, you’re sure anything worth anything would have been stolen by looters long ago.

So far you’ve been more focused on clearing away the obvious trash to clear a path to the projectors. Sweeping dirt, mud, and leaves off the floor, then clearing the broken bits of wood from the rotted shelves and what you guess used to be some kind of desk. Finally, there’s space to stand alongside the projectors so you can look them over.

They’re covered in grime, of course, but as you begin to wipe that away, you see they actually look to be in decent shape beneath it all. No sign of rusting or warping on the metal casing, which is surprising. You’d half expected the old things to go to pieces as soon as you’d touched them, but it seems--like a lot of old tech--they’re built fairly sturdy.

Though that doesn’t mean their inner workings are still operational, you remind yourself.

As you move to the second projector, your brow knits as you notice something.

There’s still a roll of film loaded into it. That’s not so surprising on its own--from what you’ve heard this place had been abandoned pretty hastily back in the 50s--but what is odd is just how pristine the celluloid looks.

The bits you’d found scattered about while cleaning had been dirty, crumpled and curled from age, and trying to load it into a projector would have just made it fall apart.

But the roll in the projector now looks brand new. You adjust your glasses, leaning close and squinting. It looks like a cartoon, but the images are too small and the room too dim for you to tell much more than that.

An old reel like this might be worth something if it’s still playable. Maybe it’s even a piece of lost media? Though you doubt you’d be so lucky. You push your glasses back into place, trying to find the mechanism to unload the reel. Your hand brushes a switch on the back of the machine, and despite you barely touching it, the projector suddenly springs to life.

The light flickers on and you hear the familiar whirring and clicking of the old film projector starting up.

You glance to the theater below, where an odd image is displayed on the tattered remains of the movie screen.

Some kind of cartoon character, a blue-skinned bug with a pig-like nose and straw boater hat, grinning widely. The title card which follows reads: “Mr. Ring-a-Ding Goes to Town!”

Not a character or show you’re familiar with, and you like to think you’re pretty versed in old cartoons.

“Oh it’s such a beautiful day! I think I’ll go to town! Yes sirree!” the titular character says as he strolls down the road with the sort of jauntiness that can only be captured by old rubber hose animations.

You only watch for a moment before turning your gaze back to the projector. As much as you’re curious about this old cartoon you’ve found, you don’t want to risk potentially damaging the film. So you’d rather get the reel out and back into its case before something goes wrong.

You have no idea how you even turned the projector on. After a moment of searching, you find a labeled ON/OFF switch and press it.

Nothing happens. The film keeps rolling.

“...What did I just turn off, then?” you mumble to yourself. After a moment of searching, your eyes happen to drift back to the screen, and you do a double take.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding is gone. The camera’s just holding on an empty shot, showing only the pathway and the sign pointing to town. It looks like the show’s been paused, but the film’s still rolling.

Why had the cartoon hung on this long shot of the background? Some kind of joke you’d missed the setup for?

As you’re staring, the projector abruptly switches off…despite the reel not having ended. You glance sharply at it, wincing. It’d be just your luck if you find a working pre-1950’s projector and film reel only to immediately break it…

Before you can think too much on that, though, you hear a rustle of fabric from the theater, and peering through the darkness, you see the heavy curtains that cover the screen are being pulled shut.

“Hello?” you call out. No answer.

You quickly leave the projection room, jogging down the short hallway and entering the back of the theater. “Hello?” you call again. “Brent? Brent, is that you?” you ask, guessing--and hoping-- your boss had come by to check on your progress for some reason.

You keep your gaze on the closed curtain, slowly walking down the stairs of the center aisle towards it. The few lights that are on are mostly towards the back, leaving the front of the theater fairly dark.

You’re just reaching the third row of seats and getting ready to call out again when the curtains suddenly fly open.

“TADAAAA!!!” shouts none other than Mr. Ring-a-Ding himself.

You scream, scrambling back, your heel catching on one of the steps and causing you to fall on hard on your rear.

Ring-a-Ding laughs, though it’s not a particularly mean-spirited laugh. “Whoopsie daisy! That’s why we don’t walk backwards on stairs!” he says with a teasing wink.

“W-W-Who are you?” you stammer out, your eyes wide.

He smirks. “Glad you asked, my dear!” A jaunty tune begins playing out of nowhere, and Mr. Ring-a-Ding begins a lively dance. “I’m Mr. Ring-a-Ding, I’ll make your heart bells sing!”

Your mouth hangs open even further as you simply stare at him, agape, as he sings. And sings. And sings. For well over a minute, which may not be that long as songs go but is certainly a long time for him to sing and dance unprompted while you can only stare on in shock.

“I’m Mr. Ring-a-Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!” he belts out the last line, taking off his hat and spreading his arms wide.

You can’t even begin to muster a response.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding chuckles, placing his hat back on his head. “Y’know, usually I get interrupted before I finish the song,” he says.

You make a vague, strangled noise that sounds like a distant, “Uh-huh…?”

He lets half a beat pass before shaking his head, his grin never leaving his face. “Yannow, this is usually the part where you’d introduce yourself. Buuuuut if you ain’t got a song prepared you can just say your name.”

After a brief hesitation, you manage to stammer out your name. Your eyes haven’t gotten any less wide, and you haven’t been able to stop staring at the cartoon man before you.

“Who…are you?” you ask again.

He quirks a brow, smirking playfully. “Oh come now! I just sang about that for a full minute and a full thirty-six seconds! Don’t tell me ya need all that repeated?” he teases.

“Erm--ah, no…” you say. You lean forward, managing to pull yourself to your feet and begin slowly walking towards him.

He seems unphased, grinning up at you innocently as you approach. You stop when you reach the bottom step, standing in front of the stage…barely an arm’s length from the odd creature atop it.

“You’re…a cartoon…”

“Yes indeedy-do!” he chirps.

“D-Did…you just…come out of that film?”

He smirks, waggling a finger at you. “Don’t make me laugh!”

You blink. “Is…that a funny question?” you ask blankly.

“Don’t make me laugh!” he repeats.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I must be going insane.” Not exactly a surprising result, given what Brent has been putting you through, but you hadn’t expected it to manifest quite like this.

“Naaah!” he says with a flick of his wrist. “You seem perfectly sane to me. I’m perfectly real, after all!” he says cheerfully.

You can’t help but let out a weak chuckle at that, shaking your head. “Yeah, that’s just what a hallucination would say…”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding snorts. “Well, alright, doll…ya got me there. Buuuut…is it not also what a real cartoon brought to life would say?”

One corner of your mouth ticks upward in the faintest hint of a smile. “You uh…you got me there,” you say, borrowing his phrasing.

His grin actually seems more genuine for a moment, a bit more warm than his somewhat teasing smirk.

“You’re…really real, then?” you ask. Slowly you reach out towards him with one hand.

He raises a brow, and for the first time his smile falters. Only for a moment, though. His grin returns as he lightly pushes your hand aside with one finger. “Not sure what I can say to that that ain’t already been said,” he chuckles.

“F-Fair…” you say, taking the hint and lowering your hand. Him moving your hand aside has already proven that he’s solid…or that your hallucination includes touch in addition to sight and sound.

He steps forward, hopping down from the stage. You take a step back, watching as he walks around you and up the stairs.

“Well this place has sure seen better days, huh?” he says, looking up at the deteriorating building. His gaze pauses on the hole in the ceiling. A blue tarp is pulled tightly over it, keeping out some of the elements until the construction crew arrives to patch it.

“Heh. Not in my lifetime,” you say wryly.

“Oh no?” he asks casually, turning to glance back at you.

“It’s been closed for over 70 years now,” you say.

“Oh?” he asks again, continuing to walk up the stairs, his gaze turned upwards as he takes in the state of the theater. “Don’t suppose you know why?”

If you weren’t so flustered, you may have noticed the lack of surprise in his tone…maybe even the underlying coyness. But as it is, you simply take the question at face value.

“A fire in the film closet caused an explosion. That’s why there’s that hole up there,” you say, nodding towards the tarp.

He follows your gaze, humming in thought. “Oh, is that all?” he asks, glancing at you sideways.

This time you do notice the coyness in his tone, but you think he’s simply trying to be funny.

“I think there was some other drama around it,” you say. “I did a bit of research before coming out here…but it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s just urban legends these days. But it sounds like there was some kind of hostage situation, and that’s what led to the explosion. No casualties though, from the sounds of it.”

Mr. Ring-a-ding chuckles. “Well, that’s a relief!” he says, managing to sound genuine, though not particularly invested. “And where’s good ol’ Mr. Pye these days?”

“Who?” you ask blankly, following him up the stairs towards the projection booth.

“Reginald Pye. The projectionist,” he says simply, not bothering to glance back at you.

“The--?” You cut yourself off. “Uh, abandoned theaters don’t have projectionists,” you say, with a weak laugh…not thinking about why he may be asking after the former employee.

He stops, spinning on his heel to face you. “Well of course they don’t, you silly billy!” he says, waggling his finger at you. “That’s why I asked where he is, because he’s obviously not here!”

You open your mouth to speak, then quickly close it again, your brow knitting in sympathy. “I-It’s…been 70 years…”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding cants his head, grinning up at you. “So you’ve said,” he says blithely, clearly having no idea why the point bore repeating.

…Does he really have no idea?

“How…old was he? Mr. Pye?”

“Dunno. Kinda old I guess. Why?” he asks. He doesn’t seem to be understanding the significance of your questions.

You find yourself wondering if a living cartoon even knows what death is. You chew your lip, shifting uncomfortably.

“What’sa matter, sweetie pie? Cat got your tongue?” he asks playfully.

You sigh, rubbing your arm as you finally meet his gaze. “Seventy years is…a long time for humans. I-It’s…rare for humans to live past a hundred. A hundred-twenty at most.”

His smile freezes in place as he stares at you in silence for a moment before simply saying, “Ah.”

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say quietly. You crouch down in front of him and are about to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, when he steps back, waving a hand.

“Don’t make me laugh!” he says, a bit more forcefully than he’d said it before.

You pull back, your eyes widening at the seemingly heartless response. Mr. Ring-a-Ding turns on his heel and resumes his march up the stairs while you slowly get to your feet, stunned.

Is he really that callous, or does he just…not understand the situation? You have no idea what kind of show Mr. Ring-a-Ding had been. Many cartoons from that time never mentioned death, and the ones that did…well, they had a fairly…irreverent attitude about it. So it’s not much of a stretch to imagine a 1930’s cartoon brought to life, would be wholly unequipped to deal with it.

…No more a stretch than “1930’s cartoon brought to life” is to begin with, anyway.

He’s nearly at the top of the stairs by the time you begin trotting after him.

*

Lux leaves you behind without a second thought, making his way into the projection booth. The two projectors are still there, a bit dirty but otherwise the same as he remembers them. Objects wielded by the gods tended to withstand the passage of time remarkably well, after all.

Objects…but not mortals. Not humans. The difference between a year and century is nothing to a god…but apparently it’s everything to a human.

Lux has no heart, but he feels an unpleasant sensation in a place very similar.

He doesn’t like it.

He wanders over to the pile of rubbish and broken wood that had once been Reginald’s desk. Of course, there’s nothing of significance there. Not anymore. Reginald would have taken any pictures of himself or Helen when he’d left. Lux knows that much.

Lux is aware of you entering the room behind him, but doesn’t pay you any mind as he moves to the projection window, hopping up onto the edge of one of the projectors to look out the small window into the theater. Where he’d spent so long watching Reginald and Helen dancing together.

There’d been something compelling about it. Almost more compelling than light itself. Lux had never understood his own fascination with it, but also hadn’t really cared to think too much on it.

As he’s staring down at the empty house, you finally speak.

“Was he…a friend of yours? Mr. Pye?” you ask gently.

Lux tears his gaze away from the window to look at you curiously. He’s not sure how to answer. Gods aren’t friends with mortals. They’re barely friends with each other most of the time. Pye had been a disciple, a minion, a servant.

Yet Lux doesn’t want to speak any of those words aloud. He tells himself it’s because you’d react poorly to them. While he’s not convinced he has any use for you, he’s not so unconvinced that he wants to drive you off over something trivial.

So, he dips his head in a nod, returning his gaze to the ruined theater. “Something like that,” he says, his voice flatter and more gravely than the upbeat, chipper tone he’d used before.

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say again. “D’you…have anywhere to go?”

“Don’t need to go anywhere,” he says shortly. Maybe he should have just endured the boredom for another millennium or two to recover his strength…then maybe he could muster the power to do something actually interesting. He assumes the conversation is over and is almost ready to simply return to light when you speak again.

“Well, you can’t stay here!”

Lux’s eyes flash yellow for the briefest of seconds and he turns sharply to face you, incredulous at your impudence. A human, a mere human, not even a particularly powerful one, telling a god where he can and can’t go?!

He’s about to banish you into celluloid for your insolence when he processes your expression.

Your brow is upturned, your eyes filled with worry as you clutch your hands together fretfully.

It hadn’t been an order. You’re not demanding he leave. You’re worried what’ll happen if he stays.

It occurs to Lux that his entrance hadn’t been as grand this time. A silly little fellow popping out from behind a curtain--not a giant creature emerging from the screen before banishing fifteen people to film.

You have no idea what he is. Well, that had been true of all the humans back then, too, but they had at least understood he was an immeasurably powerful being--something to be feared.

But you don’t think that. You clearly think he’s far more helpless than he is. Do you even realize he’s immortal? Surely not, if you’re fretting about him squatting in some old building. Do you imagine that he’s capable of being hungry? Sick? Cold? Like some feeble little mortal?

Most gods would be insulted at such a notion and would be quick to put you in your place…but Lux finds the idea…interesting. A mortal who doesn’t fear him. Who asks nothing of him. Who thinks he needs them.

That last part is particularly amusing to Lux…He supposes he had been in the mood for a bit of a dalliance, and it seems one has presented itself.

His irate expression softens, and turns his brow up in a tired, melancholy expression. “But…I got nowhere else to go.”

Lux makes sure not to lay it on too thick. He’d made that mistake with the Doctor, though he hadn’t really expected to be able to fool a Time Lord for all that long regardless. So he hadn’t exactly bothered to bring his A game to that bit of deception.

You move to stand beside him, leaning against the wall beside the window. “Well…maybe, you could stay with me?”

The surprise on his face isn’t entirely feigned. That had been easier than he’d thought…Not that he needs to stay with you, or anywhere in particular of course. The grin that spreads across his face is also mostly genuine.

“Oh, gee willikers! You’d let me do that?” he says, keeping his tone suitably modest as his smile turns ever so slightly shy.

“Well, I don’t want to leave you alone in an abandoned theater all night…” you say with a small smile. You frown, tapping your chin in thought. “Though I don’t know how I’m going to get you back to my apartment without anyone seeing you…”

Lux chuckles. “Mmm, I can draw quite a crowd,” he agrees with a wink.

“Yes, I’d imagine,” you laugh, glad he at least understands the potential consequences of just taking off down the street on his own. “Hm, what time is it, anyway? Maybe the streets won’t be too crowded…” you muse.

You pull some kind of electronic device out of your pocket, pushing a button on the side of it. Suddenly the room is lit up with a blinding white light.

“Gah!” you yelp, covering your eyes and touching something on the screen to dim the glow. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to flashbang you,” you say to him with a sheepish chuckle.

Lux is hardly phased of course, but he can tell by your rapid blinking that you’ve utterly destroyed the night vision you’d been building up in the darkened theater. “Quite alright! Seems you got the worst of it,” he says good-naturedly. “But what is that, exactly?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Oh, it’s my--Well, it’s called a phone but it’s…probably much different than any phones you’d’ve seen in the fifties,” you say, holding it out for him to look at.

“Hmm…” he hums. He places his hands on either side of the phone, turning the screen towards himself slightly to examine it. He knows more or less what it is, of course. While he’s not familiar with this exact bit of tech, many, many civilizations have similar devices. Glowing, lit up screens or holograms, connecting everyone to everywhere, millenia’s worth of information at the push of a button.

Well, maybe not millenia on this one. Not yet. It’s still fairly primitive as far as most displays go, and he doubts the signal could even reach the Earth’s moon, much less another galaxy.

Though he’s glad for your unintentional reminder that someone who only knows the Earth of 70 years ago ought to be impressed by this clunky old tech.

“Oh goodness!” he gasps eagerly, doing a suitable job of pretending this is by far the most advanced piece of tech he’d ever seen. “My my my, what a tiny little screen!” he says. He pokes part of the screen, pretending to be startled when one of your apps opens.

“It even plays videos,” you say, tapping the YouTube app and letting a random video from the recommended list autoplay.

“Golly, how clever!” he pretends to marvel. “Say, that gives me an idea…”

It doesn’t, really, but it presents a good segue to the idea he’d had the moment you pulled out the device.

While you hold the phone, he presses one of his hands against the screen. Even at his small size, his hand is still bigger than the screen, but as he pushes his hand flattens and shrinks, becoming an image on the screen.

Your eyes widen in surprise as he leans forward, and soon all of him has disappeared into the phone.

He grins at your sputtering noise of shock. Humans are always so stunned at the most innocuous things.

You turn the phone around, and see him standing in front of your app icons and desktop background, which is a stylized picture of a starry night sky, complete with blue and purple nebula-clouds.

“Mind clearing a bit of space, honey?” he asks, leaning against the edge of the screen and pointing behind him with his thumb.

“Oh, s-sure, hang on,” you say. You swipe the screen slowly, making sure moving the desktop icons doesn’t fling him offscreen as well. Once you’re sure it won’t, you swipe past a few screens until you’re at a blank page on your desktop.

“Much obliged!” he says, tipping his hat. He turns around, whistling appreciatively at the background. “Shame to be blocking this lovely view!”

“Heh…right…” you say. “A-Are you um…sure you’re okay in there?”

“Of course!”

“My apartment’s about a half hour walk away, is that alright?”

“Certainly! Take all the time ya need!” he says, sitting down at the bottom of the screen, turning away to look up at the stars.

“Right,” you say, carefully setting the phone down so you can sling your backpack over your shoulders. You carefully pick up the phone, moving it carefully as if you’re balancing something delicate atop the screen. “I’m not gonna jostle you too much moving around, am I?”

Lux has to resist the urge to scoff and roll his eyes. Just how fragile do you think he is? Though at the same time…it’s not exactly difficult to pretend he’s moved by your concern as he turns around, flashing a brash grin.

“Aw shucks, sweetie pie!” he says, waving a hand. “I’m tougher than I look! I can handle myself just fine, even on a little screen like this!” he declares, puffing out his chest proudly.

You laugh, and he’s a bit surprised at the warmth in it. “Alright then. Just uh…let me know if it’s too bumpy, alright?”

“Sure thing!” he says, turning back to face the starry background, ending the conversation for now.

*

You don’t mind the quiet walk. It gives you time to process.

A living cartoon. He just came out of the theater screen, then put himself into your phone, and now he’s crashing at your place for a yet-to-be-determined amount of time.

Your curiosity at how he can even exist and how he works has been quickly overshadowed by worries about his mental state. You suspect he’s grieving his friend, even if he’s reluctant to show it. He’s from the 50’s after all--not exactly a time rife with emotional vulnerability, especially in men.

From what you’ve pieced together, he’s a living cartoon who had been friends with the theater’s projectionist in the 50’s. Somehow after the theater was abandoned he’d…gone dormant?  Or something? You’re not sure how that works yet but what you are sure of is that the poor guy has been essentially flung forward 70 years into a world he likely no longer recognizes.

You reach your apartment building and climb up the stairs to your studio apartment. “It’s a bit cramped…” you warn him.

“I’m sure I can make do,” he says easily. “Two-dimensional characters don’t take up much space, after all,” he winks.

“I suppose,” you say, locking the door behind you. “You can come out--”

You’ve barely finished the sentence when he pushes against the screen, his whole upper half emerging almost instantly, bringing his face so close that your noses almost touch as he grins widely at you.

You squeak in surprise, your cheeks burning as you drop the phone. To your relief, he hops out the rest of the way before it hits the ground, gracefully floating to the floor while your phone thuds on the rug next to him.

“A-Are you alright?” you say in alarm, kneeling in front of him.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding steps back with a sheepish chuckle, picking up your phone for you. “Oh, perfectly fine! Didn’t mean ta startle ya!” he says playfully. He checks over your phone, whistling in surprise at the weight of your heavy phone case. “This thing’s got some heft! Why’s it armored up like it’s going to war?” he asks as he passes it back to you.

You grin wryly at him. “In case someone jumps out at me.”

He raises his brows, his smirk showing some appreciation for the quip.

You get to your feet, flipping on the main light. As promised, it is indeed cramped. An unmade twin bed is shoved into one corner, and across from it is a small flatscreen TV atop a stand, positioned in a way that one would either have to lay on their side to watch TV or sit atop the bed with their back against the wall.

The kitchen takes up half of another wall, being little more than a fridge, sink, some cabinets, and less than a foot of actual counter space. A microwave sits on a small, rickety shelf next to the fridge.

A decent chunk of the floor is covered in old newspapers, atop which sit an easel splotched with paint. A small table holds some paints and brushes, but the easel itself is empty.

“You a painter?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“Trying to be,” you say as you set your backpack down beside the bed.

“Trying?” he repeats with a quirked brow.

“Well, I mean, I paint, so I am a painter I suppose, but…not…really making money off it yet.”

“Ah. ‘Fraid I can’t help you there,” Mr. Ring-a-Ding  says, turning out his empty pockets. A moth flies out of one of them and disappears behind him and he grins sheepishly up at you.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself over it,” you say easily, waving a hand. “I…do sort of have a job lined up. At the theater. I’ll be painting a few murals in the lobby.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, intrigued. “If ya don’t mind me saying so, honey, it’s gonna take more than a fresh coat of paint to get that place back in shape.”

Your laugh is a bit cynical as you shake your head. “Oh, trust me, Ring-a-Ding, I’m well aware. The builders and cleaning crews are running behind, so the boss--my dad’s friend’s son--is giving me some money to do what I can to get things moving while we wait. And I kinda need the money, so…” you trail off, shrugging.

“I see,” he says, stroking his chin in thought.

“A-Anyway, do you…need anything? D’you eat, or…or need me to set up a bed for you somewhere?”

He chuckles sheepishly. “Well…the truth is, I don’t need food. Or sleep,” he admits.

That possibility had occurred to you on the walk home. That perhaps staying in the theater wouldn’t be as detrimental to him as you’d initially feared…though it doesn’t make you regret your invitation. Surely he’d still be lonely? Maybe even scared…at the very least you’d like to think your apartment is still an improvement over a busted up old theater.

…Though perhaps you’re just flattering yourself.

“So what do you do all night, if not sleep?” you ask.

“Watch movies. What else would ya do in a theater all night?”

“True…” you say with a weak chuckle.

“But I think my first night back, I’ll be just fine hanging out at the window.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. You’d been about to try to set him up with your laptop, but maybe that’ll be an endeavor for another time, when you have more time to explain it to him. “In that case…I think I’ll get ready for bed, if that’s alright?”

“Certainly, sweetheart!” he says easily.

*

As you go to get changed, Lux perches on the console table below the small window, looking out it. The stars are barely visible--humans have apparently entered the phase of their development where they haven’t a clue how to manage light pollution.

Though that doesn’t bother Lux all that much. The glow of the neon signs and street lamps is light too, and at the moment he’s not overly picky.

He smiles softly to himself, replaying your words in his mind. If that’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be? As far as you’re aware, he’s harmless. Maybe even fragile. Yet you still ask his permission for something as innocuous as getting ready for bed.

You’re certainly interesting. Though perhaps not very sharp. Your boss is clearly taking you for some kind of ride. Lux isn’t a trickster god, but he doesn’t have to be to see that you’re being duped.

Maybe he can help you out with that. Not out of any sense of justice or loyalty to you, of course. Gods don’t need food but they can rarely turn down a hearty serving of comeuppance.

As far as idle dalliances go, you might just be a good one.

[writingjourney]

⛧ WIP Wednesday ⛧

as of now untitled Secondo fic based on this premise – 2.9k words, fem!reader, third person pov, suggestive, inexperienced!reader talks about sex, 18+

edit: here is the finished fic

excerpt from: I – Confession

It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.

“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”

With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.

Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, it is rather… It is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”

“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.

She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”

“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”

Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”

“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”

She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake that hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.

“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”

Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? That fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”

“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”

He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”

For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.

“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond the physical nature of it then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”

“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”

“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”

“Ah.”

“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”

He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”

“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”

Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”

“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”

She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”

Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and properly comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.

“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”

He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into arms he knows will keep her safe?

“A guide?” she asks.

He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”

“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”

“No!” Her voice rising. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks.”

“Sorella, you trust me?”

This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”

“Then will you come over?”

“Come ov– right now?”

“Yes.”

He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.

“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”

“I know, Papa.”

“Will you let me help you now?”

She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”

“Yes.”

“And not out of pity?”

“No pity, cara.”

She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.

“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.

“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”

“You’ve done it before?”

He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”

She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her  jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.

Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.

More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly simmering on a steady flame.

“Is this good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”

“It’s okay, Papa.”

“Brava.”

He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.

“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”

She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”

She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.

“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”

Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”

“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”

She nods, shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs and he knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.

This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”

His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch, he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.

“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

i am SO excited to hopefully share this fic soon, it's finally inspired me to write lengthier again and yeah, it's one of those cases where i was suddenly at 5k words after part I of V. so... it'll be a chonker!

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 5)

You rope the busy businessman into enjoying the holiday spirit.

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, fluff, your shot's smoother than stephen curry's

“You set me up,” you accuse, pointing a finger at the culprit before you.

Your midnight-feathered companion merely squawks in your face.

Frowning, you scoop the garnet-eyed traitor into your arms. Try as you might, you can’t resist stroking its feathers, the soft, silky texture effectively subduing your vexation. The bird settles comfortably in your hold, pecking at some lint on your shirt.

Are you still plagued by your embarrassing encounter with the red-eyed Apollo of a man in the park last week?

Absolutely.

Are you being unfair by taking it out on an innocent animal?

You drop your face into your hands with a dejected sigh.

It’s the eve of the Frostlight holiday, and you’ve decided to visit one of the places you hold a lifetime voucher for—a quaint little coffee shop tucked away in a shopping district alley. Aside from wanting to shake off the holiday blues, worsened by the eerie quiet of your undecorated house (save for the tiny Frostlight tree your brother gave you as a gag gift on your fifteenth birthday), you’ve been eager to check out the place after its recent renovations.

You’d been enjoying the shop’s new seasonal latte, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, when the familiar sound of cawing reached your ears. Before you could look for the source, a blur of black feathers descended gracefully onto your tabletop, a tiny red gem bead clutched in its beak.

Normally, your friend’s surprise appearance would brighten your mood. But as the events of last week played out again in your mind, you couldn't help but launch into a one-sided tirade about how your little tag game with the bird had unfolded that night.

“He said his name was Sylus—he was so handsome,” you groan, idly tracing the condensation on your cup. “And such a gentleman, too! And I tripped over him.”

The crow pecks at the stack of tissues on your table.

“But he was bleeding,” you continue, your gaze drifting to your straw, now bent and chewed. “He looked really hurt. I tried to help him, but then he just stood up—like nothing happened!”

It abandons the tissues, opting instead to preen its feathers.

“Do you think it could’ve been his Evol?” you wonder. “If it was, that’s so cool. And really convenient, don’t you think?”

You glance down at your companion, only to find it engrossed in cleaning its glossy plumage, its blatant disregard for your monologue clear.

You huff.

Deciding to leave the bird to its own business, you let your gaze wander to the other shops.

Because it’s the eve of a well-awaited holiday, the shopping district is alive with activity. The booths are adorned with warm white lights, accented by the sparkle of colorful fairy lights. Even from a distance, the aroma of cookies, hot chocolate, and assorted pastries wafts through the air. At the heart of the district where the streets converge stands a towering Frostlight tree, its meticulously arranged decorations glimmering under the festive lights. Decorative wrapped presents are nestled beneath its branches, and a brilliant star crowns the top, casting a warm, radiant glow over the lively scene.

The crowd is a bustling mix: parents paying at booths, teenagers laughing boisterously in groups, children darting around with unchecked energy, pets drawing clusters of admirers… and a familiar, silver-haired man standing by a stall, his towering presence capturing the awe-struck attention of passersby.

You blink.

Before you even realize it, you're on your feet,  weaving through the crowd—nearly tripping over a couple of kids—until you finally reach the stall.

Breathless from your short dash, you rise onto your tippy toes and tap him on the shoulder.

He turns around, brows furrowed as he glances left and right, before finally looking down.

“Sylus, hi!” you blurt out, a toothy grin plastered on your face.

You're pleased to catch the surprise flicker in his eyes.

"Sweetie," he greets, the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was in the area trying this new latte...” you trail off, glancing down, only to realize your hands are empty.

You must’ve left it at the table, along with your little crow. 

You look back up at him sheepishly. (You send a half-hearted mental apology to the abandoned drink and bird.)

“New latte, huh?” he says, lips curling up into a smirk.

You realize his eyes are a beautiful, bright scarlet under the light.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” you ask, eyes curiously trailing over his dark button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up neatly, revealing toned forearms, the fabric adorned with slashes of deep red embroidery.

Sylus pauses. “Just… handling some business,” he replies, vaguely gesturing to the stall behind him. Around it, several well-built men in black attire and face masks move about—some standing idle, others murmuring in low voices, and a few weaving in and out of the stall's shadowy depths.

Your gaze shifts past them, landing on the vibrant display of oranges, clementines, pomegranates, figs, and other fruits neatly arranged in wooden crates.

“Oh! You own a fruit business?” you exclaim, your face lighting up with excitement.

You miss the slight grimace crossing his face.

“How lovely!” you say, already fishing for your wallet. “Allow me to support such a wholesome endeavor. I’d like two bags of pomegranates, please.”

A brief silence lingers between him and the nearby men. Then, he chuckles, flicking a finger over his shoulder. Two of them—smaller and seemingly younger than the rest, each sporting identical curls—exchange a quick glance before grabbing paper bags and clumsily filling them with pomegranates.

“Here you go,” one of them says with a bow, handing you his bag.

“The freshest of the season!” the other adds cheerily, offering his own.

You accept the bags graciously, about to hand over your payment, when Sylus raises a hand. “On the house,” he tells you, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he replies, gaze roving over your form with a slight smile. “A holiday gift, if you will.”

You take in how striking he looks beneath the soft glow of the lights, his presence almost ethereal against the lively backdrop.

It’s then you realize you only have one life to live. Life is too short for regrets, and you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. That fortune favors the bold, and that you either go big or you go home.

And so, with a deep inhale to steel your nerves, you seize the moment.

“Sylus, would you like to go get ice cream with me?”

The men behind him perk up. Deeper within the stall, a bound man sits trembling, a gun fitted with a silencer pressed against his temple. He’s being hushed, and the air grows thick with suspense as everyone waits with bated breath for the silver-haired man’s response.

After what seems like eternity, Sylus chuckles, flicking your forehead gently.

“I’d be more than happy to.”

—

You’ve barely spent an hour together, but already, you’ve learned so much about him.

He’s surprisingly chivalrous. You hadn’t expected it, but when you pulled out your wallet to pay for both your ice cream cups, he leaned over, gently swatted your hand away, and handed his card to the cashier.

You looked up at him in protest. “But I was the one who offered to get you ice cream…!”

He merely ruffled your hair, amused, as if you were an unruly feline meowing its head off for not getting the fish on the dinner table.

“I’m not letting you pay. End of discussion.”

Determined to make up for your honor, you dragged him to a weathered claw machine not far from the ice cream stand.

“Fine. But I’m getting you that one,” you declared, pointing at a black-and-red dragon plushie nestled among the other prizes. “You’re not allowed to refuse, okay?”

After a brief scuffle over who got to insert the coin (you lost), you managed to snag the plush on your first try. Triumphantly, you handed it to him, watching as he turned it over in his hands, his fingers gently fiddling with its tiny wings. Your gloating expression faded, though, at the sight of his faint smile, the image strangely sending a dull ache through your chest.

And despite his intimidating appearance, he’s remarkably generous.

When the two of you stepped outside the bustling shopping district for a breather, ice cream cups in hand, a gaggle of children in Frostlight-themed costumes approached. Tambourines and melodicas in hand, they eagerly asked if they could perform for you. Their chaperone stood nearby, wincing apologetically at their loud enthusiasm.

“Do your best,” Sylus told them, leaning against the building wall behind him, eyes gleaming in amusement.

The children hastily formed a crooked pyramid, the instrumentalists awkwardly positioned at the back, before launching into the most gloriously off-key performance you’d ever heard. You struggled to suppress your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, but Sylus regarded them seriously, his head nodding slightly, as if genuinely finding rhythm in their chaotic melody.

When they finished with a burst of giggles, Sylus clapped slowly, laughter dancing in his gaze, before handing over a generous wad of cash. You’ve never heard so many high-pitched “You’re the best, mister!”s all at once.

You’ve been having so much fun—exploring the bustling stalls, petting the pups you come across, checking in on his hardworking fruit stall employees (and happily handing them some of the banana chips you bought), and watching the small fireworks display in the shopping district's adjacent plaza—that you don’t realize how late it’s gotten. Before you know it, you’ve arrived at your house, the neighborhood now quiet and serene, the hum of the city replaced by an almost peaceful stillness.

At your doorstep, you turn to see Sylus leaning casually against his sleek black SUV, his gaze fixed on you. A thought strikes you, and your eyes widen.

“Wait!” you blurt, fumbling for your key. “We never got around to returning each other’s stuff. Let me grab your coat!”

Before you can act, tendrils of black-and-red mist creep along the ground, curling around your feet. Bewildered, you stare at it as it coils upward, encircling you. “What…?”

Despite the way it looks, it feels soft and warm against your skin. Gently, it curls around your wrist, pausing your search for your key, and lifts your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Return it next time,” Sylus tells you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“But won’t you need it?” you ask, distracted by the way the mist dances around you, one tendril brushing your side playfully. You let out a surprised laugh. “Is this your Evol…?”

The mist retreats slowly, as if reluctant to leave. It curls around his feet one last time before dissipating entirely.

“I don’t have your sweater yet,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’d be rude to accept the coat before then.”

“But—”

“Think of it as my excuse to see you again.”

Your words catch in your throat as heat rises to your cheeks.

To appease you, though, he offers to exchange numbers so you can work out the details of your sweater and coat handover. If he notices the way your hands tremble when his fingers brush yours while swapping phones, he doesn’t mention it—though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. With a reluctant wave and a final goodnight, you step inside and close the door behind you.

You lean against it for a moment.

Then, you bolt to your room, dive onto the bed, and scream into your pillow.

When you finally roll onto your back, breathless and grinning like an idiot, the ceiling above you seems brighter, the world lighter. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—like you’re floating, bursting with happiness.

You like him. You really, really like him.

As thoughts of brightly colored ice cream scoops and cuddly dragon plushies swirl in your mind, the weight of the day’s events finally begins to settle over you. You briefly resist, realizing you haven’t even changed out of your clothes or undergone your nightly routine yet, but in the end, you surrender to the comforting pull of slumber.

Just as you drift off, your phone screen glows faintly from your bag.

Good night kitten.

note: tysm for taking time to share your thoughts about the series 🥺 reading through them truly makes me so happy! it's so surreal to know that there are people out there actually looking forward to updates lol!! happy holidays, everyone! 💞

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tag list: @thepotatoislost, @xxfaithlynxx, @browneyedgirl22, @vorfreudevortex, @midiplier, @wisteriaflowersss, @euclase0, @leighsartworks216, @keyiswatching, @goldenbirdiee, @delaythings, @datura109, @iloveboysinred, @everythingistaken00, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @blueberrysquire, @mourning-into-dancing, @bookfreakk, @everywherenothere, @vvhira, @laidenbreecatchall, @kyushii, @lucifer-says-hii, @sylus-crow, @carmelves, @nishayuro

check out my other works!

[heytheredelulu]

Marvel Fanfiction Masterlist

| Smut ❤️‍🔥 | SFW Spicy 🌶️ | Angst ❤️‍🩹 | Fluff ✨ |

Imagines

Bucky Barnes x Reader 💙

Little Devil 🌶️

You’re tempting him to sin.

Ruin Me 🌶️

Say less.

Bucky @ Ulta 🌶️✨

You dragged him with you.

Five Senses ❤️‍🩹✨

You walk him through the grounding method.

I Gotta Take This 🌶️

Bucky wants to make an excuse to slip out of the mission briefing.

Simple

Bucky Barnes enjoys the simple things in life.

To Have and to Hold and to Fuck Whenever I Want

You really think a little bit of blood is going to keep your husband from having you?

Steve Rogers x Reader ❤️

Like Sin 🌶️❤️‍🩹

Your possessive boyfriend accuses you of cheating on him with his best friend- and you decide to rile him up.

Loki x Reader 💚

Yearn for You 🌶️✨

You’ve been friends since childhood, after all this time could he truly feel nothing for you?

Winter Rose Drabbles

The Winter Rose, an ex HYDRA assassin trauma bonded with Bucky Barnes in the aftermath of their deconditioning. They’re walking the fine line of love and friendship and both of them are too afraid to cross it.

Bucky Barnes x Winter Rose 🥀

Wounds ❤️‍🩹✨

Wash Over Me ✨

Fuck the Line 🌶️❤️‍🩹

One Shots

Bucky Barnes x Reader 💙

Temptation ❤️‍🔥

You text your boyfriend a nude selfie while he’s working and now he can’t stop thinking about it.

Good Girl ❤️‍🔥

So close you could taste it- but only if you begged him well enough.

Wants and Needs ❤️‍🔥

You come home late from girls night knowing Bucky will still be up. You want need him and you’re finally going to let him know.

Little Bookworm ❤️‍🔥

Your boyfriend can’t think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while you’re in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: “Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton” and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.

Watch Me ❤️‍🔥

Anon request: “could you do something enemies/rivals where bucky accidentally finds out that you have a mirror kink during a training session?”

Unbreakable ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥

You’ve always wanted to be a mother but your husband is too tormented by his past to believe he could ever be a good father. For so long you’ve accepted that it will never be in the cards for you- after all, it’s only a small price to pay to continue to live the life you’ve built with the man you love. But what happens when you finally admit that you want what he refuses to give you? Will you push him away with your confession or will you finally make him realize that he’s not the man he believes himself to be?

Unbreakable- The After Years ✨🌶️

The conclusion to your story.

Stucky x Reader 💙❤️

Untitled - In progress ❤️‍🔥

Multipart fics

Bucky Barnes x Reader 💙

Ready to Comply Part One ❤️‍🔥

Tony Stark's shy, curvy intern finds herself fighting for her life when the quiet and reserved ex-assassin she's been pining after for nearly a year has been activated by HYDRA and given the order to kill her to prevent the completion of the new tech she's been developing alongside Tony Stark and Stark Industries.

Ready to Comply Part Two ❤️‍🔥

The second installment of Ready to Comply.

Ready to Comply Part Three - In progress ❤️‍🔥

Teaser

Current Taglist (Taglist is open):

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[drabbletron]

Transformers x Reader Masterlist:

Briefing: I write primarily smut of various continuities for the Transformers fandom. This is an 18+ blog and if I see you are a minor I will block you. No exceptions!

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

COLOR KEY:

Red = SMUT Green = SFW Purple = Angst Pink = FLUFF Orange = HORROR

Who Am I? (my introduction expanded ver.) This contains also my character list and things I do and do not write for.

GENERAL DISCOURSE:

MTMTE Voice Claims

Stand up Comedy: has suggestive material

RODIMUS (MTMTE/IDW)

Always Next Time (Fire Hazard): Rodimus x Reader SMUT/ANGST

Period Cramps Rodimus X Reader SFW

That’s What Backseats Are For: Rodimus x Reader SMUT

Hot Wheels: Rodimus X Reader SMUT

Under The Pale Moonlight: Rodimus X Reader SMUT

TRAILBREAKER (MTMTE/IDW)

ENTIRE Golden Boy (Trailbreaker x Reader) Draft/Outline thing 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Golden Boy: Trailcutter x Reader fic (PART 1)

Wake-up Call: Trailbreaker x Reader SMUT

Bedtime Stories: Trailbreaker x Reader Mini-shot FLUFF

Where Did You Go? Trailbreaker x Reader ANGST

Trailcutter/Trailbreaker NSFW HCs

Like A Bad Habit: Trailbreaker X Reader SMUT

Sunscreen Please! Trailbreaker X Reader SUGGESTIVE

Need You Now: Trailbreaker X Reader HURT/COMFORT

Scenting: Trailbreaker X Reader Mini-Shot

HOUND (G1/MTMTE/IDW)

Walk Me Through It: Hound x Reader Smut

Domesticity and Other Distractions: Hound x Reader fic 1 2 3

Hound NSFW HCs

Makin' Do: Hound X Reader SMUT

Phone It In: Hound X Reader SMUT

Sharing is Caring: Hound X Reader SMUT

Bump In The Night: Hound X Reader SMUT

HOIST (MTMTE/IDW)

Peace and Quiet: Hoist x Reader Smut

You Are (Not) Normal: Hoist X Reader SMUT

Don't Tease: Hoist X Reader SMUT

BLUESTREAK (G1/MTMTE/IDW)

Tom's the Name (Peeping's the Game): Bluestreak X Reader SMUT

All Alone: Bluestreak x Reader Mini-shot ANGST

SWERVE (MTMTE/IDW)

Two is Better Than One, But Three is Just as Fun: Swerve x reader x Holo!Swerve SMUT 1 2

Would Not, Should Not in A Bar: Swerve x Reader SMUT

Untitled Swerve X Reader FLUFF

Swerve: Heavy Petting

General HCs Swerve X Reader

The Pot and The Kettle smug!Swerve snippet

Can't Stop, Won't Stop: Swerve X Reader SMUT

MEGATRON (MTMTE/IDW)

Behind Closed Doors: Megatron x Reader SMUT

FORTRESS MAXIMUS (MTMTE/IDW)

Small scenario with a human s/o

BEACHCOMBER (G1)

So Sick: Beachcomber X Reader SMUT

WASPINATOR (IDW)

Reverse Bug: Waspinator X Reader SMUT

FIRST AID (MTMTE/IDW)

Not A Moment To Waste: First Aid X Reader SMUT

Time of Need: First Aid X Reader FLUFF

RUMBLE (IDW)

Bucking In The Bathroom: Rumble X Reader SMUT

MULTI X READER:

Bots and Dirty Talk HCs: Various x Reader

Bots and the Zoomies! FLUFF

The French Variety??

Best At Dirty Talk Mini-shot

Drabble Dump: Various X Reader SMUT

The Little Things: Various X Reader

Watch...: Hound X Reader X Bluestreak (Interludes Tie-in) SMUT

UNKNOWN BOT X READER:

Relax A Little: Unknown Bot X Reader

NON-X READER

Cyberformed!Reader PART 1

More items will be added on Mondays as I post throughout the week. If you have any suggestions, or questions/requests, or just want to chat feel free to use the ask box. Anon is always on!

- D. Tron 🧡✨

[seulgisqt]

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓 — aitana bonmatí

aitana bonmatí x ex!psg!reader

(a/n: would like to begin this by saying you’re only a psg player for plot purposes don’t worry darlings x. also I don't know what this concept it, I had fun writing it, and hopefully I do it some justice)

word count: 2210

genre: angst (but soft?)

summary: in the aftermath of a breakup, you and aitana only speak through unsent voice memos, until a single message breaks the silence.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 17, 20:14 — Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Parking Lot

“Hola. I don’t know why I’m recording this, I’ve recorded this like four times.”

“You’ll never hear it. But, I just left training and the weather reminded me of that January match in Bilbao–remember?”

“You were freezing and you wouldn’t stop complaining about your ears. I gave you my scarf and you refused, said it smelled like effort.” Aitana let out a soft laugh.

“You always said stupid things like that. I think I miss your stupid things more than I should.”

Silence

“I saw your goal against Lyon. Top bins. You still shoot like you have something to prove.”

You — Paris, Apartment Kitchen

October 18, 07:03

The kettle whistles. You don’t move until the noise reaches that sharp, shrill pitch, staring at the steam curling up from your mug like it might spell something out. You’re exhausted and your bones feel it first.

You scroll through your camera roll while you water for the water to cool.

You probably shouldn’t–but you do.

Barcelona. Ciutat Esportiva. Rooftops

Aitana, asleep with a book over her chest on a hotel bed.

Aitana in your hoodie, biting into a peach, capturing her moody face as she hated the new highlights in her hair.

So you tap the record button.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 07:11

“I had a dream about you last night. I woke up before I could remember how it ended, but…we were at the MNAC. Just sitting on the stairs. You had your foot over mine like you always did when you wanted to be close without admitting it.”

You wait for a beat, debating whether you should continue or not.

“I know it’s silly.”

“I still look for your name in every Barça lineup. I tell myself I just want to see how the midfield is doing but–Aitana, I lie to myself more than I lied to you. And I know I did that enough.”

Letting out a sigh, you paused for a couple of seconds.

“I don’t deserve to send this. But I wish I could.”

Aitana — Her Bedroom

October 18, 23:52

As the night settles over Barcelona, a peculiar stillness envelops the city. The warm, orange glow of the streetlamps filters through the thin fabric of Aitana's curtains, casting flickering shadows across her room. The only interruptions to the tranquillity come from the distant hum of a moped zipping along the cobblestone streets below. It was quiet, unlike her.

Aitana finds herself sprawled on her back, her headphones comfortably resting over her ears, as she gazes up at the plaster ceiling. She’s listened to the same Bon Iver track four times in a row.

She finds herself opening the Voice Memos app and tapping the folder Untitled

She presses record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 23:53

“Why did we stop talking?”

 She inhaled sharply.

“I know why. I know you had to go. PSG offered you more. More minutes, more money. I just–”

The microphone picked up the faint shuffle of sheets as Aitana rolled onto her front, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I thought you’d fight harder to stay. Or at least…say goodbye properly. You left me at the airport with a half-hug and a press photo. You wore the Paris kit like you hadn’t already broken something.”

“I’ve been angry. God, I’ve been angry for months now.” she huffed in disbelief. “And I’ve been pretending not to be. But sometimes I still look up how many minutes you played. I still see your face in my head when we walk out of the tunnel.”

Zaragoza, June 2024 — Last Matchday

“You’re really leaving?” Aitana’s words echoed through the dimly lit locker room, carrying a weight that lingered in the air—more assertion than inquiry.

Her voice trembled slightly, an emotional crack revealing the turmoil beneath. The faint sound of running showers persisted in the background, a reminder of the teammates who still lingered in the hallways. You turned to face Aitana, your travel bag clutched tightly in your hand, its zipper glinting in the fluorescent glow.

“I have to,” you replied, like that meant anything.

“You don’t have to,” Aitana insisted, taking a tentative step closer, her gaze intense and pleading. But then she hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. “You want to.”

“It’s not about wanting to leave. I want to win, and I want–” You paused, searching for the right words.

“You’ve won here!” Aitana interjected, her eyebrows knitting together in frustration as your back remained turned to her.

“I barely played this season, Aita.” The note of desperation in your voice was unmistakable. “I want to play. I want to have a life beyond this.”

“You had one here,” she countered, a hint of disbelief lacing her tone.

You shook your head, the weight of your decision pressing down. “No. I had you here. And maybe that’s why I can’t stay.”

Aitana — Ciutat Esportiva, After Training

October 20, 17:58

She finds herself staring at pitch three. You had twisted your ankle there once during rondos. Aitana had piggybacked you to the locker room because you refused a stretcher.

You hated looking weak in front of the others. But not in front of Aitana. Never in front of her.

Today the pitch is quiet.

Aitana takes out her phone.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 20, 18:03 — Pitch Three

“You once told me you loved me more when I was angry.” A small smile appeared on her face at the memory

“Because it meant I still cared. If that’s true, you must’ve known how much I loved you when I screamed at you that night.”

The heat in Aitana’s cheeks rose as the wind brush passed.

“I would’ve waited. If you’d asked. If you’d said something–anything–other than, ‘Don’t make this harder.’ You made it impossible.”

She stood still, her eyes focusing on the pitch.

“Sometimes I hate you for walking away.” the brunette started matter-of-factly. “But most of the time I hate myself for not running after you.”

You — Parc des Princes, Pre-match

October 21, 16:52

You hummed under your breath, a song you couldn’t really pinpoint but it had been spinning in your head for days now. One ear is listening to the chatter of your teammates behind you, the other listens to the crowd, the announcer, and the buildup.

You’re starting tonight. No nerves. Just your heartbeat and the echo of a voice that hasn’t spoken to you in fifteen months but lives in your skull anyway. 

Aitana used to say, “You light up under pressure.” What you never told her was that most of the pressure had come from knowing that she was watching.

As the final whistle blew, marking a 2-0 win, you and your teammates lingered on the pitch, relishing the moment as you strolled around to connect with the sea of fans. Your eyes swept over the crowd in a whirlwind of colour and exuberance, a swirling sea of jerseys and flags. In a moment of wishful thinking, you found yourself searching desperately for those brown eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse among the throngs of chanting supporters, hoping that somewhere in the chaos, her presence might still be felt.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 21, 20:27 — Locker Room

“I wish you could’ve seen that pass. The one to Katoto. It looked like something you would’ve done. Maybe that’s why I risked it.” You chuckled softly.

“Everyone keeps asking if I’m happy in Paris. And I am. It’s a beautiful city. I get to play.”

“But sometimes I wake up and for five seconds I think I’m still in Barcelona. I think I’ll see your toothbrush next to mine. I think you’ll be there with your silent mornings and your coffee that’s always too bitter.”

“Sometimes I think I should just move on, Aitana, sometimes I just want to go back. But we’re both too proud to break this silence, aren’t we?”

Aitana — Bus Ride to an Away Match

October 25, 11:37

The sky outside is a muted blue, the kind that reminds her of winter mornings in Paris. She hasn’t been since you broke up back in Barcelona. She’s declined two sponsorship shoots in France, citing scheduling conflicts. The truth was, she didn’t trust herself. 

She scrolls through Spotify, finding the playlist you made for her last spring. It still has her name in the title. “Ai <3”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 25, 11:39

“You were the first person who really saw me. Not Aitana the footballer. Not the midfield engine. Just…Aitana. And you knew exactly how to love me when I didn’t know how to be loved.”

“I don’t think I’ve let anyone close since. Everyone feels like a draft I keep rewriting.” She watched the Spanish countryside run past her. 

“If I sent this, what would you do? Would you answer? Would you come back?”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:27 — Paris

“Mum called, she knows, but she still asks about you–I just say you’re fine.” You looked out the Paris skyline, your fingernail dragging against the window as you traced the Eiffel Tower, twinkling in the night.

“You don’t call, so I tell myself it’s over. I remind myself that you’re probably in someone else’s arms by now. But then I see your face in post-match interviews, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. And I wonder…”

You let out a shaky exhale.

“I wonder if you’re just as lost as me.”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:32 — Hotel Room

“I love you. Still. More quietly now. More painfully. But I love you.”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent, Incomplete)

October 27, 05:59 — Apartment Balcony

“I never stopped.”

The sky over Barcelona is draped in a heavy blanket of grey clouds, casting a muted light that filters through Aitana’s window in delicate beams, fragmented like memory, never full, always splintered. The room is still, a silence enveloping her as she lies in bed. 

Aitana is already awake, lost in her thoughts, when her phone vibrates softly on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet. 

One new message 

From You

In that fleeting moment, her heart doesn’t race; it halts entirely. The air in her room thickens, and even the bustling city outside seems to pause, holding its breath in unison with her. Aitana's gaze locks onto the screen, almost as if it might dissolve into nothingness. Like if she blinks too hard, she’ll lose it again. But the notification holds steady.

Just below the name, a notification beckons:

Audio Message — 3:02

She feels a tension in the air and hesitates, the seconds stretching into eternity. One second. Then two. The weight of the moment presses on her, but finally, she gathers her courage and presses play.

You — Voice Memo (Recorded at 08:32, Sent at 10:52)

“I almost sent this a hundred times. I always deleted it. I kept thinking–maybe it’s too late. Maybe you don't want to hear from me. Maybe you’ve moved on. But then I saw your story. That stupid coffee photo with lyrics like always. And I saw the caption. I saw it.”

“Encara penso en tu.”

“I don't know if I have the right to answer that, Aitana. But if there’s even a chance…if you still mean it, then I need you to hear me say it. I miss you. I miss us. And I’ve been scared, of trying again, failing again. But I'm more scared of never getting the chance.”

“So, this is me, finally not running. You don’t have to reply. Just–know that if you ever feel like coming back, I’m here. I’m still yours, if you want me.”

Aitana covers her mouth with her hand. The edges of her eyes sting. She replays the last two sentences three times. 

Her fingers shake slightly as she switches to her voice memos. She’s never recorded one after hearing your voice. Never with the possibility of being heard.

This time, she steadies herself and hits record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Sent)

October 27, 10:57

“I listened. Four times. You sound the same. Except softer. Sadder.” Aitana inhales deeply, trying to stop the lump in her throat from cracking.

“I was angry for so long. But not just at you–at myself. For not saying what I needed to say when it mattered. For thinking you’d wait. For pretending I was okay.”

“I think about you constantly. In every pass I make. Every goal I celebrate. I wonder if you’d tease me the way you used to. I wonder if you’d be proud. I think the worst part is, I never stopped writing you into my life–even after you left.”

The brunette let out a quiet exhale, a part of her hoping that you wouldn’t reply.

“I don’t know what we are now. But I know I still love you. I know I want to see you. I know I want to stop hiding behind unsent words.”

“If you’re still mine. I want to come back.”

She hits send before she can change her mind.

[moody-alcoholic]

Chapter 1 - The Job.

I just don't know when to stop, if I don't have like 20 projects going at once I get bored. I waited until I had a name though, no longer will I be titling everything 'untitled XYZ fic. It was actually my fiancée who came up with the name.

Work summary: 141 retired and decided to open a delivery company. Only it's not a delivery company, it's a cover for less legal practices. Need a creepy stalker out your life? Someone owes you money? You need to disappear to a new life? Special Delivery Service has got you covered, for a reasonable fee.

Chapter Summary: 5.5k words, Simon x reader, female reader, name used: Dani (this is just personal preference, I don't like using Y/N.) You accept a job offer to work as an office admin for a commercial delivery company. Only the job is not quite as it seems and you come to learn neither are the people you work for.

CW: mentions of abusive ex, alcohol, language, flashbacks of domestic abuse.

masterlist - next

AO3 link

Enjoy <3

You see the job listing towards the bottom of the page: 

Office admin wanted! To start immediately. MUST have a background in logistics.  Send CV to: Price@SDS.co.uk Competitive salary. 

It was short, sweet, to the point and the most promising job posting you had seen all day. You had a background in logistics, you’d just spent the last 3 years working as a supply chain manager. Mainly it was just organising warehouse deliveries but it was experience none the less. You copy the e-mail and send the CV, with a job posting like this you didn’t expect to hear a response back for a few days.

It was already 8pm you’d been applying for jobs all day. You decided to give up for tonight, the sofa and the TV were calling you. You head into the kitchen rummaging through the fridge to see what sad meal you would cook up tonight. You pull out a box of Chinese leftovers, they still smell good. You tip them on a plate throwing it in the microwave as you pour yourself a glass of wine. Turning the TV on channel surfing when your phone starts ringing, you go to pick it up. It’s not a number you know but you swallow your nerves accepting it in case it’s about a job. 

“Hello?” You say.

“Hello is this Dani” A male voice comes through the other end.

“Yeah,” You reply feeling nervous all of a sudden, you sip the wine. 

“You applied for the office admin job?” The voice says back. You have to think for a second, he can’t mean the job you literally applied for less then 10 minutes ago. You look back over at the laptop screen the e-mail still open.

“Hello?” the voice says.

“Yes, sorry yeah, wow I didn’t expect to hear back so quickly.”

“Yeah, we need someone to start immediately, can you come down for an interview tomorrow?” 

“Sure what time?” You ask, you need this job, you need to get back on your feet. 

“I’ll message you the time, and the address.” He says, you hear noise in the background sounds like a door slamming.

“Thank you,” you say as you hear the microwave beep. 

“No problem, see you tomorrow.” He says and hangs up the phone. You take your food out the microwave and flop down on the sofa tuning into whatever soap was playing on the TV. You’re halfway through your food when you get a text with the address and a time. 10am. You copy the address and put it into google, now is a better time then ever to find out about this company. Special Delivery Service, SDS, you don’t know why that makes you chuckle, it makes you think of DFS, the sofa company. The address is close by only a few streets actually, you could walk there in about 20 minutes, that’s convenient at least. From the looks of the website it’s a commercial delivery company. ‘Discretion is our specialty’ it says as you continue reading, there is not much info just how to contact them for a quote. The pictures are mainly stock images bar the logo.

You’d never heard of them before but it’s not exactly like you’re in the market for commercial deliveries, it has good ratings though, that means something. You throw the phone to the side turning back to the TV. This was good, this is a good start it’s what you need to move on, maybe even a fresh start. It feels like the right time, newly out of toxic relationship, made redundant, all in less then a month.

Maybe you could use a nice change of pace, or maybe you would go to the interview tomorrow and it will be a complete waste of time. Either way it’s a step in the right direction and at least your mum will be happy you’ve found a job, you’re pretty sure she was dreading the thought of having to financially support you until you were back on your feet. Now you were definitely hoping the interview would will go well, the thought of having to rely on your mother to support you was the worst. You would rather ask your ex, Lord knows he owes you one. You finish the food and lounge around watching TV until you start to dose off. You peal yourself off the couch heading into bed, a good nights rest will do you good, besides you want to make a good impression tomorrow. 

—————————— 

You get to the building early, it’s sunny weather for once and you can see the large doors to the building flung open. You peak in and see delivery vans, the whole place looks like it was an ex-mechanic shop. A figure catches the corner of your eye, he’s talking to another man walking across the floor, you can’t hear what they’re saying but the shorter man seems enthusiastic about something. Before you can get a better look they disappear out of your line of sight. You look over to what you assume is the customer entrance, and walk in. There is a man sat behind the counter, he seems distracted by something angrily typing on a computer. He sighs as you reach the desk, his eyes flicking up to you, he scoots back in the chair.

“How can I help?” He asks, his demeanour changing, he’s got a nice smile. 

“I’m here for an interview,” You say suddenly feeling nervous. He nods getting up.

“Yeah of course, come through.” He says opening a hidden door in the counter and you walk though. He leads you through to the main room it still smells of fuel, this place definitely used to be a mechanic shop, you can see the covered up pits on the floor where they would access under the cars.

Your attention is drawn to the sound of laughing and you see the two men from earlier stood round a coffee machine. The taller man has his back turned to you while the shorter man is chuckling, hitting the taller man on the back. His eyes move to you, he’s fit, well built, tanned skin, he runs his hand through his slick mohawk, you could have swore he just winked at you. You turn your attention back to the man leading you as you reach a metal staircase.

The second floor-if you can even call it that-is furnished with sofa’s and a kitchenette, you can see a dart board and what looks like a pool table. Looks like a cool place to hangout. You feel bad for not asking the man his name as he leads you an office door. He knocks and you both wait. 

“Come in!” a voice calls, you think you recognise it, its the same person you spoke to on the phone yesterday. The door opens and you walk in. You look at the man sat behind the desk, he looks older then the other people you’ve seen, his beard makes him look older then you suspect for some reason, you can see the bags under his eyes like he could do with long nap.

“Thanks Kyle,” He says as you walk in. Okay, his name was Kyle you’d have to remember that. He nods leaving the room closing the door behind you. The man behind the desk gets up as you walk over to him. He comes round putting his hand out for you to shake it.

“John Price,” he says as he nods at you smiling. You nod back.

“Sit please, coffee? Tea?” He gestures to the chair and walks back round the desk. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” You look up at him smiling as you sit down. His office walls are massive windows looking down on the room below you can see people moving around now opening the back of the vans. You look back up at him as he takes a paper in his hand. 

“3 years as a supply chain manager, studied business in college, pretty impressive.” He says putting the paper back down. 

“Thank you,” you say, not that it’s really that impressive the only reason you did a business course was to make your parents happy. You had no idea what you wanted to do when you finished secondary school. 

“So do you have any experience in warehouse management?” He asks leaning forward on the desk. 

“Well at my last job towards the end, there was a lot of inventory organisation and I was pretty much left in charge of clearing the whole place out before the business went under.” You say, you’re not sure if that’s what he’s expecting, to be honest with the little research you managed to do and the vague job posting you were not sure what to expect. 

“The jobs pretty simple. There are three main aspects, the first is the most important; the clients send us a list of good they need transporting, it’ll be your job to assign it to a driver then create the invoices, paperwork, the system is already pretty automatic. A lot of it is just data entry if I’m being honest.” You smile at him as he continues, so far it seems like a pretty easy job. 

“The second part is when a client sends a special request, the system is not set up to handle them yet so they can come through as errors, with just an e-mail address attached. If you can assign them to someone great if not forward them on to me. The system will let you know if a driver has available delivery slots.” You nod as he finishes, you could handle this, data entry, assigning jobs to people, easy. 

“Sounds good so far.” You reply. He nods. 

“The last part is just your general office admin work, you’ll man the front desk, answer the phone, the boys will tell you if they need supplies ordering that kind of stuff. The hours are standard 9 to 5, 5 days a week, we’re closed Saturday Sunday.” He says spinning round in his chair and taking some paper from the printer. 

“I live close by actually it’s really convenient.” You say. 

“That’s nice, if you want the job I have a contract ready, you can start tomorrow then you’ll have the weekend off.” He says spinning back round straightening the paper out. That’s sudden, the job did say start immediately though, and you really need this job. 

“Of course, that’s great.” You say smiling, hoping he can’t see your hesitation. He pushes the stack of papers towards you, you flick through the first few pages of standard workers rights. 

“You’ll get 2 weeks paid vacation a year, sick leave and maternity leave should you need it kick in after a month of probation.” He explains, pretty standard. You flick through it to the end page with the salary break down. Holy shit! 

“The job requires a certain level of…Discretion.” He explains. “You’re compensated for the inconvenience.” 

“What like I can’t tell people were I work?” You ask confused. He looks at you like he’s trying to think of what to say. 

“We have clients who expect their information to be handled, appropriately. On top of that some of your colleagues like to keep their work and home life separate.” He says eventually, you frown. That’s strange and he didn’t answer your question. You nod like you understand though, regardless you’ll take the 'hush money.' Especially since you’ll be making more then you’ve never made for what is basically a data entry job, and maybe having to answer the phone a few times. It almost seems to good to be true. You skim over the rest of the legal jargon and company rules. 

“Any questions?” He asks as you pick up a pen, you shake your head and sign both pieces of the paper, then hand it to him. He smiles signing it too and ripping off one of the pages handing it back to you. 

“One last thing.” He says hesitating for a second. “Do you have a criminal record?” 

“No,” you shake your head. He stands nodding and you get up too, as he walks round the desk, heading for the door to his office and you follow him. 

“I’ll get one of the boys to show you round before you leave.” He says opening the door.

“MacTavish!” He calls as you follow him out the room. You watch as a man appears at the bottom of the steps, it’s the guy from earlier who was laughing. He’s defiantly good looking there’s no denying it. 

“Come show our new recruit around.” He nods coming up the stairs. 

“If you have any questions let me know and I’ll e-mail you a full copy of your contract.” John says as he puts his hand out and you shake it. 

“I will thank you,” you smile and he heads back into his office. 

“John MacTavish!” The man says extending his hand out to you, he’s got an accent for a second you look at him confused.

“Another John?” You ask as you shake his hand. 

“Aye, most people call me Johnny though.” He winks. Now you’re sure he winked at you earlier. He walks round you over to the sofa’s and the pool table. 

“This is where we chill out between deliveries, or just in general. Do you play?” He asks pointing at the pool table. 

“Once or twice, at the pub.” You say. You’re still trying to pin his accent, Welsh or Scottish? You’re too embarrassed to ask. He comes back over to you and you see he’s walking with a limp, it’s especially obvious as you follow him down the steps and he has to grip the banister for support. 

“This is were we load the vans up with anything we need, toilets over there and next to them is the store room.” He says pointing to the rooms directly under the upstairs office. There are metal shelves filled with all different kinds of things from basic office supplies to what looks like medical equipment and machinery. The store room door is the only door you’ve seen with a key-code lock on it, makes sense. There is a long table surrounded by chairs and a projector against a far wall. You look over to see another man sat at the table typing on a laptop. 

“This is Simon, Simon Riley.” Johnny says as he takes you over. He’s wearing a hoodie pulled over his head and a black surgical mask. Maybe he’s a clean freak? Or maybe this was what John meant by ‘Your colleagues like to keep their work and home life separate.’ You extend your hand out too him as you approach. 

“Nice to meet you.” You say, he looks up at you for a second. His eyes are beautiful, a dark caramel, thick eyebrows and you can see strands of blonde hair peaking out from under his hood. He shakes your hand, his grip is firm, you swallow hard. He’s giving off a different vibe then the rest of the people you’ve met so far, you almost want to run away from him. 

“Don’t worry about him he’s always grumpy in the morning.” Johnny says leaning into your ear. Simon rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to typing on the laptop. John, Johnny, Simon and Kyle, you repeat the names in your head so they’re burned into your memory. Johnny continues his tour showing you round the main floor, you were right as he explained the building used to be a mechanics until they took it over. Before that it was an abandoned munitions processing plant from the second world war. The building did look old, stylish red brick, huge arched windows that let in a lot of natural light. The doors were even old on rollers, thick and wooden. The more you looked around the more it reminded you of the old workhouses you’d seen in history books. Johnny leads you through to the lobby, the only part of the building that seems to have been renovated in the last 10 years. 

“This is Kyle Garrick, we call him Gaz.” Johnny says as Kyle stands up and you shake his hand. He’s fit too, dark skinned, short hair and he’s got a lovely smile, London accent you can tell he’s local too. 

“This will be where you work.” Johnny says pulling the chair out. 

“I’m sure Price will give you the rundown tomorrow on how the system works, we’re still working on getting it up and running properly.” Johnny says enthusiastically. You nod looking round at the desk, there is a large printer/photocopier in the corner and a plant that looks like it’s seen better days. At least the computer is up to date and honestly you can work with this. 

“So nervous for your first day?” Johnny asks as Kyle sits back down. 

“Not really.” You say smiling. 

“Good lass, that’s what we like to hear!” Johnny says patting you on the shoulder. Scottish, definitely Scottish. Kyle chuckles as he goes back to typing on the computer. You feel like now is the best time to take your leave. You thank Johnny and tell them both you’ll see them tomorrow. 

“Wait a second lass, here.” Johnny reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card.

“Any questions drop me a message.” He smiles. You nod pocketing the card and heading out. You look back at the building as you leave seeing Johnny wave, you wave back awkwardly. Why would anyone care about keeping there home and work life separate when you work for a simple delivery company? You think back to Simon with the mask, maybe he’s just hygienic? Regardless it was a good job, close to home and good pay. You wouldn’t have to rely on your mum or your ex to get you through the month. At least that was a weight off your shoulders.  

—————————— 

Later that evening your mother calls.

“Hey mum.” You say as you reluctantly pick up the call, not really feeling in the mood for her energetic energy, especially after Johnny’s enthusiastic tour.   

“Hey sweetie! I was just thinking about you today and I thought I would call to tell you, Anne from church has a job opening at her son’s restaurant. You know Chris? He works at that nice Italian place, well I said you were looking for a job and Anne said she would put in a good word.” You sigh as you let your mother talk. 

“It’s okay mum I got a job today actually. I went for an interview and they offered me the job on the spot.” You say.

“Oh sweetie that’s amazing where is it?” She asks, you pause, maybe telling your over sharing mother about a job you were warned required discretion was not the best idea. 

“It’s just a small firm in the city centre, they were looking for a logistical analyst.” You say lying through your teeth. 

“Oh well that sounds fancy, I hope it pays well if you’ll have to be trudging into the centre of London everyday.” You hear her chuckle.

“It does mum don’t worry, I start tomorrow actually.” 

“That’s fantastic, I’m sure you’ll do great.” 

“Thanks mum.” You say smiling. There’s a pause on the line.

“Have you spoken to Joe?” She asks, you sigh. 

“No mother I have not spoken to him since we broke up.” You reply bitterly wanting to end the conversation now.  

“He’s been asking about you, you blocked him or ignored him or something but sweetie I think you should talk to him he misses you.” You sigh, of course he’s turned on your mum, your sweet mother who couldn’t hurt a fly and always sees the best in people. Even toxic abusers. 

“I’ll think about it mum, look I have to go I have an early start tomorrow.” You say.

“Okay well get a good rest and good luck for tomorrow I love you.” She says.

“I love you too,” you reply and hang up.

That night you dream of your ex. You’re still with him trapped in the cycle of wake, make him happy, work, make him happy, sleep, repeat. The verbal abuse, the physical abuse, the days he would lock you in the bathroom for hours on end.

You took the lock off the door when he moved out. You’re not sure why it just felt like the right thing to do. You bought a deadbolt for the front door and no longer sleep with the windows open, fearing he could scale the apartment building to get to you. That’s what he does in your dreams, he gets around all the precautions you put in place. You dream of him being in your space, questioning everything you do, insisting on checking your phone and e-mails, even your work ones. Anytime a male’s name came up he would grill you about it for hours, no matter what you said it always felt like he never believed you. But then he would make you feel good, take you to the bedroom and treat you like a princess and it was like he was a different person. 

‘He’s just protective sweetie’ your mother says. ‘He loves you.’ The bruises on your arm would say otherwise, wearing turtle necks in summer became your fashion statement for at least a year. ‘He probably doesn’t mean it have you tried talking to him?’ Your brother was no better, to busy with uni to care, too much of a mans man to understand. He’s gone now though and that’s what you have to remember, it’s easier said then done. 

 —————————— 

The next morning you show up early. Your body feels heavy after the restless night. You walk in seeing John bent over Kyle’s shoulder as their looking at something on the computer behind the counter. 

“Hey, maybe you can figure this out, we’ve been trying to get these documents to copy over and it’s just not working.” Price says as he steps back you walk round watching Kyle trying to drag and drop a file into a folder. An administrative error pops up. 

“Mind if I?” You gesture for Kyle to move he holds his hands up rolling away on the chair as you try again. You’re not the most competent with computers but you could probably figure it out. You try compressing the file first then moving it and it works. 

“What did you do?” Kyle asks.

“I think the file was too big so I compressed it, do you need it sent in an e-mail?” You ask looking at John.

“Yes please if you don’t mind.” You nod. 

“Coffee?” Kyle asks as he gets up out the seat heading into the main building. 

“Yes please.” You say turning to smile at him and pulling the chair over so you can sit down. Price explains how everything works as you get situated. He shows you the documents on the computer for how to answer the phone, and deal with walk in requests. The ‘system’ they have set up for assigning deliveries is basically just a glorified spreadsheet which is good, you can work with that it’s not too far out of your comfort zone. 

“If you have any questions just call, there is a direct line to my office if you press 1 on the phone.” You nod trying to take it all in as Kyle comes back with a cup of coffee. 

“I didn’t know how you took it so I just did milk.” He says. 

“That’s fine thank you.” You reply, as he places it next to you. Then heads back. John tells you again to ask if you need anything then also leaves you too it. You’re looking through the computer making sure you defiantly understand everything when Simon and Johnny walk in. 

“Morning,” you say to them smiling.

“Morning lass, guess we didn’t scare you away yesterday!” Johnny beams, he seems to have too much energy especially compered to Simon who is still sporting his hoodie and mask combo. His eyes lock onto you as he walks through the lobby, his glare sending shivers down your spine. In a strange way, you’re not scared of him, more intrigued. He walks through the counter to the main floor without saying anything. 

“Sorry, he’s a rude bastard when he hasn’t had a coffee yet.” Johnny says.

“It’s okay,” you shake your head. You look through the window into the main floor watching Gaz open the large garage doors out to the street. 

“Hey, if we’re both around at 12 want to get lunch together? I know this great sandwich place down the road my treat!” Johnny says. You nod, he really has a way of putting you at ease with his palpable bubbly energy. 

“Right, I’ll see ya then lass,” he says and he heads through. 

The morning goes quick or maybe it’s because everything feels so new and foreign that it takes you a lot of concentration to make sure you’re doing it right. Before you even try to do anything you’re already calling John in his office about the names, instead of it being Johnny, Simon and Kyle, it’s Gaz, Soap and Ghost. Gaz you remember but the other two it’s a 50/50. John laughs and tells you Soap is Johnny and Ghost is Simon.

Each time you give them a job they stick their heads round the door to pick up the invoice, you try to make it a habit of printing it out as soon as you assign the job, so it’s ready when they come in. You purposely give Simon a job over lunch so Johnny is free, it’s a little cheeky for your first day but you wouldn’t mind spending more time with Johnny. 

When lunch comes around Johnny shows you how to set the phone to go to Price’s office and you both leave. The shop is right round the corner but by this time of the day it’s packed with people on their lunch break, you order your sandwiches to go and head back to work to eat them there. You’re both sat upstairs in on the sofa’s, it is nice up here and you can see down to the floor below you gives you something to watch while you eat. 

“How’s your first day been so far then?” Johnny asks.

“Fine, it’s just getting used to the system that might take a while.” You confess.

“Yeah, you’re doing great though, my jobs have been smooth and easy all day.” He says. You nod. 

“So how did you all meet?” You ask.

“Now that’s a story!” He says sitting up in his chair. 

“We were all military together, SAS.” He says. That explains the company name Special Delivery Service, you chuckle it’s cute, funny now you get it.

“Why’d you quit?” You ask. 

“Our time was up we chose not to re-enlist, it was Simon’s idea to start a delivery company, something easy we could do in retirement.” He says smiling at your interest. 

“Did you ever kill anyone?” You ask, but then immediately regret it, you don’t know if that’s an appropriate question to ask. Johnny just laughs.

“Someone's got to deal with the bad guys.” He says winking. 

“Don’t mean they didn’t fight back. Got a nice fucked up knee to show for it.” Johnny says slapping his left leg. That explains the limp he always has when hes walking. 

“Has John always been your boss?” You ask moving it away from killing people and being shot.

“Price, yeah he was our captain, it just felt right letting him continue to tell us what to do.” Johnny explains, chuckling. You nod listening to him talk about their life in the military, he’s careful not to go too into specifics, but enough for you to understand it seemed like it was quite a dangerous job. Johnny mentioned something about bombs at one point, that’s scary. 

“I bet you travelled a lot though?” You ask finishing your sandwich. 

“Oh yeah! That was one of the perks I guess, been all over the place, met some great people.” Johnny says naming a bunch of countries off. You watch as Simon comes back reversing the van into the bay. He jumps out and heads straight into the store room. That reminded you you needed to ask for the code. Johnny gets up checking his watch and throwing his trash in the bin. 

“Got a delivery to make, I’ll see you later.” He says heading to the stairs. You nod smiling. When you’re done you knock on John’s door before you head downstairs. 

“Come in!” He calls. You go in, for some reason you get this feeling like you’re back at school walking into a teachers office about to ask them for the key to the storage room to get more paper. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks smiling, it almost immediately puts you at ease. 

“Good, I was just wondering, the store room, Johnny showed me yesterday but he didn’t give me the code.” You explain. Price nods his head. 

“You don’t need the code, it’s for the drivers only, it’s where we keep, sensitive equipment.” He explains. You nod feeling heat rush to your cheeks, maybe you should have asked Johnny instead saved yourself the embarrassment of this conversation. 

“Got it, thank you.” You nod leaving the room and closing the door behind you. What kind of sensitive equipment? You hadn’t seen anyone moving anything in or out of there, and you’re pretty sure you saw Simon go in empty handed just now. You’re just more curious then ever. You look down the steps at Simon making his way up with a mug of tea in his hand. You wait until he has reached the top of the stairs before heading down. You smile at him, you can’t tell if he’s smiling back with the mask but you’re assuming he’s not. You make your way back down as he walks into John’s office without knocking. 

The rest of the day seems to go by slower, your mind obsessing over the store room for some reason. It’s like an itch you need to scratch, you find yourself looking over to check it now and again. You get a few of those ‘special request’s’ John warned you about, you try to assign them but it doesn’t work. Clearly the system does not like it so you send them off to John. It’s almost like they’re encrypted, maybe you could figure out how to fix it and stop the system from freezing up every time it happens, a task for next week you think.

Jobs stop coming through around 3 and you spend the last few hours of your shift catching up on the other part of your admin job, then you find yourself cleaning the coffee machine. Johnny and Gaz leave early, apparently this is normal for Friday, you wish them a good weekend as they leave going out the vehicle entrance closing the garage doors behind them. You head to use the bathroom next, as you’re washing your hands you hear the door of the store room beep open and the sound of feet running in and out. You hear it open but you don’t hear it close.

You hold your breath, could it be? It’s open. You’re excited for some reason. You quickly slip out cracking the door. Sure enough the door didn’t fully close it’s stuck on the latch. Your curiosity gets the better of you, you can’t help it. You look round quickly, you don’t see anyone, you don’t hear anyone. You push the door open, it’s dark you can’t see inside. You take a step in and an automatic light flicks on. You gasp as you look around the room. It’s way bigger then you expected, so big there is enough room for a table in the middle. Each part of the wall is covered in weapons, knifes, somethings you don’t even know what they would be but they look scary.

The hairs are standing up on the back of your neck, it’s almost like your fight or flight has kicked in as your eyes widen. There are crates everywhere some open with what look like boxes of ammo. You let out a breath feeling fear rise in you, maybe it was airsoft? You move to look in one of the crates near the entrance. Nope those are real bullets. You shouldn’t have seen this you feel panic rising. This is bad and very illegal. You start to back out the room, slowly you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Your body hits something, not something someone. You hear a sigh. 

“And what do you think you’re doing?” It’s Simon. You slowly turn his head is tilted to the side his brow creased as his gaze burns into you. Fuck.

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