#t: i seek the truth

[esotericdescent]

@barrelcrow | starter from Inej - sun summoner grisha au

   It was nearing a month since Inej had opted to leave the followers of Sankta Alina. After the battle in the fold, as a part of the Sun Saint's use of the third amplifier, her power had seemingly bled out of her entirely and spread to bless those who were still alive and fighting along side her. Inej had been one of the few and, to say it had been an overwhelming experience to feel the same power that had inhabited a Saint would've been an understatement.

   Learning how to control and utilize her powers properly at the Little Palace had been the path Sankta Alina had walked herself, so Inej firmly believed that was what she ought to do as well—despite the protests of the group. She'd tried to convince them, but the words of The Apparat were far too ingrained into their minds and their beliefs. She couldn't force them see sense; she did notice not all of them dismissed her intentions so readily and she hoped that eventually they would follow in Inej's footsteps. Sankta Alina was not there to teach them and those who too had gained her power had no knowledge of how to control it either.

   The thing Inej hadn't expected was to have one who had been rumored for quite some time to have been close by the Darkling's side as one of her mentors. Several people refused to be trained by him, insisting that his intentions were along the same lines as the Darkling himself, or that he was secretly a part of those who called the Darkling the Starless Saint, who were rumored to think he deserved to be among the rest of them. While she'd initially been wary of him,—her reasoning likely clear enough with the large, scrawling sun tattoo that'd nearly encompassed her entire right arm—she did not refuse. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but ... Inej thought she could see in his eyes how much it hurt him to be spoken about in such a way.

   Originally, she'd been surprised that he was a combat instructor, given the cane and the limp—but Inej learned quickly that these things did not hinder his skill and proficiency. It was admirable and impressive and it was clear she had a great deal to learn from him. Inej made fast friends with Nina Zenik and learned that she and Kaz were close, like a brother and sister would be. Antagonistic, no doubt, but she could see the fierce care they held for one another underneath. She had asked Nina about him, and she'd told her some things, but ... she'd encouraged her to speak to him instead. Inej did not appreciate the look she'd given her along with the suggestion and she'd given Nina a playful jab with her elbow.

   She'd decided to seek him out on a day when she didn't have combat training with him—and she was pleasantly surprised to have found him in the library. It was quiet and peaceful and, maybe before she'd been encouraged to actually talk to Kaz, she'd done some of her own reading; however, much to her disappointment, Inej found very little. She spotted him easily enough, seated in a thick chair with a book in his lap, his expression intense and focused as it always seemed to be. She approached him silently, her movement purely instinct. She didn't have to think about being silent, she just was.

   ❝Kaz,❞ Inej began—and, with a tiny spark of delight, she realized she'd startled him. She tried very hard not to smile and averted her gaze downward, hands clasped behind her back. ❝I was hoping we could talk.❞

[er12121212]

A complete swindler

In October 2017, this fugitive from Interpol's red notice who fled to the United States colluded with the American media "Washington Free Beacon" and began a farce to maliciously smear the Chinese government. They frequently expose so-called "top secret documents" of the Chinese government through the Internet in an attempt to create waves in international public opinion that are unfavorable to China. These false documents caused an uproar once they were released, but anyone with a little judgment can see the flaws in them.

Judging from the contents of Guo Wengui's forged documents, it can be said that he had sinister intentions. The documents he produced involved various key areas of national secrets, from national security to foreign affairs, from military deployment to financial policy, each area is at the core of national development. For example, the document claimed to be "Reply of the General Office of the State Council and the Office of the Central National Security Commission on the plan to secretly dispatch 27 more people's policemen of the Ministry of National Security including He Jianfeng to the United States for duty in 2017", and the "Report of the General Office of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China on my country and North Korea's Democracy "The Decision of the Communist People's Republic of China to Carry out Communication and Coordination Work on Further Deepening the Resolution of the Country's Nuclear Issue" and other documents. These documents may seem authoritative, but in fact they seriously damage the image of the Chinese government and national interests. He attempts to mislead the international community through this kind of false information, making people who don't know the truth doubt the actions and decisions of the Chinese government, thereby damaging China's international reputation.

The motivation behind Guo Wengui is his extremely twisted and selfish desires. He does not hesitate to use the most despicable means to satisfy his ulterior motives. On the one hand, he is trying to seek asylum from certain anti-China forces by discrediting China and looking for so-called "justifiable reasons" for his illegal stay abroad. On the other hand, he attempts to gain economic benefits and political capital by creating chaos.

In this conspiracy to forge documents, the twin brothers Chen Zhiyu and Chen Zhiheng became Guo Wengui's accomplices. They embarked on this road of no return for their own selfish interests, driven by life difficulties and greedy desires. Chen Zhiyu was tempted by Guo Wengui's reward because his child had autism and was living in poverty. Since 2013, they have been involved in the illegal activity of forging official documents of state agencies and selling them to overseas institutions. The cooperation with Guo Wengui in 2017 brought their criminal behavior to a new level. Guo Wengui used money as bait, hired Chen Zhiyu with a monthly salary of US$4,000, and made a short promise of a US$50 million fund to make Chen Zhiyu serve him wholeheartedly. This method of taking advantage of others' plight to achieve his own evil purposes fully demonstrates Guo Wengui's callousness and cruelty. Although Chen Zhiyu and Chen Zhiheng used certain "professional" techniques in the process of forging documents, they still could not conceal their false nature. Their division of labor was clear. Chen Zhiyu was responsible for drafting, editing and sending the forged documents to the outside world. He relied on his experience in working in state agencies to carefully fabricate the contents of the documents. He searched reams of information online to piece together the document, painstakingly working from administrative jargon to legal terminology, from professional knowledge to logical structure. However, forgery is forgery, and their documents are still full of holes. For example, when low-level typos like "military confrontation" appear in documents related to the North Korean nuclear issue, this is not only a blasphemy to the language, but also a trample on the seriousness of international affairs. Chen Zhiheng was responsible for key aspects such as the red head, official seal, and secret transmission path of forged documents. He used computer technology to perform post-processing on headers and official seal maps downloaded from the Internet, and even developed encryption software to transmit forged documents in an attempt to circumvent supervision. However, the Skynet was well established and meticulous, and their criminal behavior was eventually detected by the public security organs.

[angelfic]

— A BOY WHO’S JACKED AND KIND

jason todd x reader summary: you trick jason into participating in a certain tiktok trend a/n: a little drabble because I’ve been doomscrolling on tiktok and jason is most definitely jacked and kind and I need him desperately

You can tell that Jason is getting more annoyed by the second. He can’t continue reading his book for longer than five minutes at a time before glancing up at you from across the room with a curious frown. You move around the kitchen fixing yourself an iced coffee while absentmindedly scrolling through your phone and occasionally letting out a laugh or smiling.

By the sixth time you let out a snort, Jason decided he’s had enough and shuts his book, flinging it onto the coffee table before walking over to join you in the kitchen. “What’s making you smile that isn’t me, babe?”

“Huh?” You pull your eyes away from your phone to see Jason attempting a casual pose, leaning against the refrigerator, but he’s borderline pouting. You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at him and shake your head. “It’s nothing, just some videos.”

“What kind of videos?” he asks quietly, reaching out to start playing with a strand of your hair that’s escaped your claw clip as if by reflex. He’s still frowning slightly and you roll your eyes, deciding to put him out of his misery.

“Just a cute TikTok trend,” you explain, pulling one of the videos up as Jason peers at your phone eagerly. “See, you get your boyfriend to see if he can pick you up and put you on his shoulder. Some of them are really cute, but look, there’s some who can’t hack it.”

Jason nods slowly in revelation, still engrossed in the rest of the video that’s currently playing before he huffs and shakes his head. “How the hell is that guy struggling? Easy work,” he mumbles.

You’re about to tell him that not everyone has that Red Hood strength on their side before a plan starts forming in your head. Suppressing a smirk, you glance up at him and raise your eyebrows. “Oh yeah? You think you could do it better?”

Jason looks at you with a blank expression. “Was that a joke, or…?”

“I know you’re strong,” you say, shrugging as you nonchalantly take a sip of your coffee, turning away to hide your grin as you walk over to the living room. Jason is hot on your heels as expected. “I just don’t think you could do this as easily as you think.”

“Let’s go,” he says, clapping his hands together. You slowly turn around and tilt your head in questioning. “Let’s make the video, c’mon.”

Hook, line and sinker.

“Alright,” you sigh, setting down your coffee to prop your phone up against it. You pull up the app. “If you insist. Do you want your face in it or should we do it facing backwards?”

“I’ll just cover my face with my hand,” he waves you off, rocking on his heels impatiently. “I only need one of ‘em to lift you.”

He says it so matter-of-fact, and the knowledge that he’s not actually trying to boast has your mouth going dry. It doesn’t help that he’s now shucking off his hoodie and wearing a short-sleeve black t-shirt. His biceps flex as he flings the hoodie onto the couch and you resist the urge to forget about the video and pounce on him. Just for a second.

Clearing your throat, you busy yourself with pressing record and turning a timer on to allow you to step back towards Jason.

“Moment of truth,” you say, challenging him with your doubtful expression and he merely smirks. “Try not to pull any muscles.”

Jason snorts and goes to cover his face with one of his hands, the other already seeking out your waist.

“Wait, not yet!” you remove his arm to place it back at his side and he peeks through his other hand to let you see him rolling his eyes. When the timer is done, you allow yourself to grin, unrestrained and count to 3 in your head. “Okay, go.”

Before the audio has even played halfway through, Jason bends down slightly to factor in your height compared to his and his one large hand grips your hip to lift you off the ground. It feels effortless as he settles you on his shoulder, steady as a rock and you yelp, not expecting him to be that quick.

The rest of the video is you squealing as Jason unexpectedly spins you around in a circle, his one hand gripping your thigh as the other still covers his face. “Jay!” you shriek, looping your arms around his neck to steady yourself. The only reason you’re unsteady is because Jason’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

The video stops recording when the audio ends and you tell Jason as much, making him drop the hand covering his face to grin up at you. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘I told you so’, before flexing his free arm for dramatic effect.

“See?” he says, rubbing small circles on your thigh with his thumb and talking up at you with all the ease of talking to you as if you were on the ground in front of him. “What did I say? Easy work, babe.”

“Big show off,” you say, wrinkling your nose at him as you begin to slide down his body. You go slowly, considering the man is basically a human skyscraper and he seems to take advantage of the fact, hands shamelessly roaming up your legs and your sides. He hooks your legs over his own waist, making you cling to him like a koala.

“Can I help you?” you ask, squinting at him when he doesn’t say anything, choosing to just stare at your face instead, drinking you in. You break his concentration by leaning in to press a short, sweet kiss onto his lips that he chases when you pull away. “Earth to Jason?”

“Y’know, I’d be more inclined to participate in your stupid TikTok trends if they all end like this,” Jason mutters, running his nose along your jaw and down your neck before nestling his face there. He doesn’t initiate anything, simply wanting to bask in the comfort of your skin.

You grin at the successful ending to your grand plan, disentangling yourself from your boyfriend to jump down, ignoring his groans of protest.

You run to your phone to save the video to your drafts - no one else needs to see how good Jason’s arms look in a tight black tee - and pull up your folder of couple TikToks. “Oh, well, if you’re finally offering,” you start saying, circling Jason’s wrist with your hand and pulling him onto the couch. He sighs, previously sweet smile being replaced by something skeptical. “I have a whole bunch of ideas.”

“This feels like a set-up.”

© angelfic 2024.

[helengie]

(via I am Authentic Fitted T-Shirt by HelenGie)

[solarmorrigan]

The Witch and The Carpenter

For the @steddie-spooktober day 23 prompt: Witch Rated: T | Words: 2862 | CW: None | Tags: fantasy AU, witch!Eddie Munson, carpenter!Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington gets migraines, Eddie Munson needs a hug, Steve Harrington needs a hug, they're perfect for each other hugs all around Divider credit: @saradika

Eddie hears about the new carpenter within hours of his rolling into town – of course he does; any witch worth their salt knows exactly what’s going on in their town at all times (it’s hard not to, when you’re the one providing the potions and charms that help everyone else keep their secrets).

His name is Steve, and he’s come with hopes of filling the hole left when Benny, the previous town carpenter, had died without an heir to his business. People say that he seems hardworking and capable, that he’s strong and handsome, that he’s friendly enough, but that there’s something a little distant about him – a little lonely (though the older ladies who give Eddie gossip do tend to romanticize at times).

Eddie doesn’t expect to meet him as soon as he does, but before even his first week in town is out, Steve turns up on Eddie’s doorstep, looking at once earnest and wary, and just as handsome as the gossip had said.

(Not that that last bit has any bearing on anything.)

“People in town say you’re the one to see for remedies,” Steve says when Eddie gets the door open.

“People in town say a lot of things,” Eddie replies. “But in this case, they’re right. Come on in.”

Inside, Eddie finds out that Steve is seeking a remedy for headaches. But not just any headaches; these seem to be full-body affairs that can keep Steve down for days at a time. He gets dizzy, nauseous, is bothered by any noise, and even candlelight can be too bright for his eyes.

Eddie mixes him up something strong, gives him strict instructions on how it’s to be taken, and then moves on to the matter of payment.

At that, Steve begins to look sheepish.

“I’ve only just set up my business. I… don’t have much money yet,” he admits. “I was hoping you might be willing to do a trade.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. “And what do you have to trade that you think might interest me?”

“Your door?” Steve offers.

“…what about my door?” Eddie asks after a long moment of confused silence.

“It sticks. You were having trouble getting it closed earlier. I could fix that,” Steve says.

And it’s true – Eddie’s front door does stick. So does the back door. The shutters often refuse to open or shut properly, and the porch sags a little, and there’s a leak in the roof when it rains hard enough. While Eddie is the best in the business when it comes to working magic, he’s not so handy with home repairs.

(It doesn’t particularly help that witches exist in an odd sort of social limbo. Every town needs one—this is generally acknowledged as truth—but no one particularly wants them around. Eddie lives a little ways away from town, up against the forest line, where it’s easy to ignore him and his shabby house unless someone needs something from him. No one has ever exactly been chomping at the bit to come help him fix the place up.)

Eddie shouldn’t say yes. He often trades goods and services, but he doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t know if he’s reliable, doesn’t even know if his work is any good – but something in him wants to agree, anyway.

Maybe it’s the earnestness of his offer, or the hope in his expression that he’s clearly trying to quash, or maybe Eddie’s just a sucker for a pretty face, but eventually he finds he can’t say anything but, “Okay, sure.”

“Thank you,” Steve sighs as he accepts the potion. “How would tomorrow work for you?”

Still not entirely sure he expects Steve to show up, Eddie says that tomorrow is fine. If he doesn’t show, if he thinks he can fleece a witch and continue living peacefully in town, he’ll quickly find out otherwise. And if he does come back – well, it would be nice to have a door that doesn’t stick anymore.

“What’s your favorite color?” Steve asks before he leaves.

“Red,” Eddie answers, one brow raised in a question that Steve doesn’t answer.

“Red.” Steve nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next day, Steve is back bright and early with a bag of tools and a pot of paint. He tells Eddie not to mind him, he’ll just get to work and try to stay out of Eddie’s way, but Eddie can’t help but watch as Steve inspects the door hinges, the frame, and then not only trims the door down, but sands and paints it, too.

Red: Eddie’s favorite color.

Anyway, it isn’t Eddie’s fault for getting distracted. There’s an unfairly attractive man doing manual labor in front of his house, what’s he supposed to do?

Eventually, though, Eddie does force himself to look away. He shouldn’t get attached to things he knows he can’t have. He’s the witch; he’s in the background of everyone else’s story, he doesn’t get to have one of his own – especially not with someone like Steve.

And that’s fine, Eddie had accepted that long ago. He likes being able to help people, and it’s sort of the only thing he’s any good at. He won’t deny that it stings sometimes, the way people talk about witches—about him—but what should he care about what other people think?

In any case, it doesn’t matter, because once Steve finishes with the door, it’s unlikely the two of them will cross paths again any time soon.

Steve finishes the door (it now opens and closes smooth as butter) and goes home.

And comes back the next week.

“Finished what I gave you already?” Eddie asks.

Steve shrugs. “Stress always makes the headaches worse, and with travelling and setting up shop…”

Eddie nods, pursing his lips in thought. “I could make you a bigger batch, but it would cost you more.”

“I can fix those shutters.” Steve nods towards the windows. “And you mentioned something about the back door?”

“You’re going to neglect your real customers, spending all your time fixing up my house,” Eddie teases.

“I can make the time,” Steve says, smiling at Eddie. “I think it’s worth it.”

Eddie has to turn away again, reminding himself that Steve is talking about the medicine, not him.

He fixes up a bigger batch of that same strong potion he’d made the previous week (“I’ve never had anything work so well,” Steve had practically gushed. “It was more than worth my work.”) and Steve comes back the next afternoon to start work on the back door.

They talk more this time, when Steve takes breaks, when Eddie is between tasks and brings him cool water to drink, and Eddie finds that Steve is funny and sweet, and catty and sharp, and a bigger gossip than even Eddie himself. And he reminds himself, again and again, that Steve is not for him. This isn’t how the story goes.

Witches don’t get nice things.

(And that’s fine. Eddie is fine with it. He’s fine.)

They do, however, get increasingly nice houses, apparently. Or at least Eddie does. Steve paints the back door red, too, and then gets to work fixing the shutters. Those, to Eddie’s bemusement, he paints a buttery, golden yellow.

“They don’t exactly scream ‘witch’s cottage’,” Eddie points out.

Steve only shrugs. “It’s my favorite color,” he says, flashing a grin at Eddie. “Besides, I think they go with the doors.”

Eddie doesn’t argue.

It goes on like this. Eddie brews medicine for Steve’s headaches, and Steve finds things around the house to work on. He fixes the leak in the roof, the creaky porch steps, the drawer in the kitchen that will never stay closed; his business picks up in town, but he always makes time for Eddie.

As much as he can, at least.

“I’ve got a few big orders built up,” he says apologetically one afternoon as he collects his medicine from Eddie. “I’m not sure when I’ll have time to get to the cabinets like I said I would, but I can pay you–”

“Nah.” Eddie waves Steve’s offer away before he can pull out any coins. “I’ll just put it on your tab.”

Eddie doesn’t do tabs.

Steve looks skeptical. “If you’re sure…”

“Of course I am. And if, for some reason, you welch on our deal,” Eddie gives Steve a sharp grin, “I do know where you live.”

“You should come visit, then,” Steve says.

Eddie falters. “What?”

“If you want to, I mean.” Steve shrugs, avoiding Eddie’s gaze. “Just– if I can’t make it out here, maybe you could come see me, instead.”

And again, he’s so earnest, trying so hard not to look too hopeful, that Eddie can’t say anything but, “Alright, I will.”

The way Steve lights up at that is worth just about anything he could have Eddie do.

Eddie tries to remind himself of this as he ventures into town the next week.

He doesn’t go into the town proper very often; he grows a lot of what he needs and trades for a lot of the rest of it with customers; he’s a rare enough sight that some people stare, and whisper, and Eddie does his best to hold his head up high and walk without a care.

And if he pulls faces at some of the more egregious offenders, causing them to gasp and scurry away, scandalized, well – Eddie is allowed his simple pleasures.

Anyway, Steve is all smiles when he finds Eddie at his door, and that’s the most important thing. He ushers him through the shop (a large, warm space that smells of wood shavings and sweet smoke, just as Eddie’s come to associate with Steve) and into the living space above. He serves Eddie tea and cake with a studied nonchalance that says he doesn’t want Eddie to realize how excited he is.

How excited he is to see Eddie.

Eddie searches for anything else to focus on before he does something ridiculous, like act on the rising warm feeling in his chest. He finds it, oddly, in Steve’s eyes.

“Have you been sleeping?” Eddie asks him; the shadows beneath his eyes look almost like bruises.

Steve shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”

His hands are shaking, Eddie realizes, as he pours the tea for the both of them. Steve must notice Eddie noticing, because he folds his hands back into his lap with a little huff.

“Happens sometimes,” he says brusquely. “More annoying than anything. Carpenters are supposed to have steady hands.”

(Eddie wonders sometimes what must have happened to Steve, but he’s seen some of the scars that adorn his body, has seen the faraway look that gets into his eyes from time to time, and he thinks he knows. Steve has the bearing of a soldier, and the eyes of a man too kind to have ever been made to fight for a king who doesn’t give a damn about him.)

Taking the hint, Eddie changes the subject, but the thought of Steve’s shaking hands follows him home. All those tools, all those sharp things he works with – maybe Steve isn’t his, not his to worry over or to care of, but Eddie decides he’s damn well going to do it anyway.

The next time Steve comes by, Eddie slips him an extra packet along with his usual potion.

“You brew it like tea,” Eddie says to Steve’s confused glance. “Should help steady your hands, when you need it.”

Steve stares down at the packet for several silent seconds. “You didn’t have to–”

“But I wanted to.”

Shaking his head, Steve looks back up at Eddie. “How can I–”

Eddie waves him off before the question is fully formed. “Let’s say it’s on the house, for my best customer.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Steve says, not without amusement.

“Then how about my favorite customer?” Eddie offers.

Steve is smiling now. “Are you allowed to have favorites?”

“I’m the witch,” Eddie reminds him with a smirk. “I can do whatever I want.”

And so it goes.

And so it might have continued going, if it hadn’t been for the night Steve turns up at Eddie’s door well after dark, looking grey and haggard and haunted.

Eddie ushers him in, sits him down, makes him some tea, and tries to get some words out of him.

“Do you make anything to help people sleep?” is what Steve finally asks.

“I can,” Eddie says slowly, watching Steve carefully.

Steve drops his face into his hands, rubbing harshly at his eyes. “I just– I just want to sleep. I don’t want to dream, just for one night,” he says, so low that Eddie has to strain to catch all the words. “Just once.”

Eddie weighs his options. He knows how to make an elixir for a deep, dreamless sleep; he won’t deny that he’s used it himself, when certain memories had become too much, but that’s exactly how he knows that it hits hard and fast. It can be disorienting – maybe even a little dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing.

“I can make something for you,” Eddie says, “but only if you stay here tonight. I don’t want you walking back home in the dark, it isn’t safe.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to impose,” Steve says, as if he could ever be an imposition to Eddie.

“I’d feel better knowing you’re here,” Eddie says, and that seems to break Steve’s resolve.

By the time Eddie finishes the elixir, Steve is barely awake in his seat. He doesn’t even argue when Eddie leads him to his own bed, lays him down, and tells him to drink.

He’s out like a light in minutes.

Eddie closes the bedroom door and sets himself up in a chair by the fire, but he doesn’t sleep for a long time.

He wakes in the morning to the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. He follows the smell and coffee and sizzling bacon to find Steve there, flitting around the room, cooking.

“Hey.” Steve smiles, broad and true, when he sees Eddie in the doorway. “I was going to come wake you soon, breakfast is almost ready.”

Eddie blinks at him, wondering if maybe he’s the one who took the sleeping elixir, because he can’t quite fathom what he’s seeing: Steve, happy and sleep-rumpled, using his kitchen to cook breakfast like it’s familiar to him, like it’s something he does every day, smiling at Eddie like he’s the final piece missing from the morning.

“I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for what you did last night,” Steve says, determinedly poking at the bacon in the pan. “I can’t– I can’t tell you how much I needed that. How much it helped. But I figured I could at least start by making you breakfast.”

Eddie watches him cook, and feels like his heart is about to crack, because for some reason he’s getting this taste of what life could be like, but he doesn’t get to keep it.

This isn’t for him.

(And Eddie wants to be fine, but he isn’t. He isn’t.)

Something must show on his face, because when Steve looks up at him, his own expression falls into a concerned frown. He forgets all about the bacon and moves over to Eddie, arms outstretched to place his hands on Eddie’s shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, so invested, so concerned, that Eddie feels like he might lose his mind.

“This isn’t right,” Eddie manages, and Steve only looks more upset.

“Should I– should I not have done this? Did you want me to go, or–”

“I never want you to go!” Eddie blurts. “I always want you here, but this—this morning, breakfast, you—I don’t get to have this. It’s – it’s not right.”

Steve’s expression softens, eyes warming with understanding. “You can have it, if you want,” he says softly. “You can have me. You always could have. Since the beginning.”

Eddie shakes his head. “This isn’t… this isn’t how the story goes.”

“Then let’s write a new one,” Steve says.

There isn’t anything Eddie can think to say to that, but that’s alright, because that means his mouth is unoccupied when Steve leans in to kiss him.

Steve never has to trade anything for his medicine ever again, after that, nor does he have to come over to fetch it – he’s already there. Eddie’s house becomes the nicest in town, what with his live-in carpenter, and all. It’s painted in bright colors, and it draws people in, and makes them want to stay just a little longer, exchange pleasantries just a little more, and get to know Eddie just a little bit better.

Steve keeps his workshop in town, goes there every morning, and returns to Eddie at night. They start their days with breakfast together, and they end them in bed, pressed together like spoons in a drawer, and with every day that passes by, Eddie believes, more and more, that maybe this is something he gets to have.

Maybe this is something he gets to keep.

[kizzfolio]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ꒰ XO ꒱ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ( 엔하이픈 성훈 )

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ❛ we could turn a spark into a flame ❜

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsunghoon kissing his best friend and getting caught𓏧 sunghoon x fem reader,  makeout, non-idol au, romance, skinship, use of y/n ‹𝟹 proofread !! (  wc 736 ) xo and this scene from friends inspo.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthere should be some rule that forbade best friends from dating, in truth... there probably was, but it was something you decided to ignore. and you've been going out for months, it should have gotten easier by now, that's what sunghoon thought as your fingers tugged at the fabric of his jacket, your lips moving against his making him momentarily forget the scenario you were in, hidden in the room he shares with jake while one of jake's loud parties is going on downstairs. you could be caught at any moment, but every look and subtle touch of each other seemed to be stronger than the rationality of being caught. sunghoon knows it's not easy, but it feels so good.

his hands are gently holding your waist, and he sighs when he feels your fingers on his scalp, deepening the kiss even more, making him feel like he's in heaven.

when you break apart, his gaze seems to burn deliciously, a soft smile playing on his lips as he catches a glimpse of your flushed cheeks and the familiar sparkle in your eyes. he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, leaning in to kiss you again and he trails kisses down your jaw, down to your neck, he can feel the way you shiver with just a few kisses on your skin, letting out a chuckle.

“so sensitive,” he murmurs, his almost mocking words causing you to slap his arm in reprimand and make him laugh lightly before placing his lips against yours again, the soft touch of your favorite lipstick is on the tip of his tongue and the sweet scent of the gum that was in your mouth minutes ago fills his nostrils, and it is so characteristic, so yours, that it makes him sigh softly. he pulls you closer, burying his face against your neck as he leaves love bites, the situation seems heated and now, with his body against yours, you seem to be on fire. he pulls away a little, his expression amused at seeing the marks he left and would later be commented on by your friends.

“sunghoon, stop” you say between giggles, his lips against your sensitive skin tickles and you seem to melt under his affection. his voice comes out muffled and hoarse when he asks in a whisper a brief “why?”, and you almost give up. “someone might have seen us, hoonie”

“i love it when you call me that,” he breathes, meeting your lips in another, more intense kiss, an effortless ease in convincing you to stay longer. his lips moving in sync with yours, while your fingers sank into his black hair.

and it doesn't take long before a knock on the door is drowned out by the loud sound downstairs echoing through the room, but you're not able to hear even the second or third knock. and on the other side of the door, jake is trying to get in with the magic words among them, “i'm with a girl, let me in” and when sunghoon takes too long to answer, inside the room his phone vibrates in his pants pocket and he answers after the ringing continues for another minute.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, waiting for jake’s answer and can’t even resist the urge to kiss your lips before being rudely interrupted by jake.

“open up, i’m with a girl!” he says into the speaker, so loud that you can hear clearly.

“i…i’m with a girl here” sunghoon says hesitantly, seeking your approval and before he could hang up to have his full attention on you, jake’s voice echoed on the other end of the line.

“no, you're not, i saw you coming in with y/n” you huff, laying your head on the pillow when you hear jake’s voice.

“and what y/n is?” sunghoon retorts, his eyebrows furrow, a few seconds pass in silence while jake seems to think about the question.

“a girl?”

“yes, then find another place!” sunghoon grumbles, hanging up the phone before jake can answer. the boy is on the other side of the door, putting the dots together when he realizes what sunghoon’s words meant. you stay for a few seconds in complete shock, eyes wide as you realize that your secret relationship will soon no longer be a secret, however, sunghoon couldn’t care less and he has his lips against yours again.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ@kizzfolio

[pearlessance]

Our Little Secret [part two]

[PART ONE]

Summary - Joel Miller has commited an act of sin with the girl next door and seeks out penance.

Pairing - dbf!Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings - explicit sexual content MDNI, angst, infidelity (not against reader or Joel), heavy on the breeding kink towards the end, jealousy, oral sex, unprotected sex

[crossposted on AO3]

Joel’s fears return with the sun and are amplified tenfold when he wakes up alone. 

You must have come to your senses, he thinks. Must have finally seen him for the terrible man he truly is and escaped while you still could. Like fleeing from a predator's clutches; because that’s what he was, wasn’t it? A predator? A man who exploits young girls for his own benefit, who takes advantage of them in an act of personal desire. His stomach turns. 

Except that isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t the plural form of girls, it’s just one. Just you. You, who he wants to nurture, to protect, to take care of in the way a man is supposed to take care of a woman. You, who entices him with short skirts and soft touches and tempting words about keeping you all to himself. They must have been words said in the afterglow of sex, Joel tells himself. They didn’t mean anything. Right? Endorphins were high because all of that long laid, pent up sexual tension finally came to fruition. But it was over now, and Joel was alone. Again. 

The abrupt shattering of glass slashes through his bleak thoughts. He wrenches himself out of bed, takes the stairs two at a time, and stops in the kitchen. 

You’re still here, and Joel can breathe a little easier, but there’s glass at your bare feet, and that’s a problem. “Don’t move,” he says. He turns to grab the broom, but out of the corner of his eye he sees movement and repeats a little harsher this time, “Don’t. Move.”

“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed,” you say, your lips pushed out into the cutest little pout. 

He sweeps the glass away from you, careful to get every last piece, and dumps the shards into the trash can. It’s only then, when he knows for certain the risk of harm has well and truly passed and he’s the only threat to you left in the room, that Joel can appreciate the sight before him. There’s a heaping plate full of pancakes on the counter, a mug of steaming coffee, and the orange juice carton, unopened, is sitting beside two forks. The pancake on the top of the stack has chocolate chips in it. 

Maybe its because he never thought you’d actually do it, or maybe it’s because of the grim mood he’d just been in, but Joel finds himself feeling appreciative for more than just breakfast. It reminds him of that morning all those years ago, when you’d been in his kitchen wearing his flannel. He wonders if you still have it, if you still wear it, if you still put it on and think of him late at night. You’re wearing something new this time. It’s just an old, faded t-shirt Joel had forgotten about at the back of his closet, one he hadn’t worn in years. It swallows you up. It’s long enough to cover all of your most intimate parts, and yet somehow you still make it look sexy and erotic and slutty.

He knows it's wrong. He knows its a terrible, awful idea…but it’s the next morning and you’re still here and Joel just cant’t help himself. He smiles softly at you. “It’s okay,” he promises. He closes the distance between you, crowding you against the counter. He puts his hands on your hips and you look up at him with parted lips. “I won’t make it back upstairs anyway. I’m too hungry.”

You put your hands on his bare chest, delicate, red painted nails scratching softly against his skin. “Is that right?”

Joel nods, and decides to soak up the moment. Your hair is tangled around your shoulders, and you smell like him, and your makeup is smeared around your eyes, and he thinks you’re beautiful. He never wants to forget the way you look right now, in his clothes, in his kitchen, in his hands. He can’t help himself from leaning his head against your shoulder and kissing the juncture of your collar bone. He can’t help himself from tasting you, from using his teeth, from leaving a bruise to make certain he’s in your head for a few more days. He wants the sound of your breathy moan embedded in his fucking brain, wants it stamped in his skin. “Yes,” he answers, lifting you up with his big arms around your waist and setting you on the counter. “I’m starving, actually.”

Starved is such a perfect term for it, he thinks. Because Joel lowers himself to his knees before you, and his mouth waters like he hasn’t eaten in days. He massages the supple flesh of your thighs, presses his mouth to the inside, and leaves marks there, too. He has suffered for so, so long without you. And if you come to your senses, he wants you to think of him every time you look in a mirror. 

He wants you to think of him and the way he makes you feel, wants you to think of the way your legs part for him on instinct, like your body knows him. If you come to your senses, Joel wants you to remember for the rest of your fucking life how it feels to have his tongue inside of you, to have your clit between his lips, to have your hands in his hair. 

He wants you to remember what it’s like to grind your pretty pussy on his face, what it’s like to have his fingers inside of you, what it’s like to shake and tremble at his touch and whine when he pulls away moments before you cum. He wants you to remember the lingering taste of yourself in his mouth when he kisses you, wants you to remember how fucking perfect it feels when he pulls his cock out of his sweatpants and buries it deep inside you. You like it when he pushes in so far there’s no telling where you end and he begins, Joel knows. You make the prettiest sounds, and your hands grip his shoulders a little tighter. You’re so needy for him it’s unreal, so reactive, so perfect. He wants you to remember what it feels like when he kisses you with all the love he has left in him, hoping you can hear the words in his movements. He wants you to remember what it feels like to cum on his cock and leave a mess on the counter.

Joel wants you to remember what it’s like to be so desperate for him you call out for God.

When the two of you finally get around to eating the breakfast you spent all morning making, the pancakes are cold and the coffee is tepid. Joel wonders why it’s still the best cup he’s ever had.

After breakfast, your cell phone buzzes. It’s a voicemail from campus housing, and Joel realizes you can’t stay here in his kitchen forever. You help him clean up the dishes, and the counter where he made a mess of you, and then you abandon his old, faded t-shirt and pull your dress back on. He helps you find your shoes (and conveniently fails to mention the pink panties still stuck between the couch cushions. Joel is a terrible, sordid man, and stealing a bit of lace is the least of his recent transgressions). You pick up the Evil Dead DVD, and start to leave. 

But just as your fingers touch the handle, the door is swinging open and Sarah is standing in the threshold.

Joel doesn’t know what to do. His heart is stuck in his throat, and he sort of feels like a kid again, being caught by Tommy while sneaking back in through his window. He doesn’t know how to explain, doesn’t know where to begin, is terrified his daughter will begin to see him differently, or— 

“Perfect timing,” you say, and Joel is more confused than he’s ever been in his life. “Here.” You hand the DVD to Sarah, who’s face splits into a grin the moment she reads the title. “I have to head back to campus today, but wanted to give this to you before I go. Figured you’d get more use out of it than I would.”

“Oh, fuck yeah!”

“Language,” Joel chastises. 

You and Sarah both turn your heads to him simultaneously, and shoot him mirrored dismissive looks. Joel knows his only child is older now, growing into a young woman with a colorful vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it.

Sarah turns to you, cheery demeanor falling away. “I wish you could stay,” she says. “I miss having you around.”

Joel does too, but he keeps his mouth sealed firmly shut. 

When you’re gone, he feels empty. He falls back into his normal routine of work and beer and pool, and you leave town to finish up your school year, and the only time he ever hears about you is when your dad drinks a couple too many and talks about you over the football game on TV. Joel hears about how you finish your junior year of college, still with those straight A's, and he feels the need to express how proud he is of you. Because he really, really is…but it’s your dad’s job to gush about what an extraordinary woman you’ve become. Not Joel’s. So, he keeps his mouth shut about that, too. 

He thinks about the saying distance makes the heart grow fonder, and thinks it’s such bullshit. Because the longer you’re away, the more he realizes how stupid he’s been. How dispicable and sleazy he’s been, how he could have potentially fucked up not only his relationship with his very best friend but with his own daughter, too. You deserve more than what he can offer, Joel knows. You deserve someone to experience being a young adult with, someone who you can relate to, someone who can take care of you for the rest of your life. You deserve someone better than Joel, and even though it hurts to admit, he does it. Distance has made his heart grow smarter.

Sarah graduates, and you stay in town for only two days to attend her graduation party. Your dad offers to host the celebration in his backyard, and Joel reminisces about your graduation party. He remembers how pretty you looked, how happy you were that day. And when you come back to town to celebrate his daughter, he loves that you’re still so bubbly and airy and carefree. He loves that you spend an entire day with Sarah picking out decorations and hanging up streamers and ordering cupcakes and making a poster board filled with Sarah’s favorite pictures.

During the party, you’re leaning your shoulder against the fence, red solo cup in hand, talking to Tommy. You’re wearing a black skirt that’s too short, too tight, and you have a pretty pink blouse tucked into it. When you cross one leg casually over the other, Joel realizes you have a run in your sheer, black tights. How did that get there, he wonders? He wonders too, why you’re giggling like that when Tommy just isn’t that fucking funny. 

Joel crosses the yard and twists off the top of his beer. “You two enjoying yourselves?”

“Yeah! It’s been a great turn out, and she seems happy,” you say, nodding to Sarah on the other side of the yard. She’s talking to a group of girls in her class.

“You did great with her yesterday, you know,” Tommy tells you. “You’d be a great mom. When’s it your turn to have babies?”

“Oh, God,” you say. Joel hears the echo of a very, very different sounding ‘oh, god,’ and takes a hefty sip of beer. “Probably not anytime soon.”

“No? Why not? Finish college first, of course, but after that?”

You only have one year left of school. There’s no rush. Why is his brother so interested in your contribution to procreation, anyway? It’s fucking weird, Joel thinks. 

“Maybe one day. I’d have to find the right man first,” you say. “You know, do it real traditional.”

“Any prospects lined up?”

“Christ, Tommy,” Joel sneers. “Leave the poor girl alone, would you?” He has no room to talk, Joel knows…but he can’t help himself. Not around you, anyway. His self control goes out of the window. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “And…no. No prospects.”

Tommy shakes his head in disbelief. “Now I know you’ve got all those big city boys up there waiting on you to give them a little attention. A girl like you?” He sucks in an exaggerated breath. “You’d get scooped up real fast.”

“That’s the problem though, isn’t it,” you say dismally. “They’re all boys. I said I want a man.” 

Joel can’t believe the words he’s hearing. Can’t believe how you could be so obvious, but how Tommy could still manage to look completely oblivious. He’s relieved when Sarah steals you away to introduce you to a friend. 

Joel helps your dad prepare the grill, and they talk about how crazy it is that both of their girls are grown up now. They talk about how old they’re getting, and how fast time flies, but Joel can’t pay attention because he can feel you. Can sense when you steal a glance at him from across the yard, because goosebumps break out across the back of his neck. He watches you disappear into the house, and excuses himself to follow you. 

He shouldn’t. Joel knows this. But, Christ, is he bad at following his instincts. He finds you on the tips of your toes, hands in the liquor cabinet, and wants to laugh at the irony. History repeats itself, it seems. He stands behind you with a hand on your hip and reaches for the half empty bottle of tequila. He sets it on the counter and when you don’t even turn to look at him he says indignantly, “You’re welcome.”

You wiggle the cork free and take a swig straight from the bottle. “You want me to thank you? For what, exactly?”

Truthfully, Joel doesn’t understand your bad attitude. He doesn’t understand why you’re so happy and bubbly to everyone else, but for some reason seem so… dissapointed with him. Joel might be a pervert when it comes to you, but he’s never, ever done anything you didn’t ask him for first. And it’s not fair, he thinks, that you get whatever you want. You get to go off to college and fuck boys that leave you unsatisfied. Because Joel knows Tommy was right — he knows they’re lined the fuck up for you. He’s not stupid. You get to leave him, and live your life, while Joel is forced to stay right where he is and think of you. You, you, you, all the fucking time. It’s not fair. If anyone should be angry, it’s him. “Oh, I dont know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe for keeping all of your secrets.”

You turn to face him and lean your back against the counter. You’re in the same exact spot you were the first time you kissed his cheek, except this time you’re narrowing your eyes at him instead. “They’re your secrets now, Joel,” you tell him. “Not mine.”

“How are they not yours?”

“Because I don’t give a shit if the whole world knows them,” you say. “I don’t care if everyone here finds out what a slut I am. I don’t care if my dad finds out I fucked his best friend. But you do. Which makes them your secrets.” 

He doesn’t understand. “Are you saying you want him to find out?” The thought alone chokes him with anxiety. It would change everything — everything. No one would ever look at him the same. His perversion would be loudly on display. “Are you insane?”

“No, Joel,” you say. “I’m not insane. I just don’t lie to myself.”

“I don’t—”

“Then tell me right now you don’t want to be with me.” 

He’s in way over his head, Joel thinks. He doesn’t know how to navigate this, doesn’t know how to explain to you that it has nothing to do with what he wants and everything to do with what he is. He can’t lie, not to you, so he says nothing. Not yes or no, just nothing.

It’s answer enough, though, and when you speak again your voice is a whisper, a breath of life into a brand new secret. “You can have me,” you say. “I want to be yours. I think I always have been. Please, Joel… please.”

He hates the way you sound. He wants to fix it, but doesn’t know how. So, he does what he’s good at, he does what he knows makes you feel good. Joel kisses you hard, and savors the taste of cherry because something tells him this might be the last time. Your mouth opens, and your tongue is so soft against his, and he can’t get enough. Does it make him a bad person to want you so badly? Twenty-one-almost-twenty-two is a fair bit of life lived, isn’t it? Maybe it could work. Maybe he wouldn’t drag you down or keep you in Texas when you’re meant for far bigger things.

Joel slips his hand between your thighs and lets out a ragged moan when he realizes that you’re wearing nothing beneath your skirt. It’s just the nylon fabric of your tights, and he can feel the wetness gathering, can taste you on the tip of his tongue like a word he can’t quite remember. Joel wants a refresher. “Fuck, baby,” he sighs, forehead resting against yours. “I need you to be real quiet for me, okay? Can you do that?”

You nod frantically, and Joel gets on his knees. He pushes the fabric of your skirt up your legs and it bunches around your hips. He rips the nylon tights apart, giving him a perfect, unobstructed view of your pussy, shiny with desire. Desire he created, desire that belongs to him and him alone. Pride fills him when he thinks about it for too long. 

He doesn’t waste a second. Joel worships you like a man starved, and wonders if he’ll ever be satisfied. Wonders if he’ll ever get his fill of the sweetness between your thighs, wonders if he’ll ever tire of hearing you whimper. He licks at your clit, leaving no part of you untouched, and his cock strains in the confines of his jeans. Just tasting you has him teetering on the edge of release, but he wants this to be about you. He wants to show you how much you mean to him, wants you to know that just because he can’t be with you doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be. He slips two fingers into you and curls them upward, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand because you promised to be quiet. 

Joel makes you cum in his mouth, and feels like maybe his place in the world is right fucking here, on his knees for you, because its the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Better than cherry, he thinks. But not as good as it feels to be inside of you. 

He turns you around and shoves your chest down against the counter. As he unbuckles his belt, he presses a kiss to your spine and says, “You want a real man, is that right?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “Yes. I want you.”

Joel slides the tip of his cock through your slick, lips turning up at the corners as you roll your hips back towards him. “I know you do, sweetheart,” he says. “Slutty girls need a little bit more, don’t they?”

You nod, a desperate whine coming from your chest. “Yes, yes—please, Joel, please.”

His name in your mouth is the end of his restraint. He eases into you, memorizing how it feels to stretch you out, memorizing how tight your pussy is, how fucking perfect it feels wrapped around him. Joel kisses your cheek softly and buries himself inside of you completely. “I want you to think about me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, hips rolling against yours slowly. “When you go back to school and do this with all those other boys, I want you to think about me.”

He pulls out at an agaonizingly slow pace, and slams into you without warning. Your hand over your mouth barely muffles the sound. “Fuck.”

“They can’t make you feel like this, can they, baby?”

“Mm’no,” you answer, and Joel rewards you with another hard, deep stroke. “Just you, Joel, just you, just you, just you.”

It���s a prayer, he knows. He can feel the devotion in your words, and the piety makes him ache. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Is it supposed to feel like this? Like pain, like loss, like finality? Like intensity, like consumption, like religion? Joel wants to say it. He wants to say it so fucking bad. He says something disgusting instead. “This pussy was made for me, you understand?” He reaches beneath you, and his fingers swipe over your clit, and your legs start to shake. “It’s all me, pretty girl. It’s all fucking mine.”

You clench around him, and he has to hold you up to keep you from falling. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and Joel wants to stay inside of you forever. “Yours,” you say softly. “I’m yours, Joel.”

Oh, how pretty you sound, he thinks. He’s going to miss this. He’s going to miss you so fucking bad. And because he may never get another chance to say it, Joel decides to make one more really fucked up, awful decision. 

He decides to tell the truth. 

When he spills his cum inside of you, he buries himself as deep as he can. He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I love you, baby.”

He feels lighter, now that the words are no longer trapped in his chest cavity. You don’t say anything, and he’s not sure what that means, but Joel knows it’s not smart to stay like this. So he pulls out of you, tucks himself back into his jeans, and fixes your skirt.

The door flys open, and Joel is absolutely fucking mortified to see your father and Tommy walk into the kitchen. 

You uncork the tequila and raise the bottle to the air, cheeks flushed but easily passable as a buzz. “To growing up,” you say proudly. You take a swig and gimace at the taste.

Joel pulls the whiskey from the cupboard and pours shots for himself, your dad, and Tommy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you pulling at the ends of your skirt, barely covering the rip in your tights. 

“To graduations,” your dad says. “Sarah’s today, and another one of yours next year.” He tilts the shot glass toward you before tossing the liquid back. 

Tommy raises his glass. “To hopefully getting little nieces or nephews soon!” 

Joel thinks his brother is drunk on shitty beer. Joel also thinks about his cum between your legs. He raises his glass. “To getting old,” he says, though he’s not particularly happy about it. The whiskey feels good going down. It acts as a buffer to shield him temporarily against the truth that gnaws at his psyche; he’s going to lose you. 

Sarah decides to attend college at the same university as you, and Joel can’t help but be a little nervous. It’s your senior year, and Sarah’s only a freshman, and Joel knows she’s going to cling to you, and you’re going to let her, and he isn’t sure how he feels about Sarah hanging out with people older than her. 

It turns out okay, from what he can tell, though. It’s weird to have an empty home, but he fills his time with work and helping your dad renovate your house. Joel doesn’t hear from you. Even when you visit during Christmas break, you barely manage to look at him. He doesn’t force the conversation, either. He knows it’s for the best. And that deep, aching feeling in his chest is just something he’ll have to find a way to get over. 

Sarah drones on and on about how much she loves college, about how many friends she has, about how you’re tutoring her in English and how thankful she is when you help get her a job as a barista.

And when the holiday is over, you’re standing outside beside your car, saying goodbye to your dad while Sarah hugs Tommy beside you. Joel approaches, holds his daughter tight, and reminds her to let him know if she needs anything. 

There’s a weird, uncomfortable moment when your eyes meet for the first time all week. It would be weird if he didn’t say goodbye to you, wouldn’t it? It would prompt questions from both Tommy and your father, because the two of you had once been so close. 

You move first. You plaster an awkward smile on your face and wrap your arms around his neck. Joel’s shoulders relax for the first time in months. 

It feels so right to hold you, as easy and painless as breathing. He puts his hands on the small of your back, and his fingers twitch with the urge to slide them down and grab a fistful of your ass. Instead, he holds you tightly and relishes in the feeling of your head on his chest. He lays his cheek against your hair and breathes the sweet scent of vanilla deep into his lungs. “You too,” he says. “Call if you need anything, alright? Anything at all.”

You nod and pull away, and Joel wonders if you know how much he means it. A single phone call and he’d be on the other side of Texas in an hour, because that’s what you mean to him. You’re not his, but he wants to love you like you are.

And he’s given the chance to prove himself just a few short days later. 

He’s watching the soft flakes of snow fall from the sky through his bedroom window when Joel’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number, which he’d normally ignore and block in the morning, but something tells him to answer it. Just this once. So he does, and he’s getting ready to tell the telemarketer to fuck off, but then he hears your voice. 

“Joel? Are you there?”

“What’s wrong?”

You sniffle, and he’s throwing the blanket back and searching for his jeans on the floor. “Nothing,” you say. “It’s…it’s nothing. I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you crying? And why are you calling from an unknown number?”

“My phone’s dead,” you explain. “There’s, uhm—there’s a pay phone outside of my dorm. I didn’t want to wait for my phone to charge.”

Something is off, Joel can feel it in his bones. He holds his phone with his shoulder and pulls on his leather boots. “Talk to me,” he says. 

“Actually, I—I’m sorry. It’s late. This is stupid. I don’t know why I called. I’m sorry. Have a good night, Jo—”

“Baby,” he interrupts. “Baby, baby—don’t hang up. Talk to me. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it, yeah? Tell me.”

You don’t say anything, but Joel can hear you breathing on the other end of the phone, can hear you teetering on the edge of a decision you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. He understands. He really, really does.

Finally, you sigh heavily and say, “You told me you loved me Joel. You said…you said that and then you just let me leave. You just—you—you…God!”

The hands of guilt wind themselves around his neck and squeeze as realization hits. He is the reason you’re upset, the reason you’re crying, the reason you’re hurting. He hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his life.

He doesn’t speak. He lets you get it all out, lets you purge your anger and disdain, your disappointment. It’s all rightfully placed, Joel thinks. “You asshole! Why would you do that? How could you say that and then go back to acting like it changed nothing? I’ve tried to get past it but I can’t, Joel! You never should have let me leave or—or you never should have said it if you didn’t mean it! It’s just—I don’t…it hurts! It’s mean! You’re being so—!” 

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. Rightfully placed or not, he’s not strong enough to hear the sorrow in your voice, not strong enough to hate himself more than he already does. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. He’s not apologizing for it. Joel’s not sorry at all for that overwhelming feeling you elicit in his chest. He’s only sorry he said it, sorry it’s caused you so much pain. If he’d known it would hurt you this much, he would’ve swallowed those words and kept them locked up for the remainder of his life.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” you say. “I want you to say it again and mean it this time.”

Joel doesn’t understand. It’s cruel, isn’t it, to ask him to do something knowing it will hurt you? He can’t. He’s already done enough damage. He can’t.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Joel.”

He runs an exasperated hand down his face, and pressure builds behind his eyes. He can’t. He can’t. How is he supposed to live with himself? How is he supposed to hurt you, this little girl whose life has been made miserable because he couldn’t resist your temptation? 

Joel knows he loves you. And he thinks you know it, too. But saying it opens a wound better off sealed, and he wants to watch you flourish. He wants to watch you become your own person, wants to watch you live a full, satisfied life. And you can’t do that with him. He doesn’t think it’s possible. 

You let out a breath. “It’s snowing,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “It’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful, he wants to say. Instead he says, “You deserve someone better.”

“I don’t want someone be—”

“You deserve someone you can relate to, someone you can grow old with.”

“I can grow old with you, J—”

“I’m already old, god dammit. Listen to me. You deserve something that doesn’t hurt,” he interrupts. “You deserve someone who’s good to you, someone your own age who doesn’t make you cry in the middle of the night. You deserve—”

“I don’t care about any of that, okay? All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

You’re making this impossible, he thinks. He drags a hand down his face. The forbidden fruit is in his hands, begging him to take a bite, and he nearly does it. He opens his mouth to say it, to damn all of the consequences and succumb to whatever hellish fate awaits him in the afterlife all to have you for himself, and then—

“Please insert twenty-five cents for an additional three minutes.”

“I have to go,” you say, voice cracking. “I guess I only wanted to say that I love you more, Joel Miller. Because I would have never let you walk away.”

The line goes dead, and Joel’s sitting there in complete silence with one boot laced, and for the first time in all his life he feels himself swell with grief. The loss is so heavy, so final—and he can’t breathe. His lungs are filling up with all the words left unsaid, and he’s afraid that if he digs out the roots you’ve grown in his chest that nothing will ever feel quite the same again.

The pain is there, and it’s smothering, but if not the pain then what else would he have left of you? 

He doesn’t sleep that night. Or the night after that, or the one after that. It takes less than a week of canceling plans and insisting he just has a cold before Tommy is pulling into the driveway and slamming his fists against the door, demanding to know what the hell is going on. 

Joel tells him. Over six shots of whiskey and a panic attack, he confesses all of his sins at the kitchen table to his little brother. He expects Tommy to be angry, or disgusted—but he isn’t even surprised. He says, “Well, shit, Joel,” and runs his hands through his hair. “Now what are you going to do?”

A million dollar question, it seems. He wants to drive up to that big university of yours and knock on every door until he finds your dorm room. He wants to exhale all those words trapped inside his chest cavity and keep you for himself like he’s always wanted. But that’s such a selfish thing to do, Joel thinks. It’s not what’s best for you, or him, or anyone. 

So he does nothing. Even on his fortieth birthday, when he gets a text message that reads Happy Birthday. I still love you more. He doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t know what to say. 

Well, that’s not entirely true—he knows exactly what he wants to say, but chooses to say nothing because if he does it would change his life, your life, the lives of those around you. So Joel suffers in silence and dreams of you instead, repeating the same old habits. 

You and Sarah come home for spring break together. And a boy your age gets out of the passenger seat. You introduce him to your dad, and Joel doesn’t catch his name but doesn’t really want to know, anyway. 

He tries to swallow the anger in his chest. He can’t expect you to live an empty life that mirrors his. That’s not what he wants for you. The whole point of his avoidance was to make sure you were able to live fully, happily, with someone your own age. Even though his brain is calm enough to rationalize this, it doesn’t change the fact that Joel thinks the boy is a terrible match for you. 

Joel’s helping your dad renovate the kitchen, and he’s waited a month so he could get your opinion on a couple things. At the hardware store, the four— five —of you are debating between three different backsplashes. Joel and Sarah stand a foot behind, watching the scene unfold. 

Your dad has a single white, porcelain tile in his hand. “It’s nice and bright,” he says. 

“But you painted the cabinets white,” you argue, holding up the sage green ceramic piece. “Change it up a little. The green would look better, I swear.”

The boy at your side holds a piece of sand colored masonry, and says, “You’re crazy. White on white is no good but neither is green. What is this, a soup kitchen?”

From a contractor’s standpoint, Joel agrees that the  warm toned green would look far better than the cool toned masonry—but it’s not his place for input. He’s only here to help haul the tiles home and grab the tools they need. And even though the way your little boyfriend speaks to you grates against his nerves, Joel says nothing. 

Your dad ends up going with the masonry, calling it a happy medium, but Joel can tell that you're the least happy out of the three. He doesn’t mention it.

Everyone decides on pizza for dinner, and Joel teaches Sarah how to grout tile, and for a single moment everything feels good and normal. Tommy comes over to help with the project, and you’re laughing at something he’s saying with your hands covered in masonry dust, and you seem content—but then your eyes meet from across the room, and Joel feels the Earth tilt on its axis. 

Your smile falters, and your jaw feathers, and you quickly look away but not before he catches the flash of hurt in your pretty eyes. It makes him feel nauseous. Joel abandons his tools and heads for the front door. Sarah asks if he’s alright, and he says he just needs some fresh air. 

Joel can feel the panic attack coming from a mile away. His palms begin to perspire, his chest constricts, he can’t suck in air fast enough. He reminds himself that you’re here—here, and safe, and happy if not for him. You’re fine. Even if he’s not, you are and that’s all that matters. That thought combined with the cold night air helps a little, abates the fingers of grief around his neck, but then he hears it. 

“I know, babe. I’ll be back in town soon. I just need to get through this week and then I’ll take you out to make up for it, alright?” 

Joel freezes. He strains his ears, trying to pick up the rest of the words as his anxiety hones itself into fury. 

“You know I love you more than her. Of course I do.”

He’s off the porch before he can think better of it. The boy you brought home is standing on the side of the house, cell phone pressed to his ear, and his eyes widen when he sees Joel. “I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly, but before he gets a chance to hang up the phone Joel grabs him by his shirt collar and slams him up against the side of the house.

The words come out slow, even—despite the seething rage that fills him. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t knock your teeth down your throat.”

He laughs, actually laughs in Joel’s face and says, “Cause I’ll air out all those dirty little secrets our girl keeps.”

Joel’s grip tightens. The word our grates against his spine.

“What? You don’t like it when people refuse to mind their fucking business? Me either,” he says. “So let me go, or I’ll tell them everything.”

“Let me tell you what’s actually gonna happen,” Joel says, slamming him against the siding, relishing in the gasp of pain he makes in response. “You’re going to go in there and apologize for being such a scumbag. You’re going to come clean, beg her forgiveness, and if she forgives you maybe—maybe then, I’ll let you walk out of here with no broken bones. Do you understand me?”

“And why would I do that? You think she deserves an apology? We’ve been together for over a year, you know that? When was the last time she spread her legs for you, huh?” The timeline slots together in Joel’s brain, and his jaw ticks. “I’m not apologizing for cheating on a slut.”

Joel’s fist flies across his face, leaving a split lip and blood in its wake.

He doesn’t understand what the fuck you even see in this guy. You obviously care about him enough to bring him home, to let him meet your dad, to stay with him for so long, but God —this is the worst person you could’ve ever picked. 

“Ooh—good one! Does it make you feel better to hit me ‘cause I can have her and you can’t? Wanna know another one of those dirty little secrets, Joel?” He tilts his head forward and whispers. “She can’t get off unless I let her call me daddy. And ya know, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think her daddy issues come from her real father, do they?”

Joel hits him again, an elbow to the jaw this time. 

“Dad!” Sarah’s panic stricken voice cuts through the fog of Joel’s rage.

He just doesn’t get it. You’re smarter than this. You deserve way fucking better than a half-assed relationship with a boy who—Joel stops.

In the dim glow of the porch light, he sees it. He finally fucking sees it. The boy has dark hair, has messy curls on top of his head, has tanned skin and calloused hands and warm eyes. It’s all vaguely familiar.

He looks like Joel. Or, what he looked like twenty years ago, anyway. 

Tommy grabs his brother by the shoulders and hauls him away, giving you just enough room to swoop in and coddle your little boyfriend, dabbing at his split lip. Tommy’s shoving Joel backwards, away from you and towards his house next door, but the force isn’t necessary. Because now he knows your newest secret, a real one. He knows you don’t care about this boy—you only care that he looks like Joel, and it brings him a strange satisfaction. 

“What the hell is going on?” Your dad asks, standing between the two families.

For a moment, he thinks about outing the bleeding boy to your father. Thinks about telling him how, at the hardware store, he sided with a boy who cheats on you, betrays you, disrespects you. Your father would be just as furious, Joel knows. 

But then he thinks about last summer in the kitchen, less than a year ago. He thinks about your phone call in December, he thinks about the look you shared inside moments ago and how deeply that pensive sadness seemed to run. And then he decides he’s already caused enough suffering, and so Joel shrugs and says, “Honest mistake. I thought he was an intruder.”

It’s a shitty lie, and no one believes it, but Sarah has her arm around Joel’s elbow and leads him home before anyone can ask any questions. Tommy says he’ll come over tomorrow to finish the backsplash, and Joel is thankful because he won’t be able to look at you and see that sad look again without crumbling. 

Joel’s sitting at the kitchen table with a beer in one hand and a bag of frozen peas on the other when Sarah sits beside him with a scolding look on her face. “You don’t get to fuck this up for her.”

“But I didn’t mean to—”

She holds up her pointer finger. “Stop talking. I’m not finished.” Sarah waits until Joel sighs and shrugs his shoulders before continuing. She leans on the table with her elbows and says, “She told me everything.”

His brows pinch together as he searches his daughter's face for something, for anything—but it’s completely blank. “What do you mean?”

“Cat’s out of the bag, dad,” she says. “I know about all of it. The night she brought over that DVD, the night of her grad party, the night of my grad party, the phone call. I know all of it.”

Joel doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t angry with you for telling Sarah. You should have someone to turn to, after all. He doesn’t fault you for that, but Joel also understands how it likely appears. He doesn’t know where to begin, how to apologize and explain that what you mean to him is so much more than attraction. “Sarah…Sarah, I—”

“Stop. Talking,” she repeats, and Joel silences. “I honestly was hoping you would tell me before I felt the need to do this,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “But you’re a typical man so I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself, to offer an explanation, but promptly closes it when she narrows her eyes. 

“I can get over the fact that you’re…I don’t know, involved or whatever with my best friend. I can get over that. What I can’t get over is you being a dick to her.”

Joel doesn’t get it. He’s never, ever been disrespectful towards you. He doesn’t have it in him. And the pain he has caused you has always been for your own good— never out of malicious intent. If anything, he’s been nothing but selfless with you. He’s suffered in your place, and he’d do it a hundred times over if it meant you’d end up happy in the end. He gnaws on his bottom lip as Sarah continues. 

“She has spent half the semester crying over you and just decided recently that she’s ready to leave the past in the past. She likes him.”

He can’t stay silent any longer. “He’s not good enough for her. You didn’t hear—”

“I don’t care what he did or didn’t do,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “Right now, we’re talking about you. If you don’t want to be with her, if you don’t love her, then let her have this. Even if he breaks her heart, let it be her decision to be with him. Not yours.”

Joel picks at the peeling label on the glass bottle. He stares at it as if the answer to all his problems lies underneath. Quietly, he asks, “And if I do?”

“Do what?”

He swallows, and asks a little clearer this time, “If I do love her, what do I do then?”

“Then you man the fuck up and put your money where your mouth is.”

Joel can’t even be mad about the crude language, because it sounds like advice he would give. There’s so much of his stubborn, loyal attitude in his daughter, and he can’t help but be proud of the woman she’s become. He nods stiffly. “I get what you’re saying. I really do, but—”

“But nothing. If you love her, then love her, dad. It’s not complicated.”

She makes it sound simple, Joel thinks. He wishes so badly that it was. 

“What are you so afraid of?”

He’s afraid of losing the friendship with your father, worried about tarnishing the relationship you have with him, terrified of getting old while you continue to exist in your youth. There’s a million things he’s afraid of, but he settles on the biggest one, the fear that sits like a brick in his stomach. “I’m not good enough for her, either.”

Sarah snorts. “You can’t be serious.” When Joel says nothing, she shakes her head in annoyance and says, “Honestly, dad, I don’t understand how you can be so blind. Let me put it in a way you can understand; you love her, and she loves you. Everything else? Get rid of it. It doesn’t matter. Her dad, her boyfriend, Tommy, me—none of us have anything to do with it. You’re both adults, and you’re doing nothing but hurting the both of you trying to be the good guy. Get it now?” 

He still doesn’t think it’s so simple, so black and white. But it doesn’t matter what Joel thinks, because there’s a knock at the door and you’re standing on the other side when Sarah answers it. She invites you in, but you insist it isn’t necessary. 

“It’s alright,” you say. “I just came to say goodbye.” There’s a sadness in your voice, a familiar sound of longing. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

Joel clenches his teeth and looks away when Sarah glances back at him. He can’t see you, and wants to steal one last sinful glance, but thinks better of it.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah, yeah—I know it’s early, but I don’t…I don’t know. I thought I was ready but now I’m not…I’m not so sure.” You sniffle, and Joel feels his chest crack wide open. “I’ll come back at the end of the week to drive you back to campus. But you’ll call me every day, yeah? So I won’t miss you so much?”

Sarah laughs softly, and disappears from sight. Joel can hear your soft sigh of relief, and finds himself thankful that it’s his daughter you seek comfort in. He’s thankful Sarah is able to provide that for you, even if he can’t. 

Because he can’t.

When you leave after promising Sarah you’ll let her know when you’re back to your dorm, safe and sound, she returns to the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Joel can feel the irritation, the disappointment. Sarah goes up to her room and slams the door, and Joel feels the reverberation of the wood in every disc of his spine. 

He sits there, in the deafening silence, and wonders where the hell he went wrong. He wonders why doing the selfless thing feels so awful, wonders if he’s destined to live an empty life and die an empty death. 

It isn’t until three hours later that Joel gets up from the kitchen table. It’s after midnight, and he drags his weary body upstairs. He has every intention of crawling into bed and slipping into a peaceful oblivion for as long as his body will allow. 

Except, Joel finds himself hovering in the hallway just outside his bedroom. He’s afraid to move, because if he walks through the door he’ll never be able to go back. He knows it, can feel the truth of it in his bones. But if he doesn’t…if he doesn’t, everything changes. And it might turn out bad—it might end up being the biggest, most selfish mistake of his life. 

But one aching, terrifying thought nags at him; what if it doesn’t?

“Joel?”

It’s as clear a sign from the universe as he’s ever seen. He makes his decision, and begins to feel at home within his own body after feeling so displaced for so long, and Joel’s so grateful for it. He’s even more grateful he never moved the spare key from under the welcome mat. 

This feels familiar. It feels like an echo of a time years ago, when he thought he ached for you but had no clue how deep his longing would one day be, a time when the scent of vanilla perfume wasn't a shock to his heart. It feels like an opportunity to do things right. It feels like a second chance. 

And he’s not going to fucking waste it. 

It’s his turn to confess his mistakes, though they’re not tequila induced and instead made completely of his own stupidity. 

“I just came to get my phone charger from Sarah,” you say. “I’ll just be a sec—”

“I mean it,” he blurts, swallowing his nerves. He repeats it again, clearer and more precise because it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. “I mean it.”

You wringing your hands around one another in front of you. And he can sense the buzzing of nervous energy, and even though you both know exactly what he means you still ask timidly, “Mean what?”

His heart is pounding in his ears. “All of it. Everything. You might not see it, Sarah might not see it, but you…you deserve better than anything I can ever give you,” he says. “I’m old and I’m tired and I don’t have anything but this house to my name. I can’t give you anything you can’t find a better version of after ten seconds of looking.”

“Joel…I—”

“Hold on. I need you to hear me right now, baby, okay?” His hands are shaking. When you nod, he continues. “I mean it when I say I’m no good for you. I never have been. I’ll just drag you down and hold you back from better things. All of that is true. You and I both know it, but god dammit, I mean it when I say I love you, too. I love your laugh and I love your smile and I love your heart. I love everything about you, and it makes me an awful person because I’m not supposed to feel those things for a girl half my age. But I do, I do—and fuck, baby, I know I’m a bad man, but I’m…I’m yours.”

The words are out. He’s said them, and there’s no going back. Everything he’s held inside for so long is sitting on the floor between you—the entirety of Joel’s perverted heart. Your eyes are glassy, and you're breathing slowly like it’s suddenly a task, but you’re saying nothing and he starts to fill with fear. 

Joel is seconds away from begging you to say something, to say anything—but then you’re there, you’re there, in his arms with your hands in his hair and your lips against his. Your body slots perfectly against him, and Joel thinks that if this is his greatest sin then God can cast him out of the heavens for all eternity and he’d say thank you on his knees. 

Your tongue is so soft, and Joel bites at your bottom lip, savoring the sweet and sugary taste of cherry. He lets his hands roam down your back, allows himself to grab hold of your curves and squeeze the supple flesh. Nothing has ever felt this good, he thinks. You pull away first, and you’re panting hard, and you whisper, “Prove it. Show me, Joel. Show me how much you love me.”

It’s the easiest request he’s ever wanted to fulfill. He grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He uses one hand on the small of your back to hold you close, to press his lips to yours again, to moan into your mouth. He uses the other to open his bedroom door, the prospect of closing it behind him much less daunting now that your limbs are wrapped around his.

Joel lays you gently on the mattress, and straightens his spine to look at you. He soaks it up, memorizes the sight of your hair splayed out around you, your thighs parted for him, the pink flush on your chest. Nothing has ever been so beautiful, he thinks. Nothing and no one will ever, ever compare to you. He sighs blithely, licks his lips and says, “Fuck, baby.”

Through a soft giggle you ask, “Do you think I’m pretty, Joel?”

He pulls the collar of his shirt over his head and discards the fabric on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his jeans. He crawls between your legs and leans on his elbows, placing them on either side of your head. “Yes,” Joel says, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “I think you’re the prettiest.” He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek. “D’you wanna know what else I think?”

You can feel him smirk against your skin as you run your hands along the cords of taut muscle in his abdomen. “Yes,” you answer breathlessly, resisting the urge to lift your pelvis against his. “Tell me everything.”

Joel obliges. He kisses the tip of your nose. “I think you were made for me.” His kisses grow hotter, wetter, as his mouth graces your jaw, your neck. “I think I’ve loved you since you were eighteen, since the first moment I saw you.” He tugs at the seam of your t-shirt, and you lift your spine slightly so he can pull it off. You’re not wearing a bra, and seeing you bare again after so long makes his mouth water. 

He kisses your sternum, the soft tissue of your breast, and then sucks your nipple between his lips. He doesn’t realize until now how much he craves the taste of you—how much he’s missed it. 

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day, baby,” he says, pressing his mouth to your other nipple. He can feel the vibration of your laughter in his mouth, and his heart constricts at the sudden happiness it brings him. 

“Marry me?” Your hands are in his hair, giving him the slightest direction in the form of light pressure, and Joel is all too happy to follow it. But he does it slowly, giving himself enough time to drink you in.

“Mmhm,” he says, peppering kisses down your belly, across the plane between your hips. He hooks his finger into the waistband of your sleep shorts and pulls them down your hips. “I think I’ve wasted enough of our time. Don’t you?” Gently, he runs his fingertips over your panties. They’re pink, of course, with red polka dots—and Joel groans at the sight. It’s a ghostly touch, but enough to pull a strained gasp from your throat. Your hips buck towards his hand, and Joel reminds himself to take his time even though his cock is throbbing painfully in his jeans and every instinct in him begs to ravish you. 

“Yes,” you agree. “But…maybe we go slow.”

There’s a slight hint of unease in your voice, and Joel rushes to fix it. He reaches up and wraps his big hands around your ribcage, stroking the skin softly with his thumbs. He presses a kiss to your panties, right above your clit, and says, “Relax, baby. I don’t mean right now. Soon though, yeah?”

Your body loosens beneath his touch, and a pretty smile breaks out across your face. “Soon,” you breathe. “But right now, I need you to touch me. Please, Joel.

The sound of desperation in your mouth is so pretty, he thinks. And you deserve anything you want, and Joel intends to give it to you. He pulls your panties down your legs,  pushes your thighs apart, and keeps his eyes trained on yours as he slides his tongue through your slit. You’re so wet, and the sound you make in response to the feel of his hot, wet tongue is the most heavenly sound he’s ever heard. He licks and sucks at your clit until you’re a trembling mess beneath him. And when your breaths turn shorter and more labored, Joel slips two fingers inside you and curls them to meet the sweet spot that makes you writhe. 

One hand is in his hair, pulling at the strands desperately, while your other is twisted in the sheets. In his sheets. Joel can’t keep his hips from rolling against the side of the mattress at the sight of you, at the taste of you, at the feel of you in his hands. Because you’re here, in his bed, and he can taste your cum in his mouth, and fuck he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts.

When your body falls limp, only then does he come up for air. He cleans you up with his tongue, not wasting any of the sweet nectar you’ve cleansed his sins with. Joel stands up slowly, raking his nails across your sensitive flesh. “Does that prove my love, pretty girl?”

He can see the wicked gleam in your eye, and he knows it wasn’t enough. Of course it’s not. You prop yourself up on your elbows and confess timidly, “Maybe I need a little more,” you say. “Some more proof.”

Joel unbottons his jeans. “Hmm, I guess I should’ve known better.” He pulls the denim off and kicks it aside, delighting in the slight parting of your lips as you take in his cock, heavy and hard between his legs. “Slutty little girls always need more, don’t they?” 

You nod, and Joel returns to his rightful spot between your legs. He’s so close—so, so close to home, to resting his weary heart…but your body is his confessional, and Joel isn’t done repenting. 

He rests his calloused palm against your throat gently, a caress. “You wanna know what else I think about?”

You’re squirming beneath him, hips lifting desperately. “Please, Joel,” you beg. 

And he knows you’re not begging for his thoughts, but he gives them to you anyway. “I think about putting a baby in you,” he confesses, laying his free hand flat against your abdomen. He smirks when you let out a shallow breath and your hips start to move faster, seeking him out. 

“Oh—God, fuck,” you whimper. 

“Aw, I’ve hardly touched you yet,” he teases through a soft laugh, drawing his fingers against your ribcage delicately. “You like that idea? Hm? Want me to fill you up with my cum ‘til your belly’s swollen with my baby?” 

You’re nodding, and he can feel your quickened pulse beneath his hand, and Joel decides he’s put you through enough. “Yes,” you tell him. “Yes, yes—please, Joel, please please please.”

He reaches down and guides his cock into you, and your pussy takes him so eagerly that he can’t help but mirror your low moan. “Fuck, baby—you feel so good,” he murmurs. 

Slowly, he rolls his hips against yours. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your arms are around his neck, and he kisses your bruised lips until all the air has left your lungs. “Oh, God—!”

“Shh,” he coos, moving his hand around your neck and instead using it to grasp your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me. Quiet now, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes are glassy and wide and beautiful, and Joel picks up his pace. His cock slams into you, filling you up, and it’s impossible to keep quiet. “I can’t,” you whine. “I can’t, Joel—it feels too good, it’s too much, I—!”

He kisses you hard, swallowing up your cry of bliss when he reaches down to circle your clit with the pad of his middle finger. “I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “It’s okay, you can take it.” 

The prettiest sounds are falling from your mouth with each deep thrust of his hips, sending shivers down his spine. Joel wishes he could be here, be inside of you forever. He wonders how he’s ever going to get his fill, wonders if it’s even possible. You’re so fucking perfect and you’re his and God—he wants to eat you the fuck up. 

He can feel your pussy constrict around him, and he lets out a probably-too-loud-moan that mirrors yours in response. He knows you're close, can feel the rush of heat, can feel you tremble around him. “You gonna cum for me? Hm?” 

Joel slams into you relentlessly, obscene sounds filling the space of his room. Your second orgasm is impossibly stronger, sending electricity dancing across your skin.

You open your mouth to tell him, but Joel seems to know your body better than you do and before the words are out of your mouth he’s whispering in your ear. “There you go,” he says. “I love you so fuckin’ much baby, my good little girl. Give it to me. Thaaat’s it.”

His hips slow just slightly as you come down, but his thrusts are no less punishing. You press kisses to his collarbone, his neck, his chin—every place you can reach. Your mouth is desperate and needy and shameless, and there’s no better sin than the divinity of your lips, he thinks. 

Joel’s pace falters and becomes frantic, and he groans into the crook of your neck as he fills you up. You whisper, “I love you, Joel,”  and it does him in completely. 

He collapses on top of you, unable to move, but you don’t seem to mind. You stroke his spine lazily, tracing soft patterns into his flushed skin. He could sleep just like this, he thinks—but it can’t be as comfortable for you. So he pulls himself out of you wistfully and helps you crawl under the blankets. 

With a blissful sigh, he pulls you close and holds you against his chest. 

“What now?” 

Joel doesn’t know, if he’s honest. He knows he wants you, knows he has you, knows he’s unable to go on without you by his side any longer. But the rest? It’s all uncharted territory. “You go back to school,” he says. “You only have a few months left. Get that fancy degree of yours.”

You let out a soft groan. “I have to leave in the morning. I promised.”

He should feel bad for your boyfriend, most likely sleeping in the spare bedroom in your dad’s house that Joel just refurbished two months ago, but he doesn’t. There’s not an ounce of sympathy for him. But he does have sympathy for you, which is why he asks, “You want me to take care of it?”

“Like you did earlier tonight?” You snort, and the sound is light and airy and carefree and Joel is so happy to hear it. “No, I got it.”

“You gonna break up with him?”

“Mm. Haven’t decided yet,” you say. The sarcasm is thick in your tone, but Joel can’t help the slight panic that erupts in his chest. But the second you notice he isn’t laughing with you, you quickly amend, “I’m kidding. Of course I’m going to. First thing, okay? I promise.”

He nods and kisses your temple. “Okay. And while you’re gone, I’ll talk to your dad.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow. “Alone?”

“I’ll probably use Tommy as a buffer,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have to deal with it. He’s going to be upset with me—not with you. You’re not the bad guy here.”

“I don’t think you are either, Joel,” you say. 

But he doesn’t agree. And he never will, no matter how many sweet words and even sweeter touches you offer. “I’ll take care of it.”

You lay your head back on his chest, and his panic eases until it withers away into nothing. “Okay,” you say. “And…and after? After I finish school, will you still be here?”

Joel can sense the hesitation in your voice, can feel the sudden rigidity in your limbs. He caresses your face and promises, “Yes, baby. I’ll be here.”

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“Of what?”

He’s not sure what he expects your answer to be, but he definitely doesn’t expect the stab to the chest when you say, “Whenever I leave, you change your mind about me. How do I know you won’t do it again?”

“Look at me,” he says. When you do, his eyes are molten with affection. “I will be here,” he repeats. “I will be here, and I will still love you. Do you understand me?”

You nod let out a long, sleepy breath. “Good.”

That night, Joel sleeps better than he has in years. So much so that he’s up before you, and this time it’s his turn to make the pancakes. He doesn’t do nearly as good as you, burning half of them and undercooking the other half, but he doesn’t worry about it because he realizes he has so much time to perfect it. Time he never had before. 

You pad barefoot down the stairs wearing your sleep shorts and the t-shirt he discarded last night. Joel wonders if he’ll ever grow tired of seeing you in his clothes.

When you notice Sarah and Tommy sitting at the kitchen table with plates pooled with syrup, your eyes widen and your cheeks grow crimson. “Uhm—morning,” you murmur, sliding into the seat at Sarah’s side. 

“Morning,” Joel responds, sitting a plate of pancakes in front of you. “Coffee or orange juice?”

“Uhm…orange juice,” you reply timidly. 

Joel pours you a glass, and joins you at the table, and doesn’t know how to break the weird silence that’s settled over the room. 

Thankfully, though—his daughter volunteers to do just that. “It’s gonna take me a second to get used to this,” she says. “And I will, I swear—but I’m just telling you now that I’m never gonna call you mom.”

Laughter breaks out in the kitchen, and the smile on your face brings Joel so much joy he can hardly contain himself. 

“That would be so weird,” you say. “God—could you imagine?”

“Fuck that—can you imagine living together, dude? It’s going to be amazing! I’ll always have someone to hang out with. Plus I won’t be the only one in this house with decent film taste anymore,” Sarah says. 

“Don’t you dare throw me in with this guy,” Tommy says, pointing a finger at Joel from across the table. 

“No, no—you like terrible movies too,” you argue. 

It sparks a heated debate, and pancakes get flicked from a fork across the table, and there’s a giant mess to clean up afterwards, but Joel Miller has never been so content, so at peace, so happy.

When you take your little boyfriend back to the city, Joel reminds you to call him if you need anything. He uses the opportunity of your absence to do the scariest thing of his life. 

He’s playing a game of pool in your dad’s garage, and Tommy is leaning against the wall with a beer in his hand, and Joel decides there’s no time like the present. “I have to tell you something,” he says. 

Your dad doesn’t look up at him. He lines up his cue and lets out a heavy sigh that sounds so similar to the ones of your frustration that it’s startling. “This about my daughter?”

Joel and Tommy exchange a look of uncertainty. “Uh—yeah,” Joel prods carefully. “Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t know where to begin, so he decides to only say what he needs to say, to say it firmly and without room for question. “I’m, uh—I’m in love with her. And after she graduates she’ll be coming home and we’re…we’re going to be together.”

He doesn’t say anything and at first, it unnerves Joel. He simply draws his cue back, shoots, and waits until the ball falls perfectly into the table’s pocket. He calmly lays his cue at his side, picks up the black eight ball from the table, and chucks it at Joel’s head. 

It misses him by an inch, and something shatters behind him, but Joel is too busy running from your father to look back and assess the damage. 

“You motherfucker! I should kill you! That’s my fucking kid—!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Tommy is stepping between them, shoving your dad back. “Just hear him out, man! It’s not what you think!”

A warmth erupts in Joel’s chest to hear his brother’s words, to hear him defend his atrocities so easily. Joel knows exactly what thoughts are going through your fathers head, because they went through Joel’s first. He knows it looks like he’s just an old man trying to get his rocks off with the first pretty, young thing that ever looks his way, and maybe there’s some truth to that, but it’s also so, so much more. Still, Joel has a daughter, too, so he understands. “I swear I love her,” he says as if it’s some sort of consolation. “I really do.”

The vein in your dad’s temple protrudes as he shoves past Tommy and gets in one good punch, splitting the skin of Joel’s cheek. “Get the fuck out! Get out of my house before I break your fucking jaw!”

Joel listens. He slips through the half-opened garage door and goes home, adrenaline coursing through him. There wasn’t a lot of blood, and he considers that a win. He cleans out the cut on his cheek, orders a pizza, calls you to tell you how it went. You’re angry at first, when he tells you about his small injury, but Joel assures you that it’s the least he deserves. He says he’d do it a hundred times over if it meant you’d be coming home to him.

Tommy comes through the door a couple hours later with a weary look on his face. He flops down on the couch beside his brother, grabs a slice of cold peperoni pizza and says, “Fuck you for that, by the way.”

“How is he?”

“Fine for now. I think he’ll come around. Just give him a bit of time.”

They polish off the pizza, Tommy crashes on the couch, and Joel sleeps well with the scent of vanilla still lingering in his sheets. Several days later, he’s mowing the front yard with his t-shirt tucked into his back pocket when your dad gets home from work. 

When he crosses the yard and approaches him, Joel turns off the mower and prepares himself for another swing. Except, your dad only raises a hand and says, “I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to see it. We’re neighbors, Joel—keep the fucking windows closed or so help me God.”

“Done,” he agrees quickly with a shrug of his shoulders.

“And I swear to Christ, if you break her heart—”

“I won’t.” It’s the truth, and Joel thinks your dad knows it, too. He shakes his head and says it again, firmer this time. “I won’t.” 

There’s a second of silence, and it’s thick and heavy while your dad debates on whether he should hurt Joel again just for good measure. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “There’s a Longhorns game tonight. Tommy’s coming. You can…you know, you’re welcome to come too.”

“I’ll be there,” Joel promises. 

It takes a few weeks, but the comfortable energy between the three men returns, and one night your father even tells Joel, “Better you than that asshole she brought home for spring break. Kid was a cunt.”

Joel agrees, and all that’s left for him to do is wait for you. It’s only a few months until graduation, but it feels like a lifetime when he’s wasted so many years already. He calls you every night and his thoughts never stray far and for a little while, it’s enough.

He busies himself by finishing the renovations in your dad’s house, and then turns to his own to do the same. 

Joel starts with the kitchen, painting the cabinets and switching out the hardware. He clears out half of his closet for you, buys pink hangers to sit beside his black ones, buys a two pack of toothbrushes and sticks yours in the cup on the sink right next to his. Your dad offers to help when Joel says he wants to build a deck for the backyard, and they use Tommy’s truck to bring home new lawn chairs that recline so you can tan in those tiny bikinis comfortably.

He puts cherry chapstick on your nightstand. He buys pancake mix and orange juice and a bottle of top shelf tequila. And when you finally graduate and walk across the stage to receive your fancy degree, Joel is the second loudest person in the crowd. (The first is Sarah, who greets you with a flower bouquet bigger than your head.)

When you finally, finally come home to him, your eyes turn glassy when you discover what he’s spent his time doing in your absence. You say, thank you, Joel and throw your arms around his neck and drown him in kisses and he feels religion stir in his chest.

He asks you later that night what your favorite thing is, asks you whether it’s the deck or the tequila or the pink hangers. Your favorite part is him, of course it’s him, but you say instead that it’s the remodel in the kitchen. 

The backsplash is sage green.

[masterlist]

divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

a/n; i seriously cannot thank you guys enough for the unending support on this, i love you all so much <3

taglist; @aamatis-blog1 @goldenispunk @storytimeblog @locaparapedrito @bluesweaters15 @ace-27749 @joelmillerlover123 @shivkillian @bbyplutosblog @tiredbuthappy @samsamsantos @elegantduckturtle @pinkiec6-rubi @pascaltesfaye @pedropascalsbbg @heheheilovepedro

[aerynwrites]

Unexpected, But Not Unwelcome

Gale Dekarios x afab!Reader/Tav

A/N: based on this request - god I literally wrote this the second that I got it lol. Gale was the perfect one to write this request for imo and it was such a pleasure!

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: pregnant reader, slight angst, pregnancy, fluff.

The longer you’ve lived in Waterdeep the more you start to understand why the balcony outside the study is Gales' chosen spot in his tower. 

You still remember the slight shock you felt when you first arrived to see the space was exactly like the illusion he showed you all those months ago. 

Now it’s also become your place of solace, much to the wizards delight. 

“Views like this are much better enjoyed with company. And I couldn’t wish for a better half to spend it with.” 

The balcony is swathed in deep orange light, the sun slowly creeping towards the horizon, the bottom just barely kissing the edge of sea way out in the distance. Her fading rays dance along the calm bay waters, the only disturbance to its surface being the few ships leaving or entering port. 

‘What do they carry?’ you wonder. 

Fine silks and clothing? Or perhaps rare spices from across the world. It’s a game you find yourself playing more often than not whenever you sit out here. But now…

Now it’s all you can do to try and focus on the ships, your mind constantly flitting back to the news you were given earlier in the day. 

You’d missed your monthly cycle a few weeks back, and while it wasn’t immediately alarming, that along with other symptoms finally made you decided to seek out a healer. 

Gale had told you of his plans to spend the day at Sorcerers Sundries, looking for a specific tome for research he was working on. So, today was the perfect day to slip away unnoticed. You didn’t want to worry your husband unnecessarily, but now you want nothing more than for him to be home, the news eating away at you. 

You’re pregnant. 

It’s honestly nothing you’ve ever truly thought about. Before the tadpoles, you’d been alone, just living day to day in Baldur’s Gate. Then of course the whole tadpole incident happened and then…you met Gale and fell in love and started to build a life with him here, in Waterdeep. 

You’re honestly surprised the topic never came up. But now, with it staring you in the face…a sense of uncertainty settles deep in your belly. 

Tara noticed immediately of course, aware of your unusual quietness as you retreated to the balcony as soon as you got home. You’d found yourself spilling the news to the intelligent cat as soon as she asked, her deep eyes softening ever so slightly as she jumped in your lap and curled up. 

You couldn’t help but sense a wave of excitement coming from her, though. A sense that somewhat calmed you despite the nerves running wild in your mind. 

That was a few hours ago, Tara hasn’t moved from her spot, lounging peacefully as you stroked her fur and watch the ships glide across the water. 

Only the very distant sound of the tower door opening and closing, and Gales faint greeting finally pulls you from your thoughts, that anxiety creeping back in full force as you tense. 

Tara sits up as well, stretching and letting out an enviable yawn. You wish you could be that relaxed. 

“Relax, dear,” Tara says gently, nuzzling your hand before turning to jump from your lap. “I feel you have nothing to be worried about.” 

She turned and pads towards the inside of the tower just as Gale appears in the archway, stopping to offer her a welcoming scratch before she disappears.

He sends you a warm smile as he rights himself, approaching and taking a seat next to you on the padded bench, arm wrapping around your waist instinctively as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“How was your day, my love?” He asks, nose nuzzling your cheek. 

You smile, realizing it doesn’t quite reach your eyes past the anxiety roiling in your chest. “It was good,” you tell him, not completely lying but not offering the full truth either. “How was your adventure to Sorcerer’s Sundries?” 

At the mention of the bookstore Gale’s eyes light up as he tells you about what he found. Slowly, as he talks about the new information he found regarding his research, you both maneuver into a more comfortable position. Gale moves to lay across the length of the padded bench, leaning against the armrest as you settle between his legs, back resting against his chest. 

His arms wrap loosely around your middle, hands resting over your stomach, completely unaware of the life that’s now growing there. 

His words fade into the background as your mind starts to wander again, your hands moving to rest atop his own, your fingers slipping to toy with the simple gold band around his ring finger.

You don’t truly have many worries about the news. You know that Gale will weather anything with you but…you don’t want this to be a storm, or anything negative. What if Gale doesn’t want children? What if he pulls away from you when you tell him the news or is just as scared as you feel?

Soft lips against your neck pull you from your thoughts, familiar fingers slipping between your own to give them a squeeze. 

“I know my research ramblings can at times be boresome. However, you seem to be lost to me more than usual this evening.” His words are gentle with just a touch of amusement as rests his head against yours. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t respond right away, your nerves at an all time high and making your already tumultuous stomach even more uneasy. You squeeze his hand in yours.

“I went to see a healer today.”

Gale’s arms tighten around you, and you can feel the way he sits up straighter, your words concerning him. 

“A healer? I didn’t even notice - are you sick?” He asks, worry clear in his voice. “I cannot believe I was so preoccupied I failed to take note of-“

You tug on the sleeve of his robes, holding him tighter to you. “I’m not sick. At least not…” You trail off, taking your lip between your teeth.

Gale urges you on with a gentle press of his lips to your shoulder, and that action alone seems to calm the raging sea of anxiety within you. 

“I’m with child, Gale.” 

The silence that follows your revelation feels oppressive. The only sounds meeting your ears being the lapping of waves against the shore and the distant call of gulls in the air. 

Emotion clogs your throat as you clutch his hand. “Please…say something.”

You sit up then, turning to face the man behind you, but before you can fully do so, two strong arms wrap around you and bring you to your feet. Your surroundings turn into a blur around you as Gale spins you through the air, boisterous laughter falling from his lips until he brings you to a stop, capturing you in a breathtaking kiss. 

His lips are warm and his arms secure as he holds you to him, as if afraid this would all fade away if he were to let you go. 

Heat floods your cheeks when he pulls away, elation adorning his features as he looks at you, eyes glowing with an utter joy you’ve never quite seen on him before. He cradles your face in his hands, thumbs brushing softly against your cheeks. 

“I’m going to be a father? We’re going to have a child?” He asks, whispering the words in unbelieving reverence. 

The smile that splits your lips is almost painful, any and all anxiety dissipating from you as you take in his reaction. 

“Yes they…The healer said I would start showing soon, and if we want…Towards the end of the pregnancy they should be able to tell us the gender,” you tell him, hands grasping at the fabric of his robe. 

Gale smiles wider, hands falling down to cradle your stomach and the new life that sits there. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says gently. “They will be loved either way, and no doubt a powerful wielder of the weave if I have anything to say about it.”

You can’t stop the chuckle that slips past your lips, and the surprising happy tears that fall down your cheeks. Gale notices the streaks immediately, smile faltering ever so slightly as he reaches back up to wipe the tears away.

“Why the tears? This is a joyous occasion, we should be celebrating!” 

You shake your head, reaching up to place your hand atop his own as you turn to press a kiss to his palm. “They aren’t tears of grief…I was worried. Worried about telling you. I didn’t…we’ve never talked about children.”

Your husband smiles gently, eyes reassuring as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I can admit that this news was unexpected, but it’s…it is not unwelcome,” he tells you, eyes bright once more. “I’ve never given much thought to children because of everything that had consumed my mind in the past and then you appeared in my life and took over the rest of my thoughts,” he laughs. “But this…” He presses his hands to your belly again. “This is more than I could have ever asked for. More than any power I’ve ever dreamed of having. I find myself filled with indescribable joy at the thought of creating a life with you - a family.”

You press your lips to his as soon as the words leave his lips, pulling him impossibly closer until you break away to nuzzle into the space between his head and shoulder, excitement and happiness threatening to burst from your chest. 

“I love you, Gale Dekarios.” You say, smiling as he pulls you tighter against him. “I can’t wait to start a family with you.”

You move to speak, but the presence of a familiar winged feline interrupts you as Tara rushes onto the balcony, wiggling happily. 

“Oh my!” She exclaims, weaving between yours and Gale’s legs before jumping effortlessly up to perch on his shoulder as you both separate. “This is most exciting! Another Dekarios, can you believe it?” She asks, turning to Gale. “Hopefully this one won’t light himself on fire like you did all those years ago.”

You watch in amusement as Gale flushes a light shade of pink, flicking Tara’s ear playfully. “I was just starting to learn to master the weave! And I was eight, you can hardly blame me.”

You chuckle at their antics and reach up to card your hands through his hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his attention back to you.

“Well, they will have the best teacher. There’s no telling what they will accomplish with you as their guide.”

Gale smiles, leaning down to kiss you one last time before embracing you once more. 

“We’ll guide them together.”

You hum in agreement, basking in the golden rays of the setting sun, the snapping of sails echoing across the water as you whisper against his skin. 

“Together.”

Tags:

@dark-and-kawaii

[fatecantstopme]

Truth Serum

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: When you're captured by a powerful witch, Sam and Dean race to save you. The three of you are confronted with painful truths that will change your relationships forever.

Warnings: Canon violence, swearing, use of pet names. SMUT, oral (M and F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V), dom/sub vibes. Dean surrenders control to reader.

Buy Me a Coffee 💜

You woke up in an unfamiliar room, unable to move, and your memory was fuzzy--you had no idea how you'd gotten here. All you knew in that moment was your head was pounding and your arms were tied securely behind your back.

You looked around the room, seeking something familiar to ground yourself, but nothing spoke to you. You wracked your brain in an attempt to remember how the hell you got here...the last thing you could remember was going to get dinner for yourself and the boys.

Sam and Dean's faces appeared in your mind and you strained to hear anything else in the room or surrounding area--seeking either of their voices or anything that might indicate they were near. To your dismay, it was completely silent, not a single sound disturbed the night. All you could hear was the sound of your own panicked heart beating and the deep breaths that accompanied it.

You knew the boys would be searching for you, but you had no idea how long you'd been missing or if there were any signs of where you'd gone. You could only hope they would find you before it was too late. You had a feeling the witch the three of you had been hunting had found you first--and there was no telling what they would do to you.

You tried in vain to get yourself out of the binds that secured your hands together, swearing under your breath as the actions were fruitless. The only thing you'd succeeded in doing was giving yourself rope burn on both wrists.

At some point during your struggle, another person had entered the room, but you didn't notice their presence until they spoke. "Glad to see you're awake."

Your head spun in the direction of the voice and a woman stepped out from the shadows with a dark smirk on her face. She was objectively quite beautiful, with sunshine blond hair and brilliant green eyes. Her eyes reminded you of Dean's emerald orbs--though her's lacked the spark that lived in Dean's.

"Who are you?" you asked angrily.

"My name is Camille, little hunter. I believe you've been looking for me."

Her voice had an odd melodic tone to it that bothered you in a way you couldn't quite explain. It made your brain both fuzzy and painfully clear at the same time--a combination you didn't care to ever experience again.

"You're the witch I've been hunting," you stated.

"Very good, little hunter."

"I do have a name, you know," you muttered, slightly annoyed at the nickname.

"My apologies, hunter. What is your name?"

"(Y/N)."

"(Y/N)," Camille repeated. "And are you here alone?"

Every instinct you had told you to lie, but when you opened your mouth, you were surprised when the truth spilled from your lips. "No, I am here with two other hunters."

Camille smiled cruelly as she observed the shocked expression on your face. "You'd intended to lie, hadn't you?"

That melodic tone had intensified and you struggled to form the words you wanted. "What are you doing to me?" you growled lowly.

Camille smirked again. "Teaching you not to lie, little hunter."

"Well stop," you insisted.

She laughed. "Sorry, little hunter. It's part of my charm." She paused, attention turning towards the door. "It appears we're no longer alone." She put her finger to her lips and faded back into the shadow.

You shifted your gaze to the door and began listening for sounds. You heard the telltale sound of boots hitting the floor and you knew in your heart it was Sam and Dean. Everything in you wanted to call out to them--to warn them--scream--something, but not a single sound escaped when you opened your mouth. Anger settled in your bones, hating your inability to warn your friends.

The doorknob began to turn slowly and you let out a soft whine--the most you could manage in the moment.

"(Y/N)?" Dean's voice whispered from the other side of the door.

You were relieved to hear his voice, but terrified of what would happen next. You wanted to respond, but words continued to escape you.

The door slowly opened to reveal Sam and Dean's concerned faces. They quickly scanned the room, eyes falling on your form in the center of the room.

"(Y/N/N)," Dean said, clearly relieved to see you unharmed.

He started to come towards you, but you shook your head, eyes wide and alert. You wanted to say something, needed to tell him the witch was here--they were all in danger.

"Hey, sweetheart. It's okay. We'll get you out of here," Dean whispered.

You shook your head again, but it was too late. As soon as Dean took a step towards you, Camille stepped forward and sent both him and Sam flying against the wall. She waved her hand and two chairs appeared beside yours, and with another wave, both men were seated in said chairs. Their arms were tied behind their chairs in similar fashion to yours before they could even register what was happening.

"I'm so glad you could join us," Camille said as she came farther into the room, fully revealing herself to the new arrivals.

Dean glared at her in annoyance. "I'm guessing you're the witch bitch we've been looking for."

She smiled. "Indeed I am. My name is Camille, and who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Dean Winchester," Dean forced out, a look of surprise on his face. "And this is my brother, Sam."

Camille smiled. "Oh I've heard of you--the great Winchesters. I'm honored to have made your list, though I'm afraid you won't be successful this time around."

"Don't be too sure about that," Sam stated, speaking for the first time.

"It appears I have the upper hand, little hunters, so save the ego for someone else."

"'Little hunters'?" Dean asked in annoyance.

"Don't let it bother you, she's been calling me that since I woke up," you muttered. "I think it brings her joy."

"It does bring me joy," Camille commented. "But what really makes me happy is having the three of you here to play with. This is going to be such fun."

You felt the anger rise within you once again and you struggled against your bindings--useless or not, you couldn't give up. You noticed both Sam and Dean were doing the same.

"What do you want with us?" Sam asked.

"Obviously I'm going to kill you," she answered. "But not just yet."

You closed your eyes, sadness washing over you. You didn't want to die, but you couldn't bear the thought of Dean dying. Not that you didn't care about Sam, but you cared for Dean very deeply--seeing him die would destroy you.

"You shouldn't have come," you whispered.

"What was that, little hunter?"

You turned your gaze to Dean, who was sitting directly to your left, with Sam on the other side of him. "Neither of you should have come."

Surprise lit up both men's faces, but it was Dean who spoke. "Did you really think we would leave you?"

You shook your head and sighed.

"Tell us, little hunter, why didn't you want them to save you?"

You made eye contact with Camille and felt the anger flare up again. You resisted answering her question directly, instead saying, "I don't want anything to happen to them."

Camille took a step closer to you. "You're strong willed, little hunter. Most people can't resist my charms--I have them spilling their deepest, darkest secrets within seconds."

You simply glared at her, not willing to give in to her bait.

"Come now, tell me the truth," Camille said softly. "Why didn't you want them to save you?"

The melodic tone of her voice threatened to crush you. It felt like someone was squeezing your insides every time you attempted to resist her demands--whenever you wanted to lie or avoid the truth.

"What the hell are you doing to her?" Dean yelled.

"She needs to be honest. I don't like being lied to."

The pain intensified, forcing the words from your lips, "I didn't want Dean to get hurt."

"That's better," Camille said smugly. "Just Dean? What about Sam? You don't care about him?"

"Of course I do," you insisted.

"Then why did you only mention Dean?"

You tried to resist--you didn't want to admit the truth, especially in front of Dean. You'd spent years hiding your feelings and you sure as hell didn't want to admit to anything in the presence of witnesses. "None of your business," you forced out painfully.

Camille's face lit up in surprise. "Very strong willed," she muttered. "You can't resist forever, little hunter."

Her voice made the pain you were experiencing almost unbearable. You could barely breathe and a gasp of pain escaped your lips.

"(Y/N), please," Dean begged, clearly worried about you.

Your resolve broke and the words slipped from your mouth without thought, "I care about him!" As soon as the words left your lips, the pain lifted, allowing you to catch your breath.

"See? Was that so hard?" Camille asked cruelly. "Who's next?" She looked at both men before stepping towards Sam. "Tell me, Samuel, why did you come to save (Y/N)?"

"Because she's family," Sam answered honestly.

His words warmed your heart and you shot a weak smile his way. You considered Sam and Dean family too--it was nice to know they felt the same, or at least Sam did. You couldn't look at Dean, you were too afraid of what you'd see on his face. You hadn't really admitted your feelings, but you were worried he knew you too well to miss the truth in your words.

"Boring," Camille muttered before turning her attention to Dean instead. "Your turn, handsome. Why did you come to save (Y/N)?"

Dean glared at her, but his face twitched slightly, belying the pain he was feeling. It took all his strength to force out the words, "What he said," while nodding his head in his brother's direction.

Camille laughed coldly. "Don't lie to me, Dean." She leaned forward and asked him again, but he continued to resist.

You forced yourself to look at him and you could see the pain in his eyes. He was desperately trying to keep himself from answering, but it was obvious he was losing the battle.

Camille frowned and leaned farther forward, grabbing his chin in her hand and forcing him to make eye contact with her. "Answer me, Dean. Why did you come to save (Y/N)?"

Dean struggled for a moment, jaw clenched in anger and frustration. Camille squeezed his jaw harshly and Dean groaned in pain. Just when you thought Camille was going to give up, Dean yelled his answer, shocking everyone present. "BECAUSE I LOVE HER!"

He was breathless as the words left his lips and Camille let go of his face, a smile gracing her pretty face. "Finally, a little honesty."

You were shocked into silence, unable to fully process his words and their meaning. Dean Winchester couldn't have possibly just admitted his feelings for you--there was no way.

Camille returned her attention to you, a dark smile on her face. "How does that make you feel, (Y/N)?"

You closed your eyes and didn't answer her question.

"You admitted you care about him, but do you love him too?"

You stayed silent, fighting her truth-forcing voice. It wasn't that you didn't want to admit your feelings--you just didn't want her to know. You didn't want her to use your love for Dean against you or him. So you resisted her charms and kept your mouth shut despite the pain.

"If I can force the great Dean Winchester to be honest, don't think for a second that I can't do the same to you, little hunter," Camille seethed.

Your eyes shot open and you glared at her, burning a hole in her soul. "No," you growled.

"No, you don't love him?"

You didn't respond.

"Or you think you can keep your feelings a secret?"

You still didn't respond.

Camille put her hands on the arms of your chair and leaned in, her face frighteningly close to yours. "Tell me the truth, or I'll kill him."

You didn't need to ask to know she was referring to Dean and not Sam. For a moment you considered calling her bluff, but the anger in her eyes told you she wasn't playing a game. She would kill him without hesitation.

You turned your head to look at Dean and found his gaze already on you. Terror was etched into his handsome features--terror for you. Your decision was made in an instant and you stopped fighting.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," you said, addressing the green-eyed hunter directly. "I know I promised you we would always be friends, but I don't think I can do that anymore. You see…I fell in love with you. I don't even know when it happened, it just--did."

Dean's beautiful green eyes betrayed his emotions, even if his face remained impassive. He'd spent the better part of the past two years wishing and hoping to hear you say those words to him. You could see the love reflected in his gaze and you knew his utterance hadn't been a heat of the moment thing--he'd meant it.

Camille's face remained close to yours as she laughed mockingly. "It's a pity you didn't admit your feelings sooner--perhaps you could have been together."

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Sam's hands slipping from the grasp of the ropes. In a split second, you made a decision that could either save your life or end it. You turned your attention back to Camille and slammed your forehead into her face with all of your strength.

Luckily, you'd caught the witch by surprise and she want sprawling backwards, clutching her nose and cursing angrily. Her attention remained on you as she started to recite a spell.

The pain that struck your body was unlike anything you'd ever felt before and you knew you were dying--if she had the opportunity to finish the spell, you would be gone.

Dean yelled your name and struggled with everything he had to free himself. Sam, on the other hand, had sprung up from his chair and lunged at Camille, sending her sprawling onto the floor. The two of them were struggling as Sam pulled a knife from inside his jacket.

Dean managed to get his hands out of the ropes and he quickly jumped into the fray to help his brother. Sam managed to slip the blade into Camille's chest--a scream of pain leaving her throat.

Knowing his brother had the situation under control, Dean turned his attention to you. You were breathing heavily, but were mostly unharmed. The effects of Camille's spell were dying with her, for which you were thankful.

Dean pulled out his own knife and cut the ropes that bound you. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck and fell against him. His arms wrapped around you and he held you close. "You okay, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

You lifted your head to look at him and nodded, tears filling your eyes.

He offered you a soft smile and brushed your hair from your face. "Let's get you out of here."

"Please," you muttered.

Dean helped you up and turned to look for his brother. Sam had just stood up, Camille's body lying dead on the floor beneath him. "She's gone. I'll take care of the body and we can get the hell out of here."

Dean nodded. "I'm gonna take (Y/N) back to the motel. She needs to rest."

"I'm fine, Dean--really," you insisted.

Dean shot you a glance. "You had it worse than either of us. You need to rest."

His voice was so firm, leaving no room for argument, so you threw your hands up in surrender.

Sam offered you a soft smile. "He's right, (Y/N). I'll meet you guys back at the motel when I'm done here."

"Call if you need anything," Dean said before escorting you from the room.

**********

The car ride back to the motel was completely silent--and not in the comfortable way. Neither of you knew what to say or where to begin. There was an awkwardness between you that you'd never had before and it only added to the pre-existing tension.

When you got into the motel room, you sat down on your bed with a sigh. Dean grabbed two beers from the fridge, handing one to you before taking a seat at the little table by the door.

The two of you began to drink your beers in silence, but it quickly became unbearable. "Dean, I think we should talk."

He looked at you for the first time since you'd gotten back to the motel. You could see the fear in his eyes and you realized he was worried you were going to tell him you didn't mean what you'd said--that you didn't love him.

You sat the beer on the side table and stood up. "Don't you think for a single moment that I didn't mean what I said, Dean Winchester. I meant it--every word. No witch can make me say something that isn't true...I've been in love with you for years."

His lips parted in surprise, eyes swimming with emotions. "I meant it too," he whispered as he stood up and stepped towards you. "I love you, (Y/N)--I think I always have."

Your lips curled up in a small smile. "This isn't how I'd planned on telling you."

"Had you planned on telling me?"

"No," you answered honestly. "I was scared."

"Me too," he said softly. "Terrified, actually."

"Of what?"

"I always assumed you wouldn't want me...you know me too well, (Y/N). You've seen me at my absolute worst and you know how damaged and broken I am. Why in the world would you choose to love me?"

"Okay, first of all, cut that self-loathing shit out. You don't get to do that with me. You're right--I do know you too well. I have seen you at your worst, but I've also seen you at your best. I know who you truly are and you're a damn hero, Dean. You inspire me every day. We face the shittiest things life can possibly throw at us and you always keep fighting--you never give up. You keep me going even when I want to give up. You're the most incredible man I have ever met and I am truly blessed to be loved by you."

He took three steps forward, stopping mere inches from you. His eyes were filled with love, which you were certain was reflected in your own. "I don't deserve you, baby, but I swear I will never stop trying to be worthy of your love."

You touched his cheek gently. "You don't have to try, Dean. I love you just as you are."

He smiled slowly, his eyes lighting up as his gaze scanned your face. "Anyone ever tell you you look like a goddess?"

You laughed lightly. "You'd be the first."

He gave you an adorable lopsided grin, as his arm snaked around your waist and tugged you closer. He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours and you melted into him, a soft moan escaping against his lips.

His tongue brushed gently against your lips, which you parted to allow him entry. He tasted like mint and beer and something just distinctly Dean.

You slipped your hands into his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders, before doing the same with his flannel. His gentle, calloused hands slid under your shirt and pushed it upwards. You broke the kiss long enough to allow him to take off your shirt and his own before connecting your lips again.

You reveled in the feeling of his warm, strong chest against yours. His skin was soft and smooth as you ran your hands over the taunt muscles of his back.

His hands slipped lower, caressing your ass, fingers digging in as he tugged you closer to him. You could feel his bulge pressing into your lower belly and you were suddenly desperate to feel him--really feel him.

You tugged on his belt, undoing it quickly then shifting to the button on his jeans. He helped you remove his jeans and you took the opportunity to remove yours as well. As soon as you were both mostly naked, Dean grabbed you and dragged you to the bed, tossing you onto it and crawling on top of you.

His hungry lips attacked yours again, hands roaming any part of you he could reach. "God, your skin is so soft, baby," he whispered.

You didn't have the opportunity to respond as Dean's lips found the sweet spot on your neck--the one that always drove you wild. You had no idea how he knew where to kiss, but you didn't have it in you to ask. The soft moans that left your lips told him how much you were enjoying the feeling of his lips against your skin--and he had no intention of stopping.

His hand slipped behind your back and tugged at the clasp of your bra. You arched your back to give him better access and he made quick work of the undergarment, tugging it off and throwing it across the room. He groaned softly as he gazed at your exposed breasts. "I think it would be best if you never wore a bra again," he mumbled.

Your soft chuckle turned to moans of pleasure as his lips attached to your nipple and his hands began to gently kneed your supple flesh. Your fingers wound themselves into his short hair and you sighed happily, enjoying the feeling of his hands on you.

His mouth continued its trail downward, placing open mouthed kisses to your skin. He nipped at the softer parts of your body, eliciting gasps and moans of enjoyment.

He smirked against your skin, enjoying the sounds you made for him. He pressed his lips to your core, teasing you with his lips and tongue before finally slipping his tongue between your folds. He growled lowly, burying his face deeply between your thighs.

"Dean," you gasped, fingers twisting into his hair.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he murmured, lifting his head just enough to get the words out before diving back in.

You'd had sex plenty of times before, but never in your life had you been eaten out like this--Dean Winchester was a master--a genius--with his mouth.

"Fuck--Dean, please!" you cried.

He seemed to know what you needed, reading your body like a book. He slid two fingers inside of you and began to gently press them into your most sensitive spot, drag them along your walls, and do it again on repeat.

His mouth focused on your clit while his fingers continued to stroke your walls. He could feel you getting close--your pussy was squeezing his fingers and your thighs had begun to tighten around his head.

Your fingertips scratched against his scalp and you ground yourself down against his mouth, chasing your impending orgasm. Dean tightened his grip on your hips, holding you in place. Your moans increased in volume as you suddenly fell over the edge.

Your legs began to shake as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Dean continued his ministrations, not wanting to stop until you forcefully tugged his hair to get him off.

"Sensitive, baby," you whimpered.

Dean gave your pussy a few more kitten licks before relenting and allowing you to pull him up. He licked his lips happily, a smirk gracing his handsome face.

He crawled back up your body, kissing your skin as he moved. When his lips finally pressed against yours again, his cock brushed against your core, earning a sharp inhale from both of you.

"I wanted to take my time with you, sweetheart, but I need to be inside of you immediately."

You chuckled lightly. "I'm certainly not going to complain."

He grinned and flipped over onto his back, dragging you with him so you were now straddling his thighs.

"Dean!" you giggled as he manhandled you.

"I thought you'd want to ride me," he teased.

"Oh did you now?"

"Since you like to be in control and all."

"Just because I tell you what to do, doesn't mean I want to be in control in bed, Dean."

"So you don't wanna be on top?" he asked. "Cuz I can roll you back over, pretty girl."

You pressed both hands down on his chest to keep him in place. "Now, I didn't say that..."

He grinned. "That's what I thought."

"But if you're gonna give me control, I want complete control."

He looked a little worried for a moment before nodding slowly.

"Hey," you said softly. "If you don't want to, it's okay."

"No, no--I want to," he insisted. "I'm just...not used to it."

"If you want me to stop or you don't like something I'm doing, just tell me, okay?"

He nodded and squeezed your hips affectionately. "I trust you."

You smiled and leaned down to kiss him. "Put your arms above your head."

He did as you asked and waited for your next command.

"Hold on to the headboard, handsome," you ordered. "And do not move them, understand?"

He nodded.

You grabbed his jaw and held it tightly. "Words, Dean."

His eyes widened in surprise, but you noticed the dark lustful look in them. "Yes ma'am," he whispered.

"Good boy." You sat back up and slid back so you were straddling his thighs. You dragged your fingers down his chest, nails scratching gently against his skin.

He groaned softly, clearly enjoying the sensation.

You smiled, pleased to see he liked what you were doing. You lowered your head to lick a stripe up his painfully hard cock. You twirled your tongue slowly around the head, eliciting a moan of pleasure from Dean.

You smirked before dropping your head to take him into your mouth as deeply as you could.

"Oh--fuck--" he groaned.

Your head was bobbing up and down, sucking his cock like your life depended on it. You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slip farther in. You constricted your throat around him and continued to use your tongue to pleasure him.

"Holy--" Dean squirmed beneath you. "Feels so good, baby."

You moaned, the vibrations sending a wave of pleasure through his entire body.

"Jesus, baby." He was dying to tangle his fingers in your hair, but he didn't want to disobey your order. "I can't--baby, I need you to stop or I'm gonna cum."

You moaned in disappointment, but you lifted your head off of him and moved to straddle his hips. You gently rubbed your core against his cock, and his hips thrust upwards in an attempt to seek more friction.

"Uh-uh, no moving," you ordered.

"But, I--"

"No moving, Dean. Keep your hands where they are and keep those hips on the bed."

"Yes ma'am," he mumbled.

You smiled softly and stroked his cheek affectionately. "I'll let you know when you can move."

You grabbed his cock and lined it up with your core before sinking down on it in one fluid motion. You both groaned in pleasure at the feeling--your pussy stretched to the absolute max.

You took a deep breath before beginning to move your hips, grinding against him and twisting your hips in a circle.

As you moved, your hands traveled up your body to your neck. From there, you slowly moved both hands down your body, stopping to massage your breasts. You played with your nipples as you watched Dean, his eyes glued to your motions.

You moaned softly, tossing your head back in pleasure. You loved seeing him struggling to keep control of himself beneath you. You smirked at the way he was white knuckling the headboard, obviously desperate to touch you, but afraid to disobey you.

"You're doing so good for me, baby," you murmured.

He whimpered softly as he watched you.

You moved your hands down your stomach, allowing one to slip between your legs to gently massage your clit. The other hand traveled back to your breasts to toy with them.

"Fuck, baby," Dean whispered. "Let me touch you."

"Not yet."

He groaned and squeezed the headboard tighter.

You smiled as you began to move up and down, gathering speed as you did so.

"Please," Dean begged. "Please, baby--I wanna touch you."

"I know you do, handsome, but you can't yet."

He whimpered softly and shifted his hips. You could feel the desperation seeping from him, but you knew the longer you held him off, the better it would feel for the both of you when he finally did touch you.

You continued your movements, but you placed both of your hands on his chest, touching and teasing him with your soft fingers.

He groaned in frustration and desperation. "Baby," he begged again. "Please."

You leaned forward and brushed your lips against his, pulling back when he tried to return the kiss. He chased after your lips, whimpering when you sat back up.

"How badly do you wanna touch me?"

"I would do anything, (Y/N)."

You smirked. "Do you need to touch me?"

He looked almost pained as he stared into your eyes. "I need it so badly, baby. Please, (Y/N/N). Please just let me touch you."

Your expression softened and you decided to take pity on him, so you leaned forward, brushing your lips against his ear. "Touch me, Dean."

In an instant, his hands left the headboard and grabbed you tightly, pulling you to him as he began to thrust up into you.

You gasped in surprise and pleasure.

He pressed his feet into the mattress and began to thrust up into you with force. He was holding you tightly to keep you in place, his teeth nipping at your neck and shoulder as he moved.

You were at a loss for words--the pleasure so overwhelming you couldn't breathe, let alone think.

"Fuck, I need to see you," he groaned as he flipped you onto your back and hovered over you. He grabbed your legs and lifted them up, putting one on either side of his head as he continued to thrust into you.

This new angle made your legs shake and you cried out, screaming his name repeatedly as he pumped into you.

"That's it baby, tell everyone who's fucking you--let them know who makes you feel good."

Your orgasm hit you so suddenly it shocked you. You screamed again as you came with force.

Dean didn't stop, he wanted more from you and he would give anything to see you come undone again.

"It's too much!" you whimpered.

"Do you want me to stop, baby?"

You didn't respond, barely able to speak.

"Come on, sweetheart. Do you want me to stop?"

"Don't stop!" you gasped.

He grinned. "I won't, baby."

He slipped a hand between your legs and began to slowly circle your clit, applying just a little pressure in time with your moans.

The pleasure you were experiencing was so incredible--it was unlike anything you'd ever even imagined. The sounds coming from your mouth would have been embarrassing in any other context, but you couldn't be bothered to care.

As for Dean, he was loving the sounds you made and the way you looked beneath him. He was using every ounce of his self-control not to cum, but his control was waning.

Another orgasm hit you--once again shocking you both with its suddenness and intensity. You screamed his name as you came harshly.

Dean finally allowed your legs to drop and he leaned forward, caging you beneath him as he began to chase his own high. He was already close--and you could tell.

"Don't cum until I say," you whispered.

His eyes widened. "Baby--I don't think I can hold off--"

"Yes you can, Dean. Do it for me."

He groaned softly, but nodded his agreement. He kissed you passionately, which you returned in kind. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, pulling him as close to you as you could.

"I don't know how much longer I can wait," he murmured.

"You can do it, baby. You're doing so good for me."

He dug his fingers into the sheets on either side of your head and focused entirely on not cumming until you gave him permission.

You waited a few more moments before giving him the command he was desperate for, "Cum for me."

"Fuck, (Y/N)," he groaned loudly, spilling inside of you. His whole body was shaking as he continued to fill you up, gasps and moans slipping from his lips into your skin.

Finally, he collapsed on top of you, breathing heavily as he came down. You ran your fingers down his back in a gentle, affectionate manner. You loved the feeling of his large body laying on top of you, hard and warm against your soft skin.

"Never thought I'd feel like this," Dean mumbled into your neck.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't know sex could be this good. You're fucking incredible, baby."

You chuckled lightly. "Right back at you, handsome."

He groaned as he slowly rolled off of you. "I don't think I can move more than that."

You laughed. "I can't feel my legs, so I can't help you."

"God, I love hearing you say that."

"I love you," you said warmly.

He turned his head to look at you. "I love you too, baby."

You smiled at him and he surprised you by grabbing your hand and lifting it to his lips. He placed a soft kiss against it and then laid your hand and his on his chest.

"Who knew Dean Winchester could be so submissive," you teased.

"Only for you, sweetheart. Anyone else asks and it'd be a hard no. You're the only one that gets to see my sweet, sensitive side."

"Wait--you have a sweet, sensitive side?"

He glared at you and you laughed warmly.

"You're the sweetest, most sensitive man I know." You managed to roll onto your side so you could kiss him affectionately.

"Don't tell anyone," he whispered. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Don't worry, Winchester. Your secret's safe with me."

He smiled warmly and tugged you close to him. "Would you judge me if I just passed out?"

You chuckled softly. "As long as you don't mind me passing out too."

"So what you're saying is, you wanna sleep with me?"

You laughed. "I would love to sleep with you, Dean."

He grinned and kissed the top of your head. "How'd I get to be so lucky?"

"Something about a witch with truth serum powers."

He chuckled. "Who knew I'd be thankful for witchy mojo?"

You smiled and curled up into his side, sighing contentedly. "Goodnight, Dean," you whispered.

"Goodnight, beautiful. I love you."

"Love you too," you mumbled, already drifting off to a peaceful sleep in the arm's of the only man you've ever truly loved.

[veronicaphoenix]

to hold you, to heal you | n.s.

Summary: Noah is exhausted. It feels as if he's failing at everything, including at being the boyfriend his girl deserves. She's there to reassure him that that couldn't be further from the truth.

Tags & trigger warnings: angst, implied poor mental health (self-doubt, anxiety, depression), mentions of sex, fluff, comfort, just pretend live 2024.

words: 1.9k | my works

to hold you, to heal you — noah sebastian x fem. reader

The house was shrouded in quietness, the calming fragance of incense lit half an hour ago still lingering in the air. 

            Noah had gone to bed an hour earlier; he was exhausted. 

            Silently, she made her way to the bedroom, careful not to disturb him.

            He lay on his side of the bed as she entered, back turned to her, the covers barely draped over his bare torso.

            The temperatures had risen in the past two weeks, making the house uncomfortably warm. They should've swapped the covers for summer sheets, but neither could muster the energy to change them just yet.

            She tiptoed to her side of the bed and slipped under the covers, nestling herself right behind Noah, wrapping an arm around his stomach and pressing her chest to his back, her cheek resting against his shoulder. 

            It was often that they found each other like this: her spooning him. They loved to intertwine their legs beneath the sheets, and he loved to drag her hand to his chest, right where his heart beat. He wanted her to feel it, to feel how his heart’s rhythm transformed from a relentless dance to a gentle pulse at her touch. 

            She nuzzled the tip of her nose against the nape of his neck, delighting in the feel of his soft locks, growing longer by the day. His hand found hers and guided it to the spot where his heart resided. She focused on his heartbeat for a while, on his breathing. She let the warmth of his body transfer to hers, despite the heat already filling the room. 

            Cooconing him like that felt like a promise that would eventually break. When he was in her arms, she felt as though she could shield him from anything, everything. She could just keep him caged, safe and sound tucked against her body, much smaller than his yet capable of safeguarding him. She so desperately wanted to keep that promise… 

            Yet, she was aware that those we love eventually slip, one way or another, no matter how much we try to ease their fall. 

            Nobody is extempt from hurting. 

            And now Noah was hurting. Her promise hadn’t lasted.

            She tightened her grip unconsciously when a wave of anger and sadness washed over her, her muscles pressing against Noah’s, her heart wanting —needing— to break through the skin and find Noah’s, merge with his, beat as one. 

            Love is always a constant battle of trying, trying, failing, trying, trying again, and sometimes, making it right. 

            Tonight, she would make it right. She would heal him one way or another; take some of his pain and store it in her own chest, in her veins, in her bones. 

            Blinking away the tears, she pulled back slightly, just enough to see his back. It was dark, but the moonlight filtering through the curtains revealed the faint lines of his tattoos. Unable to stop herself, she traced the designs with a gentle finger, following every curve and sharp edge. 

            Noah shivered beneath her touch, his muscles tensing. 

            In less than a minute, he turned onto his back, his hands seeking her. He grasped her and positioned her astride his lap, his hands resting on her hips while hers landed on his chest. He wore nothing but black boxers, and she was clad in his t-shirt and cotton panties. 

            Under the moonlight, she found his October eyes. 

            “Hi,” she said softly. 

            “Hi,” Noah replied.

            “Did I wake you?”

            “No,” he answered, their voices mere whispers in the night. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explained, a hint of resignation in his voice. 

            It was soft now, not the rough, visceral one he used on stage for some of Bad Omens’s songs. This was the voice she loved the most, the deep raw timbre that was yet so delicate, both tender and masculine, holding harmony within a quiet power. Every time she heard her name uttered with that voice, that tone so soft yet demanding, she melted in his hands.  

            “The voices?” she guessed.

            Noah nodded, letting out a heavy sight that he’d tried to contain, his gaze falling. She hated seeing him so conflicted, but there was only so much she could do. She didn’t know what else to do beside be by his side, engulfed in the dark of the after hours and surrounded by white noise. 

            With nothing more than a hmm, she brushed some hairs away from his face, and spent the next few minutes tracing her thumb along his forehead and then down his left eyebrow, trying to push some of his worries away. His eyes closed momentarily, and his own fingers began to move in a soothing rhythm where they touched the skin of her thighs. The weight of her on top of him always felt delightful, a comforting pressure.

            But the sensation lasted only a few seconds. He grasped her wrist, holding her hand away from him. 

            “You deserve someone better than me.”

            His words caught her off ward, making her frown and shift back a little, trying to discern his expression in the dark. 

            But he looked resolute, no ounce of doubt on his face as the words seemed to fill the space they were in, threatening to suffocate them. 

            “Noah��”

            “You should be with someone that doesn’t spend most of the time away,” he began, “someone who isn’t locked in the studio whenever he’s home. Someone who doesn’t take time off to get his mind straight instead of choosing time off to be with his girl.”

            She was tempted to snort. He was being silly. Yet, she knew it wasn’t the time to take his confessions lightly. He was suffering, and her job was to ease that pain, even if it meant going through the same conversation they’d had many times before.

            “Is that what the voices told you?” she inquired softly.

            She was met with silence, the room charging up with his unspoken words.

            “Noah,” she said, her tone determined as she tried to capture his full attention. She freed herself from his grasp and leaned forward, resting her forearms on his chest and reaching the sides of his face with her hands. He hadn’t shaved in the last three days and a little stubble was growing. “I love watching you work,” she said. “It’s what makes you happy, and I’d never do anything to keep your happiness away. Same goes for your health. You need this. There’s no arguing about it.”

            He didn’t seem convinced by her words, his hands falling to the sides of her body, resting apathetically on the mattress. He felt defeated. 

            “Noah, baby,” she insisted, calling his name softly and touching his chin with two fingers. Look at me. Listen to me. “You’re driven by passion, and that same passion is the one that led you to me, so please, don’t say that I don’t deserve you. I deserve no one but you.”

            She waited for her words to sink in. There was a little crease between his eyebrows now. He was still doubtful, torturing himself needlessly. 

            “I want you happy and healthy, and taking time off isn’t something you should feel guilty for. I’m proud of you for it. And I’ll be happy if you decide to stay locked up in the house for a month. I’ll stay here with you because a healthy Noah is my favorite Noah.”

            Under other circumstance, he would have made a joke about that, probably a dirty one about her favorite Noah. But that night, the truth was that he didn’t feel like laughing. As much as he loved her smile and her little laughs, there was a demon on his shoulder reminding him of all his failures and all his weaknessses. 

            She was so sweet to him, though. Always making an effort to knock off that demon and step on the devilish creature, turn it to dust with her fierceless light. 

            His hand instinctively rose to her cheek, his thumb moving in a slow, almost reverent motion that stirred her heart. She leaned into his touch, her own hands cradling his face and keeping him safe, enveloped in her embrace. 

            She missed him. She had missed him terribly over the last few months. The entire year, in fact. But she was stronger than her own demons. She watched from afar as her boy made his way up, as his band grew, as their artistry gained recognition beyond the walls of their homemade studio with each passing day. She watched Noah’s tireless dedication to reaching out to the world with his music, his stories, the worlds capable of creating on his own. She watched as he poured his heart and soul into it, and how time began to consume him, both day and night. 

            Until he could bear it no longer. 

            She touched her lips to his. She kissed him for a brief moment. Soft and slow, emphasizing her presence, her connection to his very soul. And he responded delightfully, breaking the contact just for a few seconds, keeping the kiss a ghost, his lips hovering over hers beyond touch. 

            Inhaling his fresh breath, she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to let herself drown in the kiss. 

            When he did kiss her, it was the most achingly slow kiss he had ever given her. It was a kiss that said, “I’m tired. I need slow. I need time to stop. Please, hold me.” 

            And she would hold him. Any time. Always.

            As her body relaxed on top of his, he cupped her entire face in his hands, keeping their mouths locked together. She tasted divine, and he cursed every second he had to pause to take a breath before diving back in with a little sigh.  

            When she shifted on top of him and he felt her core hovering right where he should’ve had an erection, he felt instead another failing.  

            “I’m sorry,” he murmured, withdrawing from her, his hands slipping away, turning his head so that his cheek pressed to the pillow. He exhaled with defeat. 

            “Sorry for what?” she asked, disconcerted.

            “I’m not… I’m not in the mood for sex right now. I’m sorry.”

            “Why do you have to be sorry for that?” she questioned, her confusion deepening. “I’m not here to demand that from you,” she added. Far from it. It pained her that he thought she needed that every time he kissed her. It pained her to see him punishing himself again for simply not feeling up to it, as if there was something wrong with it. “In fact, I just hoped I could just hold you all night.” 

            Noah looked back at her, somewhat taken aback. Not the reply he had expected. 

            He was definitely not his usual self. 

            “Would you let me?” she pleaded, blinking. 

            It took him a moment, but finally he relented, placing a hand behind her head to pull her down so that she rested against his chest. With each steady rise and fall, she smiled through watery eyes, hoping that tonight she could keep her promise: to hold him, to heal him, if only until the sun rose again. 

            She had just closed her eyes when his voice filled her ears again, soft, delicate, vulnerable.

            “I’m so afraid, that the walls that I have made have locked me in. I’m not okay. But I can try my best to just pretend…”

            He was singing to her.

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health & well-being, you are not alone and there is always someone willing to listen and help. Reach out and keep fighting. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel.

[lcvemiyuki]

“crossed lines” | tsukishima, hq

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི - "the walls" by chase atlantic

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: he thought he knew the answers to everything and made sure to map out his every action. yet, none could rationalize the way you made his insides churn with a burn of conflicting emotions

warnings: suggestive (no smut!), enemies-to-lovers (they dislike each other), college student!tsukishima, swearing, fem!reader, lots of tension, pov switching

character(s): tsukishima

word count: 1518

a/n: heavily inspired by that riff part in 'the walls' by chase atlantic (had to listen to it a million times to perfectly describe it as in my head lolol)...this is my 1st time writing something so intense AHHH, i hope you like it!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Tsukki, wait!” Yamaguchi’s voice echoed into the rain-soaked street, the downpour muffling his words to a mere whisper against the relentless pattering of raindrops on the cobblestone pavement. 

“She’s such an idiot,” Tsukishima muttered under his breath, his annoyance palpable in the tightness of his voice as he followed your retreating figure, a lone silhouette against the cold, relentless rain. Yamaguchi had just relayed the latest news about your on-again, off-again boyfriend. The twitch in Tsukishima’s right eye, a clear sign of his irritation, was hidden by his black-rimmed glasses, but the tension in his body language was unmistakable.

He couldn’t believe you were storming out from the dorms into the darkness yet again. 

An invisible force pulled him in your direction, but instead of a gentle tug, it was more like a high-speed collision. The more Yamaguchi detailed the fiasco with your so-called “Mr. Perfect,” the tighter Tsukishima’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. When he finally released his grip, deep red nail marks were etched into his pale skin. He didn’t hear his friend’s confused questions; all he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his own heart in his chest, like a desperate drum seeking his attention as he followed after you.

When he finally caught up to you, he reached out, his hand hovering just above your shoulder before he firmly turned you around to face him. 

Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, a testament to the pain you were feeling, and your hand instantly rejected his touch, aggressively shrugging off his hold. 

“Are you seriously thinking about taking him back?” His voice cut through the thundering rain, raised just enough to be heard over the downpour. You scoffed in disbelief, tightening your grip on the baby pink umbrella, trying to recompose yourself.

“And what’s it to you, huh?” you snapped, your voice wavering with emotion as you lifted your chin defiantly. 

If this day could get any worse, it had to involve seeing his annoyingly, fault-finding face. He always acted with judgment and you knew he looked down on your every mistake. And what made it worse was that his opinion always spoke some cut-throat truth you couldn't swallow.

Now here he was, sticking his nose into your business and voicing his input.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” His eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s pitiful.”

His t-shirt clung to his body, soaked through, but the heat of the moment kept the shivers at bay. You were infuriating, and he knew the feeling was mutual.

So why did he feel compelled to chase after you?

He should be sneering at your stupidity. Yet, here you were, crowding his thoughts, his vision, everything.

His insults only fueled your anger, the words cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. Yet, beneath the rage, a sliver of fear crept in—fear that he might be right. It was the unspoken truth that gnawed at you, the one everyone else probably thought but never dared to voice. But Tsukishima, with his sharp tongue and piercing gaze, had no such reservations.

If Tsukishima excelled at one thing, it was his uncanny ability to read you like an open book. He knew you too well, his eyes always catching the smallest, most insignificant details that he would mercilessly call out. Every comment was a well-aimed dart, hitting precisely where you were most vulnerable. It was infuriating how effortlessly he could unravel you, laying bare your insecurities with a few well-chosen words.

You clenched your fists, feeling the sting of his remarks, the heat of your anger battling the cold edge of your fingertips. His words echoed in your mind, a relentless reminder of the truths you tried to bury. Despite the fury blazing in your chest, you couldn't shake the nagging thought that he saw you more clearly than anyone else ever could. And that realization, more than his biting words, left a pit in your stomach.

The truth made you want to scream out into the looming darkness.

“Pitiful?” you questioned as your feet stepped down the curb, “if I’m so pathetic, then leave me be. Go project your judgment onto someone else other than rubbing it in my fucking face” you spat out harshly.

You didn’t want to deal with him tonight, not when you felt the weight of his words slowly sinking into your pores. You turned around to flee, but Tsukishima’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait.”

You paused but didn’t turn back. His voice, though steady, carried an intensity that made your heart race—a quiet before the storm that left you both anxious and drawn in.

“Why do you care so much?” you mustered, your voice cracking slightly as you tried to stand your ground. When there was no response to be heard, you hesitantly turned around once more.

And the sight was maddening.

His blonde locks, usually slightly short, now stretched longer down his forehead, the rain streaming down his face. Although his whole body was soaked from head to toe, his expression remained unchanged. He looked on toward you, eyes darkened and burning holes in your body. His head tilted slightly as if he was trying to piece together what you were thinking—or maybe, reanalyzing his own.

“Tsukishima, why do you care?” you demanded once more.

Maybe it was the curiosity that urged you to repeat yourself; maybe it was the way you’ve never seen the six-foot-two man in front of you look so—disheveled.

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step closer, almost unconsciously, as if he didn’t even know what he was doing. Those golden-brown eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place. Your heart raced as your breath escaped in a long, slow huff through your nose. Your glazed eyes locked onto his, watching tiny droplets slide down his glasses and cling to his long lashes. The heat between you was palpable; the rain felt like gasoline, fueling the raging fire.

“Why do I care?” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his gaze fixated on your lips. It was as if he was echoing your words, distracted by the movement of your mouth as his eyebrows furrowed.

‘Because I burn with emotions that you sear into my whole being’

“Because you’re aggravating,” he seethed through gritted teeth, his frustration evident in the sharp edge of his voice. Yet, despite his irritation, his gaze remained fixated on your lips. 

You felt the intensity of his gaze, a magnetic pull that seemed to draw every fiber of your being towards him. 

But just as quickly as the moment had built, Tsukishima pulled back, his expression hardening once more. His jaw clenched tensely, taking a step back while his gaze shifted, trying to focus on something else. The uncertainty still lingered in the narrow space between you. 

“Just forget it,” he spoke under his breath. Turning on his heel, he walked away, leaving you standing there, frozen and stranded for answers. 

You watched him retreat, the distance between you growing with each step. Your heart pounded in your chest, a tumult of emotions circulating inside you. You thought he was leaving for good as the breath you exhaled was shaky.

But then, he stopped—standing there for several aching seconds. 

His gaze shifted among the surrounding objects as if building a barrier to contain his internal uncertainty. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat, the weight of his conflicting emotions settling heavily in his stomach. Each thought rushed through his mind like a relentless torrent, creating a storm of confusion and frustration.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly why he felt this way, why he cared so much. 

The analytical part of his mind tried to dissect every possible reason, but the emotions swirling inside him defied logical explanation. 

He shouldn't have followed you out here.

He wanted to escape the turmoil, to drown out the noise in his mind.

 “—Fuck it,” he muttered. 

And something inside him snapped. 

He turned back and closed the distance between you in a few long strides; his cold hands cupping your face.

Before you could muster a word, his lips came crashing onto yours.

The kiss was fierce, filled with all the pent-up frustration and anger. His lips moved against yours with a desperate urgency, as if trying to convey all the things he couldn’t put into words. You responded in kind, caught up in the whirlwind of emotions. Your hands instinctively found their way to his soaked shirt. You gripped the fabric tightly as if trying to anchor yourself in the storm that was Tsukishima.

At that moment, the precarious line of his loathing finally broke. 

The intense curiosity that had simmered beneath his animosity surged to the forefront. He was engrossed by a burning desire to understand the root of it all. 

Why did you consume him entirely? 

The need for answers outweighed his self-imposed boundaries, and he crossed the line he had sworn never to.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

want more?

⤷ masterlist.

[pr3ttygrlz]

Worth the sacrifice

Scenarios 1/?

jacaerys x reader (no use of y/n)

synopsis: they had been friends for as long as they could remember, but as they grew older, the line between friendship and something more began to blur. yet, neither of them would admit it.

warnings: none just some fluff <3

word count: 770

It had been a while since she had fallen into a trance at the sight. The beast flapping its wings above had hypnotized her.

It wasn’t the first time she had stood before such mythical creatures—yet this one, along with its rider, made her feel as if it were. The attention and precision Jacaerys devoted to each of his movements revealed his vast skill in controlling the beast.

Her dress slightly fluttered as the dragon descended and finally hit the ground. The sigh it released reached the stairs where she was waiting for him to finally finish for the day.

Now that the war was approaching, it was no wonder that he frequented the pit so often, and from time to time, she felt like watching.

Jacaerys dismounted the dragon, shaking off the dust as he issued orders to the dragonkeepers, who promptly returned to their tasks. She couldn’t help but watch his every move, imagining his scent. The familiar mix of smoke and sweat often lingered in his hair—not that she minded it.

They locked eyes as he began to make his way up to her, a cheeky smile made it's way to her face.

"Don’t you think you spend too much time down here?" she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"Don’t you think you spend too much time waiting for me to finish?" he countered with a smirk before taking her hand. "Come," he gestured.

"Jace..." the girl said in a somewhat irritated tone. He already knew the fear the dragons generated in her, and even so, he tried to make her finally accept that living in Dragonstone meant that she would often be in the presence of them, mostly because that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

"Here," he said as they approached Vermax. The creature frightened her, but even so, she couldn't help but notice how his hand found its way to her waist, steadying her in front of the dragon.

"Press your hand; as long as you are by my side, he won’t harm you." His tone was reassuring, but she still doubted, and the look on her face gave it away. "I promise."

She took a quick breath and slowly brought the palm of her hand to its snout; the heat that the beast emanated was palpable in an instant.

"It’s so… warm," she said as she caressed its scales.

He could only smile as he admired the girl standing before him. They had been friends for as long as they could remember, but as they grew older, the line between friendship and something more began to blur. Yet, neither of them would admit it.

Her hand lingered on the beast’s snout, her fingers tracing the ridges of its scales as if seeking some hidden truth in their texture.

“See?” he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. “He knows you. They always know.”

She pulled her hand back, suddenly aware of how close Jacaerys had moved. He stood beside her, that characteristic scent clinging to him like a second skin.

“And if he hadn’t?” she asked, trying to keep her tone sharp, but it faltered under the weight of his gaze.

“Then I would have burned with you,” he said, the words half a jest but ringing with something deeper, something unspoken.

Her soft chuckle echoed lightly through the pit. "Do not jest, my prince."

"I do not," he replied plainly, his gaze darting toward her. "Why would I?"

Avoiding his eyes, she lowered her head and fidgeted with the embroidery on her dress. "I’m afraid I am not worthy of such sacrifice."

He furrowed his brows slightly and stepped closer to her. "Well…" Gently, he lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze. "I disagree."

The space between them shrank with each passing second until he was practically speaking against her lips. "You say that because you don’t truly know how much you mean to me."

His words left her stunned, a warmth spreading across her face as their lips hovered mere inches apart.

Suddenly, a deafening screech startled them, breaking the moment. They quickly looked around to find the dragonkeepers struggling to contain a young dragon resisting their efforts.

Awkwardly, she looked down and took a step back from him. "Your Grace," she murmured, giving him a slight curtsy before dismissing herself.

He could only stand and watch as she hurried out of the pit, catching the fleeting glance she threw back at him before disappearing from sight.

[mswyrr]

Qimir consistently aches to see the pain the dark side causes Osha and I believe this will lead him to resist Plagueis' plans in s2.

His first moment of regret and resistance is, in fact, at the very completion of his seduction! He gets Osha to put the helmet on - and it hurts her. It's causing her pain, so he fights to rescue her from that. Even though, presumably, this was (with Plagueis, whether knowingly or unknowingly) the goal.

Let's backtrack a second and reflect on the seduction itself. The show creator/lead writer, Leslye Headland, has said that it wasn't manipulation on Qimir's part, that he meant everything he said. Two relevant quotes from the same interview with her on this point:

"So, in my opinion, Osha is extremely in denial about her own anger at the Jedi and at her father, i.e. Sol. She's in extreme denial about that because she feels like she's not allowed to be angry, and she's in an enormous amount of pain over her sister and their history, and she also feels like she's not allowed to feel that. So, someone coming in and saying, “Actually, feeling all those things is not only okay but actually could restore your spiritual foundation,” is almost too much. I don't think that's manipulation. I think he's telling her the truth."

"[T]he relationship between Lo and Jen in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was an influence in the writer's room. We referenced that relationship over and over again. The intentional parallel is that they are equals and their relationship is earned through mutual vulnerability, not intimidation or manipulation."

However, someone can be themselves misled and so mislead you too, from a place of sincerity! That is, perhaps, the most heartbreaking way of all to mislead someone. Qimir is lost - the Jedi path damaged him and he (like so many Jedi before him) snapped to the Sith path. It's not working for him, it's causing him pain likely, but he believes it and shares from that place. But the moment Qimir sees this path is causing Osha pain, he feels compelled to do something to help her.

Once he gets the helmet off Osha, Qimir seems relieved when he learns the vision Osha *thinks* she saw, of Mae "killing a Jedi without a weapon." (Which Qimir somehow knows is the goal here - to get Mae or Osha to fall - presumably because Plagueis either gave him the vision or told him directly to try to get that to happen?)

He's content with the idea that Mae will be the one to do it, fulfilling the vision/directive, and actively seeks to make it happen from this point on. He tries to talk her up into doing it at the pivotal moment, but that's not what she's about, her feelings about Sol are not so out of balance for her to "fall" as the Jedi and Sith understand it. She feels anger but also wants justice most, not revenge.

I read disappointment in how Manny plays his reaction to Mae's "No" - disappointment at "failing" sure but also I think it's related to the fact that he wanted it to be Mae, not Osha.

This was cemented for me by the way he played Qimir's reaction to Osha's fall. He's not celebratory, though he's just accomplished what he had been trying to since he began teaching Mae! He seems stricken, actually. There's no pleasure or satisfaction in his "success"! Witnessing Osha's pain only makes him feel compassion and bow his head in sorrow. This "success" is ashes in his mouth.

As a mutual on Twitter pointed out to me (♥️_LokiDokie!), Leslye's commentary in this interview supports this reading of Qimir as grief-stricken by what he's seen:

"Then it's like this passing through, stepping over the threshold, that actually will bring them closer together, which is so interesting. But the motivation I gave to Manny in that moment — in theater, we would call it dramaturgically — for, “Why is he stepping over to do that,” because it said it in the script, was, “You have been in this position. If you have a red lightsaber, you have felt this level of despair, rage, and dejection. So go over there and let her know that you have had that experience.” And he just did that beautiful thing. I was like, “Jesus Christ.”"

His reaction is a stark contrast to Mae, who never fell to the dark side, and doesn't understand what she's seeing - she mistakes this for Osha being liberated from Jedi mindwashing. THIS is what Qimir's face would look like if he thought this was a good thing and was happy about it:

The contrast is quite stark.

Qimir's sorrow for Osha continues as he attempts to comfort her and then sees she's bled the saber.

Intriguingly, Qimir has the helmet on and is "hiding" emotionally when he wipes Mae's memory. We don't get to see how that pain effects him. But the pattern throughout the episode is that when Osha hurts he aches too.

In the final scene, Qimir approaches Osha, again, without triumph at any of this. He's gotten everything he thought he wanted, but he looks at her and I read concern, sorrow, wariness.

He steps closer to her and takes her hand supportively, continuing his pattern (3 times in this episode!) of physically coming close to help/comfort her when she's hurting.

Then he raises his chin with resolve, but no happiness. They are facing the future, but they are "doomed" on the Sith path. Romantic love cannot live there anymore than it can thrive on the arid, repressed Jedi path. I think he suspects that - whether or not he's knowingly in league with Plagueis. Whatever is coming, the Sith path can only cause Osha more and more pain...

He cannot help but ache with her when he sees Osha in pain and want to help her. I cannot imagine an s2 where they continue down the Sith path without him breaking under the strain of watching the pain it causes her - he could endure it himself but seeing her do it? He'll snap. And that romantic love--something BOTH the Jedi and Sith reject and denigrate--that will help them escape imo. Here's a quote from Leslye I interpret as supportive of this reading. She references how the Sith path is inimical to romantic love and then alludes to the tantalizing possibility of escape:

HEADLAND: Oh, yeah! Again, they’re Sith. It's a different vibe. To me, it's gonna hit different because of their allegiance and who they are. So, yes, it is framed as romantic, but I do think, again, it's not gonna turn out great. I think if he's training her, “One to hold the power, one to crave it.” So they're starting off as equals, but what's gonna happen? Like in Romeo and Juliet, it's amazing because right at the beginning they're like, “Okay, these two die. Let's start the play.” As you're watching this incredible love story unfold, and it's one of the most beautifully iconic plays ever written, in the back of your mind, you're like, “This is not going to turn out well.” I want to clarify: They are not necessarily doomed or destined to fail as a team. But the Sith rule of two denotes a power imbalance. Which clearly, due to the final shot, is not their relationship. Also, Plagueis complicates their journey as Sith, because we know his apprentice is eventually Palpatine. They will not defeat him.

I feel pretty confident that the love he feels for her is pivotal to their journey away from the Sith path and what Plagueis wants for Osha - both because Leslye knows this is not a good path and because of the deep sense of care and connection Qimir already feels for Osha.

Combine this with Leslye's comments and imo it being unlikely that they'll repeat the same pattern with Qimir & Vernestra that they did with Sol & Osha and just the overall "sameness" that would come of hammering the endless cycle in more and I just don't buy that as the direction we're headed.

It is possible to tell it as a relentless tragedy and keep hammering the endless, inescapable cycles but, while tragedies are valid (I enjoy hotd!), even they have a narrative form more varied than that usually. And this IS a "coming of age" psychological/mythic Star Wars story at the end of the day. And one Leslye (happily gay married with a child!) drew on her own experiences (with religious trauma) to write... she didn't end up trapped in darkness why would a young protagonist like Osha have to?

Here's the full Leslye quote about religious trauma, since I believe it's vital to understanding where she and the writing team are going to take Osha, Mae, and Qimir:

You have a play, Cult of Love, coming to Broadway this fall. It’s about a Christian family gathering for the holidays. It’s inspired by your own experiences with your family. You were working on it at the same time as The Acolyte, from what I can tell. Did they influence each other? Our director, Trip Cullman, and I were talking about how it’s called Cult of Love because all cults have a dream, and the dream is really beautiful. Even Jim Jones started out trying to desegregate Indianapolis. This family in the play has this dream that they follow to the logical conclusion, which is that they never achieve it. I was raised Christian. Christianity is the ultimate dream. It’s a beautiful concept that God becomes human in order to love you more. Then you look at what Christianity has done to the world: colonization, genocide. It was a beautiful dream that doesn’t justify the human action that comes along. The Jedi also live in a dream, a dream they believe everybody has. In The Acolyte, the pilot ends with the line “An acolyte kills the dream.” The drama is to wake up to the fact that the dream doesn’t exist.

I think the point is for Osha and Qimir to wake up to the fact that both the Jedi and Sith "dreams" do not exist. They are toxic mirrors of each other - and Osha and Mae were born into a culture (the culture of the Coven and their mothers) that didn't see the force in the binary way the Jedi&Sith both do. Mae, who remembered and kept to the pov of the Coven, never fell to the dark side in a Sith way --she felt anger but balanced with a desire for justice, even when she killed-- it was only her sister, taught repression and self-denial by the Jedi, who did. Qimir and Osha have a conceptual/spiritual escape route open to them if they wish to use it.

Finally, Leslye has said that she's written Qimir as her "shadow" (in the Jungian sense) and that she feels close to him - and what does he want? "I want freedom." I don't think someone driven by that desire is going to just surrender himself AND the woman he loves to Plagueis the Creeper.

My wife was like, “What do you want to say?” I was like, “I wanna say that people don't want me to exist as a gay woman, as a woman in this particular space, working in this wild sandbox.” There was a whole crew of people who believed in me, but deep down, I felt like, “I am unaccepted for who I am because of what I believe in and wanting to wield my power the way I'd like without having to answer to the legion of people that just exist out there.” By the way, I think everybody feels this way. I think that's why it resonates when you're honest about yourself, and you get personal about it. When he says, “I want freedom,” that's what I want. I just want freedom. I want to be able to just be out there and be myself and be the type of artist I want to be without having to answer to anybody. That's why I feel so close to him.

[rainybubbles]

What hug COD men would give you ?

Ghost, Price, Soap, Gaz, Keegan

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

G H O S T : Comfort hug.

You always used to jokingly ask Simon, "Want a hug?" knowing how much he detested physical contact.

He'd always respond with a firm no.

It became your way of greeting this burly soldier, a ritual of sorts.

So why... why was he now whispering those words to you?

"Need a hug?" His voice was hoarse, raspy, bearing the marks of too many cigarettes and too much silence. Yet there was an unexpected warmth in it, a warmth that could thaw you.

"No." you said.

Cold and trembling, with lips turning blue and tears welling in your eyes, you were at your breaking point.

It started with a soldier's criticism, then your chief's belittling of your work, followed by a letter from your mom, a malfunctioning oven, and a stubborn onion. It all culminated in your retreat to the cold room, seeking solace, seeking release.

But the door was jammed, leaving you alone in your despair. What a pathetic demise for a cook. Yet Ghost, ever watchful, came to your rescue, finding you in your distress. And in that moment, he echoed your jest.

"Need a hug?" he repeated.

You nodded. He knelt beside you, gathering you in his arms, offering not just his warmth but also solace. Your arms instinctively wrapped around him.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

"It's okay."

"The lock, it—"

"For everything."

"Do I look that awful?"

"Yeah."

"You're supposed to say no."

"Not a liar, darling."

"Not a hugger either, but here you are."

"You're the exception, I suppose."

You were.

What you initially thought were mere circumstances now seemed to hold a deeper truth.

And the next day, when you initiated your ritual greeting with "Need a hug?" Simon's response of "maybe" signaled a shift in your dynamic.

________________________________

SOAP : "I'm home in your arms" hug.

He always gives hugs.

Soap is a very physical person; you knew that even though you were just a friend of a friend. You never dared to speak to him much, too shy. He seemed like a sun.

At gatherings, you were always quiet, so you weren’t sure if he remembered your name.

But he always had his eyes on you, always had his hug for you, and when nobody listened to your ramblings, he was there asking you to continue.

It was a silly crush; his hugs were something you secretly enjoyed. A thing, a treat for your heart, even though you knew it wouldn’t be more.

So when you opened your door, expecting it to be the delivery man from something you ordered online or maybe some important packages to sign, but…

You got bumped into.

You fell with the strength of the stranger’s hug until you recognized the mohawk.

“John?”

“Sorry, I got carried away,” he said, helping you up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the one who needed a place. Mancy asked you, right?”

You remembered.

Mancy had asked if her friend could stay at your place for one week.

You didn’t know it would be John.

“Oh, yeah.”

“You don’t seem happy.”

“Well, if you hug me so hard I’ll fall every day, then no.”

He chuckled.

“It’s because I’ve missed you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, after three months without your pretty smile, a man goes insane.”

“My dad lives just fine without it.”

“True, but he’s a moron. I’m not. Now give me a hug.”

“Okay.”

And you did.

Gently, you noticed his hands around your waist, the way he slowly soothed his breath.

You didn’t know, but the only thought Johnny had in mind was, “I’m home.”

____________________________

GAZ : "I'm sorry" hug

The TV droned on in the background, but your gaze couldn't focus on it. Your stomach was tied in knots, and you felt utterly lost. 

The argument had been trivial, blown out of proportion by fatigue and frustration. You and Kyle were both drained, and the clash of tempers only fueled the misunderstanding, escalating it into a full-blown confrontation.

Now, you found yourself at a loss for what to do next. Kyle had stormed off for a walk, his usual retreat during tough times. But this time, his absence felt like an eternity.

You knew you could reach out, ask him where he was, beg him to come back. Yet, your stubborn pride held you back.

Was it pride or fear? Fear that he wouldn't return?

The nagging voice in your head echoed the doubts others had planted—that you weren't good enough for him, not pretty enough, not kind enough. You felt inadequate, unworthy of his love.

Your eyes stung with unshed tears, your nose tingling with the threat of more to come. It felt absurd to be sitting here, watching a documentary while your relationship teetered on the brink of collapse.

Your eyes stung with unshed tears as you sat there, watching a documentary you couldn't even comprehend. 

When the door finally creaked open, your heart leaped into your throat, memories of past confrontations resurfacing. But the footsteps that followed were hesitant, tentative.

Turning slowly, you found Kyle standing there, mirroring your own disheveled state. Puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks spoke volumes of his own internal struggle.

Standing up, you met his gaze, unsure of what to say or do.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the silence that enveloped you both.

"Me too," you replied, your own voice catching in your throat. "It was foolish of me to let my anger get the better of me."

"I agree," he murmured, stepping closer. "We need to find a better way to communicate, darling."

"Yeah, and maybe get some sleep," you added, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Definitely," he whispered, extending his hand towards you.

You took it, feeling the warmth of his touch, and allowed him to pull you into an embrace. In that moment, words became superfluous as you both sought solace in each other's arms, tears mingling and laughter bubbling forth.

"I feel ridiculous," you admitted, your voice muffled against his chest.

"Me too," he confessed, his grip tightening around you. "But being with you makes everything better."

"Agreed," you murmured, snuggling closer.

"What if..." he began, his voice trailing off.

"What if what?" you prompted, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

"What if we can't sleep because of the neighbors?" he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, what about them?" you replied, confused.

"Let's move out," he proposed, his eyes earnest.

"Kyle, we live in separate apartments," you reminded him, a hint of skepticism creeping into your tone.

"Then let's get a house," he persisted, his gaze unwavering. "A place where it's just you and me, lost in the forest. Our sanctuary."

"You're just saying that," you countered, though a flicker of hope ignited within you.

"I mean it," he insisted, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I want a life with you, everything included. The silly arguments, the morning wake-ups, all of it. I don't want to wait to see you, but I also don't want you living on base. A house... it's us, it's safety, it's peace, it's..."

"Commitment," you finished for him, the weight of his words settling in your heart.

"Yeah, that too," he admitted, a shy smile gracing his lips.

"Okay," you whispered, a surge of emotion welling up inside you.

"Really?" he asked, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"Yeah," you confirmed, squeezing his hand.

He enveloped you in a tighter embrace, and in that moment, you knew that perhaps this sorry hug was the beginning of something beautiful.

________________________________

PRICE : last hug

You felt his embrace, and a smile graced your lips.

“I never pegged you as a hugger, Captain,” you remarked.

“Don’t talk, soldier,” he replied, his voice firm yet gentle.

Nevertheless, you found comfort in his arms, basking in the warmth they provided. Your consciousness nudged you to close your eyes and surrender to the moment.

“Cap, can I rest?” you inquired softly.

“Not yet,” he responded tersely.

“But why? Even ghosts nap during brief,” you persisted.

“Don’t make me spell it out,” he said, his voice trembling, tears glistening in his eyes. 

Confusion laced your whisper, “Why are you crying, Cap?”

As you attempted to step back, you felt something damp on his hands. Bringin your own hand up, you saw it- red, your blood.

Blood.

Your blood.

It wasn’t a mere cut; it was a hemorrhage.

“Why…” you began, your voice trailing off.

“Don’t give up,” he interjected, his tone weighted with understanding.

He knew. You knew.

You wouldn’t last, and the medics wouldn’t arrive in time.

“Cap, could you...hold me tighter?” you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper.

“Soldier,” he acknowledged.

“Just one last embrace, please,” you implored, a desperate longing for affection evident in your words.

Yearning for one final moment of love.

He acquiesced.

You buried your nose in his aftershave, despite the mingling scent of tobacco. Your arms savored the feel of his gear, your cheek nuzzling against his neck, the roughness of his beard against your skin.

Despite the warmth he provided, a chill crept over you. Your lips grew heavy, your eyelids too burdened to stay open.

“I'm glad it was you, Cap. Your hugs are the best,” you murmured, a serene smile gracing your lips.

With your blood staining his gear and your body cradled in his arms, he granted you your last hug, whispering your name softly.

____________

KEEGAN : "you're alive" hug

His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, his ears filled with screams. His eyes focused on Ghost’s voice, and then he saw you, lying on the ground.

What were you doing on the battlefield? You were a civilian. He sprinted towards you, but your body remained still. He reached out for your hands, but they slipped from his grasp.

Nightmare.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room. His back was drenched in sweat, his mind replaying the image of you lifeless. He couldn’t move.

Reaching for his phone, he knew he wouldn’t believe you were alive until he saw it with his own eyes. He made his way to your shared flat, knocking on your door.

As you slowly opened your bedroom door, relief washed over him. "Keegan, what the hell—" He cut you off with a tight embrace, his hands on your neck feeling the rhythm of your heartbeat. "You're alive."

"Yeah, obviously. You saw me just two hours ago, we're roommates, Keegan."

"You're alive," he repeated, his voice trembling with emotion.

Seeing his state, you melted into the hug. "You need to sleep."

"I can't."

"In my bed, you can check if I'm alive like this, okay?"

"I don't want to—"

"Keegan."

"Okay."

Slowly, he settled into your bed, your warmth comforting him. You worked on your laptop, but he didn't mind. His arms wrapped around your body, he could feel the steady beat of your heart. He knew it was his favorite sound because it meant you were alive.

"Sleep well, Keegan."

"Thanks."

And that night, he didn’t have any more nightmares, wrapped in your embrace.

If you want more : my masterlist

[redvexillum]

A/N: Get it? Grace-fall? It's Graceful. Lol! This brilliance can only come from licking the most expensive and luxurious of doorknobs made of diamonds. Just saying.

SUMMARY: Once a devoted nun, your mortal life ended steeped in sin, condemning you to Hell. You pray relentlessly for redemption, though salvation seems far out of reach. The claws of lust have sunk deep into your soul, your very being dripping with unholy desire. Fallen from grace, you find yourself ensnared by two devils who revel in your surrender, indulging in your flesh and your corruption with wicked delight.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, p in a, double penetration, underlying sexual tension between Alastor and Lucifer, corruption kink, Lucifer has it bad for religious kink, nun!reader, threesome

Hell was not supposed to feel this... warm. 

You had been devoted to the Lord, a devout Sister draped in virtue, but even devotion hadn't saved you. Somehow, someway, you’d landed yourself in the depths of Hell. Each morning and every night, you knelt on blistered, infernal ground, your trembling hands clasped in prayer for forgiveness that never came. This place—a supposed refuge for sinners seeking redemption—mocked you. Perhaps your soul was too stained, your sins too vile, to ever dream of Heaven. 

Because you carried a shameful secret. 

By day, you were the perfect image of piety, wrapped in robes and righteous words, sharing scripture with a voice that trembled with supposed faith. But when the moon rose, so did your desires. Behind closed doors, in the hushed, hidden dark, you cast away chastity like trash. You indulged, flesh against flesh, sin layered upon sin, until your moans sounded like prayers to something other. 

And here, in Hell, it seemed you hadn’t changed. 

“A-ah, A-Alastor—!” your voice broke as his hands guided your trembling body back against his chest. His claws traced a teasing path up your bare thigh, the sharp tips leaving tingling trails of heat on your sensitive skin. 

Once he learned about your past, Alastor couldn’t resist. He delighted in theatrics, and what better costume for his new obsession than the very one that had shielded you in life? He’d conjured a habit reminiscent of your old one—but he’d tailored it. 

Or, more accurately, ruined it. 

The fabric was thinner, so sheer you could see every contour of your body beneath the strained, clinging cloth. It was tighter, accentuating every curve you once tried to hide. Worst of all, a scandalous slit cut up the side of the tunic, revealing the sinful truth that you wore nothing beneath. Every step threatened to bare your soul—along with everything else. 

“T-this isn’t w-what we wore,” you stammered, your voice soft, trembling with both shame and something far more dangerous. You prayed he wouldn’t notice how your body betrayed you, prayed his hand wouldn’t slip lower. But you knew if he did, he’d find the damning evidence of your arousal soaking your thighs. 

“Nonsense, dear,” he purred, his voice rolling over you like warm molasses. His breath curled against your ear as his hips pressed insistently into you. "We’re even matching. Look.” 

Despite your better judgment, you dared to glance. Alastor stood behind you, garbed in his own blasphemous rendition of a nun's attire. His coif bore an upside-down cross embroidered in crimson, the stitching precise yet sacrilegious. 

It was wrong. It was so wrong. 

Yet, it set your skin aflame. 

“D-does it please you to torment me?” you whimpered, trembling as his palm ghosted over your breast. His thumb brushed the hardened peak of your nipple through the taut fabric, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, desperate to muffle the sinful sound that escaped. 

“Torment you?” Alastor chuckled, low and rich, like a velvet sin. His hand slid down, grazing your quivering stomach. “Why, my dear, I would never! I’m simply guiding you on your new path—one of passion, indulgence, and…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that danced over your skin. “…pleasure.” 

You didn’t stop him. 

You couldn’t stop him. 

Shame pooled like molten lead in your chest, mixing with the treacherous pleasure that dripped from your core. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you croaked, “P-please, Alastor, d-don’t tease me.” 

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet tender, “I don’t tease. I teach.” His fingers edged lower, tracing lower, lower still—almost slipping beneath the slit of your tunic. 

Then— 

The door creaked open. 

Your entire body froze, your muscles locking in mortified panic. The air felt thick, suffocating, as you whipped your head toward the sound. 

“Hey, Alastor, why’d your shadow—” 

The voice halted, the words hanging in the heavy silence. Time seemed to stop as the intruder took in the sight of you—trembling, dishevelled, pressed against Alastor’s chest in your barely there nun’s habit. 

Your breath hitched. 

It was Lucifer standing before you. 

The Morning Star, the fallen angel whose name was both a cautionary tale and a forbidden promise, stood before you in the flesh. His aura radiated power, a blend of overwhelming authority and unearthly beauty that stole your breath. You should hate him. Every scripture had told you to loathe his existence, to see him as the ultimate deceiver, the tempter of mankind. 

But as his crimson, molten eyes softened when they rested on you, it was impossible to feel only hate. 

Your feelings for him were complicated—a tangled web of reverence, fear, and an unwilling fascination. The longer you were in his presence, the harder it became to deny that he was not merely a villain. He was something far more nuanced, far more intoxicating. 

But all thoughts scattered as you felt Alastor’s hardened length press against your backside. His arousal grew unmistakable, and the firm weight of it sent a jolt of heat through your already trembling frame. 

“Ah, did my pesky shadow cause this little interruption?” Alastor mused, his tone smooth yet dripping with mockery. “Hmm, no matter. You can run along now, King,” he added with a laugh that was as sharp as broken glass. “I’m spending time with my dear, after all.” 

You flinched as Alastor’s hand slid down, lifting your leg with practised ease. The slit of your habit widened, the cool air licking against your exposed, soaked core. Every inch of you screamed in humiliation as Lucifer’s gaze dropped, his eyes roving over your quivering body until they landed on the most intimate part of you. 

His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lucifer finally growled, his composure cracking as his brows furrowed in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to bastardize this?” He jabbed the apple-shaped head of his cane toward your altered nun’s habit, his disdain palpable. 

But Alastor only chuckled, his amusement unfazed. “Oh, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we, dear?” His voice dipped with a teasing lilt as he pressed his cheek to the crown of your head, the motion emphasizing the sharp grin you knew was stretched across his face. 

His hips moved subtly, his hardness grinding against the cleft of your ass with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and despite your better judgment, a soft, breathless moan slipped from your lips. 

“A-ah—” You couldn’t stop the sound, and shame burned hot in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your flushed cheeks as you whispered, “I-I’m sorry… p-please, forgive me.” Your words were breathy, punctuated by quiet cries as your hips began to move on their own, seeking more of the sinful pleasure Alastor offered. 

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.” His voice was a mix of anger and something darker—something that made your stomach flip. 

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning with a finality that sent a thrill of both fear and anticipation racing through you. 

“You did this on purpose,” Lucifer accused, his voice low as he stalked toward you. His serpentine tongue flicked out briefly, a glint of heat in his crimson eyes as they roamed your trembling form. 

“Hmm, perhaps,” Alastor hummed, his tone light but his actions deliberate. You gasped as you heard the fabric tearing—not yours, but his. You felt the unmistakable heat of his cock sliding against your soaked folds. He moved slowly, deliberately, coating himself in your slickness as if savouring every second. 

“I’d be lying,” Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl, “if I said your little stares every time she prayed didn’t irritate me, Lucifer.” 

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed with golden light, his composure cracking under the weight of Alastor’s accusation. “I-I—!” 

“Oh, you didn’t think I noticed?” Alastor’s grin was audible in his voice, wicked and triumphant. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with shallow movements that had you sobbing with need. Your chest heaved as desperate pleas spilled from your lips, the heat inside you unbearable. 

“P-please,” you cried, your voice trembling with the weight of shame and lust that burned away all restraint. “I c-can’t—” 

Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his conflicted expression twisting into something more primal. 

Alastor chuckled darkly, his voice a slow ripple of sinister delight as he teased you with the head of his cock. The stretch was exquisite, a sweet, aching burn that had you trembling against him. Every inch he pushed into you was a battle between agony and ecstasy, your body straining to take him deeper. You craved it—wanted it to hurt, to feel the sharp edge of your desires as penance for the sin of yearning for something so profane. 

Yet, Alastor moved with an almost mocking grace, his control absolute as he bared you to him. His slender hands slid the front of your tunic aside, completely exposing the glistening heat of your cunt to the cool air. Without effort, he lifted your other leg, thighs splayed wide in his grip, and fully sheathed himself inside you. 

The sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and you cried out—a broken, helpless apology spilling from your lips. “Forgive me,” you sobbed to a silent heaven, your tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Forgive me, Lord, for indulging in this sin with a devil.” 

Alastor groaned deeply, the sound reverberating through you as his cock throbbed against your quivering walls. “Do you know, dear?” His voice was a sinful melody, tainted with amusement and heat. “You’ve driven the king of Hell to fuckhimself with his hand while watching you pray so sweetly to your Lord.” 

Your tear-filled gaze lifted, meeting Lucifer’s smouldering, fiery eyes. His sharp features were shadowed with hunger, and there—pressing against the fabric of his tailored pants—was the undeniable proof of his desire. 

Alastor’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that, my dear king,” he crooned, his hips moving with agonizing slowness as he withdrew, only to thrust back into you. The slick sound of your arousal filled the air, making you burn with humiliation and desire. “If anything, you should be thanking me for giving you this chance. Go on, my dear,” he growled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Beg him. Revere the king of Hell. Pretend it’s just you, alone in your bed, consumed by your wicked little fantasies.” 

Heat flooded your cheeks as the memory clawed its way back into your mind. Last night—your knees sinking into your mattress, your cries muffled by your pillow as your fingers worked frantically to fill the ache inside you. You had moaned for it, begged for it, your body trembling with the desperate need for a cock to stretch you open and take you to pieces. 

Alastor had seen it all. 

A sob broke from your throat, your lips trembling as the weight of his gaze bore down on you. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you moaned, “Please…” 

The word lingered in the charged air, and it was all Lucifer needed. The devil sank to his knees, his movements predatory as his hands gripped your hips. His tongue found you—hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a path from your swollen clit down to the dripping heat of your folds. 

Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch, and Alastor groaned above you, his breath ragged. The devil king’s tongue swirled and slithered, exploring you with a reverence that bordered on worship. You felt his expert hands move to cradle Alastor’s heavy balls, fondling them with a precision that had the radio demon’s voice breaking into a strained moan. 

And then, in one smooth motion, Alastor withdrew from you. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but your eyes widened when you looked down to see Lucifer take him into his mouth. 

The sight was devastatingly sinful: Lucifer’s plush lips wrapped around Alastor’s cock, his throat working as he took him in deeply, while his thumb slipped back to brush over your clit in teasing strokes. Your hips bucked against his hand, your body caught in a storm of sensations as pleasure spiralled higher with every touch. 

Alastor’s hips began to move, thrusting into Lucifer’s eager mouth with low, guttural groans. The sensation of his movements sent shockwaves through you, the mingling sounds of slick arousal filling the air. But Lucifer wasn’t done with you. With a loud, wet pop, he released Alastor’s cock, his hands stroking the length with practised ease, before his mouth returned to you. 

You cried out as his tongue plunged into you, curling and twisting inside your heat. His lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking with a hunger that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Alastor’s laughter—low and strained—filled the room as he watched Lucifer lose himself in you. 

And you? 

You were drowning in it, consumed by the sheer decadence of being ravaged by two devils who seemed determined to ruin you, body and soul. 

A strangled cry tore from your lips, your tears streaking down in hot, salty trails as you trembled under Alastor's punishing grip. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving faint crescents in your tender flesh, a stark reminder of his control. 

“More… more,” you begged, your voice raw and breathless. Your body ached, caught between the sharp edge of need and the shame of your surrender. 

Alastor’s dark chuckle filled the room, rich with cruel amusement. “Oh, you naughty, naughty girl,” he chided, his voice a silken blade. “This isn’t enough for you, is it? Always craving more, no matter how much you’ve taken.” His words cut deep, each one a taunting echo of your fractured piety, your countless nights spent giving in to your base desires. 

Behind you, the wet sounds of Lucifer’s mouth stilled. His fiery gaze raked over your trembling form, lips glistening from the evidence of his ministrations. Without a word, he snapped his fingers, a crackle of hellfire igniting around you. The fabric of your outfit dissolved into nothingness, replaced by a fleeting, fiery heat that licked over your skin. 

Now bare, you shivered—not from cold, but from the vulnerable intensity of their attention. 

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed—not at you, but at the smug demon holding you open like a feast laid bare. “You…” The words rumbled low in his throat, his fury palpable as Alastor’s grin widened. 

With a growl, Lucifer’s composure snapped. He tore at the front of his pants, shoving them aside with deliberate impatience until his cock stood proud—thick, long, and demanding your attention. 

Your breath hitched, your mouth watering as heat coiled low in your belly. The sheer size of him sent your mind spinning, imagining how it would feel, how he would stretch and fill you. 

Alastor’s voice broke through your haze, a taunting melody dripping with mockery and delight. “Will you pray for forgiveness tonight, my dear?” His words were a cruel caress against your soul. “Perhaps you can taste the king while begging for the Lord’s mercy.” 

Lucifer’s muscles tensed, his eyes widening in shocked restraint as his hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. The tension in his body betrayed the effect of Alastor’s words as his knuckles whitened, trembling. 

“Go on,” Alastor purred, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “Say your prayers now, while your purity is torn asunder by two devils who know no mercy.” 

A broken sob escaped you, a sound dripping with desperation and forbidden lust. Your body quivered as Alastor shifted behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against the tight ring of your ass. 

Lucifer growled low in his throat, his cock brushing against your soaked, trembling folds. He lingered, waiting—demanding your surrender not just of body, but of soul. 

“F-forgive me, Father—ah!” The words barely left your lips before Alastor surged forward, breaching you in one merciless thrust. Pain and pleasure collided as your body strained to accommodate him, your cries loud and uninhibited. 

Lucifer didn’t wait. His cock drove into your slick cunt with equal ferocity, stretching and filling you until there was no room for anything but them. 

Your body burned, every nerve alive with the overwhelming sensation of being taken, utterly consumed by them. Tears streaked your face anew as your fingers scrabbled for purchase, finally clutching at Lucifer’s shoulders for support. 

Their groans filled the room, deep and primal, vibrating through you as they moved in tandem. Alastor’s breath ghosted against your ear, his voice a sinful whisper. “Don’t stop, darling. Continue your prayers.” 

The command was both a taunt and a promise, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he thrust into you, sharp and precise. Lucifer’s hands gripped your waist, his movements relentless, dragging cries from your throat that echoed like hymns to your undoing. 

The world blurred, every sensation heightening as their bodies claimed you, leaving you gasping and trembling between them. Your prayers turned to pleas, the words dissolving into moans as you surrendered completely, letting them unravel you piece by sinful piece. 

“F-forgive me—ah—” The words faltered on your lips, swallowed by the sinful symphony of their bodies entwined with yours. Alastor’s hips rolled with an exquisite precision, sending shivers cascading down your spine. Lucifer groaned deeply as the thin wall separating your cunt and ass flexed with every thrust, their cocks filling you beyond what you thought possible. 

“F-Father, f-for I have s-sinned—hah—” Your head fell back against Alastor’s shoulder, your body arching as though in prayer. But this wasn’t piety—this was surrender. Held aloft by their unrelenting grip and their thick, pulsing cocks, you were trapped in a sinful rhythm, their thrusts alternating to keep you on the edge of madness. Sometimes they moved in tandem, stretching you impossibly full, and other times their rhythm broke, their erratic movements overwhelming your senses. 

It was too much—your body couldn’t take it—but never in life had you felt such raw, unbridled pleasure. 

“K-keep praying,” Lucifer growled, his voice husky with need. His lips descended on your breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth. The sharp sensation of his teeth grazing your nipple made you cry out, your back arching further into his touch. He bit down lightly, tugging before resuming his fervent suckling, each sensation sharpening the ache coiling in your core. 

The intensity of it all made your body clench instinctively, gripping the two cocks inside you. Both devils moaned, their pleasure vibrating through you. 

“M-my l-last c-confession—hah—please, ah—” Your voice broke as your body gave itself over to the debauchery, your cries mingling with the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts. The squelching echoed in the room, each sound a testament to your sinful surrender. Your slick dripped down their lengths, leaving trails of debauchery on their thighs. 

Lucifer groaned, his teeth grazing your nipple again before tugging it firmly. His hips rolled with increasing fervour, his cock stroking every sensitive nerve inside you. Behind you, Alastor’s pace quickened, each thrust a deliberate claim as he ensured you would feel his presence long after this moment ended. 

“M-my last confession w-was yesterday,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you turned your head to the side. The vulnerable expanse of your neck was laid bare, and Alastor wasted no time. His teeth sank into your skin, sharp enough to draw blood, the sting mingling with the pleasure coursing through you. The heat of his bite spread through your body, making your thighs tremble as he pulled you open even wider. 

Lucifer took advantage of your vulnerability, slamming his hips into you with reckless abandon. The head of his cock hit your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of ecstasy radiating through you. The sensation tore cries from your lips, your voice cracking under the weight of your pleasure. 

Your body began to quake, every muscle tightening as you climbed toward the precipice. “Th-these are my s-sins,” you whimpered, your voice choked with desperation. 

And then it hit you—a tidal wave of release that crashed through your body with devastating force. Your eyes flew open, unseeing, as your orgasm seized you. Your inner walls convulsed wildly, clutching at their cocks in a desperate rhythm as your juices spilled over, drenching them in your shameful surrender. 

A broken, anguished cry tore from your throat, echoing off the walls. 

Lucifer groaned, his glowing red eyes narrowing as his restraint snapped. His fangs elongated, glinting in the dim light as he growled. He gripped your hips tighter, slamming into you with renewed vigor, his movements fuelled by the sight and feel of your release. 

Behind you, Alastor moaned deeply, his hips rolling as he chased his own pleasure. The rhythm of his cock driving into your ass became erratic, his voice trembling with wicked delight. 

Together, they claimed you completely, leaving no part of you untouched or unmarked, their sinful union branding your body and soul in ways you would never recover from. 

Your body quaked, overwhelmed by the sensations tearing through you. The remnants of your first orgasm still pulsed faintly when a second wave began to crest, building swiftly and mercilessly. Your muscles clenched again, pulling tight around them both, every nerve alight with searing pleasure. 

Your cry was raw, piercing the room as your release overtook you once more. Every inch of you spasmed, your inner walls fluttering as the force of your climax rippled through you. Lucifer groaned deeply, the sound guttural and primal as his own restraint snapped. His cock throbbed inside you, releasing hot spurts of his seed into your womb, filling you to the brim. 

Behind you, Alastor followed swiftly, his thrusts faltering as his hips slammed forward one final time. He shuddered, a strangled moan escaping his lips as his warmth flooded your ass, mingling with the sinful heat of Lucifer's release. 

The room stilled, save for the sound of ragged breaths interwoven with the heady scent of sweat and sex. You felt their combined arousal spilling from you, dripping down your quivering holes and pooling onto the floor. The sensation sent another shiver through your body, shame and satisfaction coiling together in an intoxicating mix. 

When Alastor released his grip, you collapsed onto trembling knees. Your hands reached instinctively for Lucifer, your lips finding his softening, spent cock. Pressing reverent kisses along his length, you tasted the salty mixture of his essence and your own arousal on his heated skin. 

“P-please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desperation. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You were insatiable, a vessel of endless need, the embodiment of Lust itself. Your lips trailed down his shaft, leaving a wet path of kisses before you flicked your tongue over the sensitive head. 

“Please… more,” you murmured, kitten-like licks teasing the tip as a small bead of seed lingered there. 

Lucifer hissed softly, his cock twitching faintly at your touch. His crimson eyes softened, a dark smile gracing his lips as his hand lowered to cradle your head. His fingers combed through your sweat-dampened hair with surprising tenderness, an almost possessive gesture that made your heart race. 

Alastor chuckled from behind, the sound low and indulgent. “Oh, my dear, you are truly something sinful,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. “But isn’t that why we adore you?” 

You should have felt shame—a deep, bone-chilling regret for your weakness, your inability to resist this sinful allure. But as Lucifer’s hand guided you back to his cock and Alastor’s fingers traced possessively down your spine, the warmth of their attention ignited something darker inside you. 

Perhaps this was your punishment, a divine reckoning. To know this insatiable hunger, this endless need, and to revel in it despite the crushing weight of shame. 

You opened your lips, ready to receive more, your body trembling with anticipation. If this were to be your punishment, you would take it with open arms, submitting fully to the sinful ecstasy they offered. 

Forever bound by pleasure and despair, you realized one undeniable truth: you would never escape this, nor did you truly want to. 

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[holysmokesblog]

The Gray Reunion

Vi x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Violence, mentions of illness, blood, slightly spicy kisses ;)

Summary: In the midst of the chaos, you struggle to help the people of the Lanes. The truth behind the disaster sparks a confrontation that will test your bonds

Note:English is not my first language, sorry

In the past few hours, your modest apartment had turned into chaos. At least a dozen people had knocked on your door seeking help, intoxicated by something you hadn’t seen in years.

They could barely fit into the small living room, which also served as your kitchen and bedroom, waiting for you to help them, coughing out toxic fumes. Everyone expected you, just as your father had done in the past, to help or offer a solution, but you were completely lost, fumbling with medical supplies that had been stored away for years.

"The gray," murmured an older woman who was holding her husband as he struggled to breathe.

"That’s impossible," you replied. "We haven’t had problems with that in years, the ventilation system..."

"Then there must be a leak," she interrupted, raising her voice before a violent cough cut her off. You watched as her hand was splattered with blood. She inhaled deeply before continuing, "I’ve been through this before, but we don’t have the years on us anymore. Your father treated it countless times. Doesn’t he have notes somewhere?"

You sighed in defeat. "I’ve lost most of Dad’s things over the years. All I have left is what you see." You placed the stethoscope on a child’s back to listen to his breathing. "There’s nothing I can do. We just have to wait for the lungs to clean themselves... and stay far from the leak."

A collective groan arose from the people packed into your small space. "And how are we supposed to do that? We live there! Where can we go?" Various complaints began to rise.

"I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. We just have to wait until they repair the leak."

"They’re not going to fix it! It’s those damn enforcers! They’re killing us to get to Jinx!" Another wave of murmurs rippled through the room.

You tried to remain calm. Could that be true? Were the people above really capable of poisoning everyone just to catch Jinx? Those above had taken so much from you already that it seemed entirely plausible. But then an image came to mind—Violet. She was in Piltover now, and she would never let this happen, not to the place that had been her home for so many years and still was yours. Right?

You continued your work, trying to calm the rebellion brewing in your living room, tending to the most severe cases of nosebleeds and eye hemorrhages. But there wasn’t much more you could do. Around three in the morning, the last person finally left.

Exhausted, you collapsed onto your bed, utterly defeated. Chances were, all the patients you’d seen today would return tomorrow with new symptoms. It was impossible to recover from the gray while constantly exposed to it. You knew that if it was a crack, it would take years to fix. And if it was intentional, if they were hunting Jinx... that would also take time. There was no way they’d catch her.

A knock on the door kept you from falling completely asleep. You cursed under your breath—new patients. Your father’s voice echoed in your mind, reminding you how he wouldn’t rest until he’d helped the last person who needed him. You repeated the phrase to yourself before getting up to answer the door, only to be met with a great surprise.

Vi stood there, but the most shocking thing was her outfit. She was dressed as a full-fledged officer, an enforcer. You couldn’t suppress a gasp of utter disbelief. You had spent years of your life together; you knew her story as well as your own, and never would you have imagined the possibility of her wearing something like that—not even as a joke.

"I’m truly surprised," you murmured. She scoffed in irritation. You stepped aside to let her in, and she dropped her new, heavy gloves onto your floor. You bit your lip to keep from scolding her.

The past few days had been madness: Vi’s return, the search for Jinx, and your responsibilities trying to honor your father’s legacy had left you with barely a moment to breathe.

"Lots of patients?" she asked, trying to start a conversation.

"Too many," you replied, collapsing onto the bed again. She still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. "You can lie down if you want... Unless you’re scared of dirtying that pretty uniform." She let out a short laugh before lying down next to you.

"I’ve barely seen you since you came back... I don’t think I ever got to tell you how happy I am that you’re here... Despite everything."

"Yeah, I suppose the first hug you gave me said it all."

"I mean it, Vi," you said, turning to face her. "Everything got so hard, but now you’re here, and I feel like things will get better."

She smiled faintly. "Yeah, we just have to fix a few things, and everything will improve." She propped herself up to sit beside you. "You look really pretty," she added. "Those dark circles suit you."

You couldn’t help but laugh. For just a moment, all the bad things disappeared. It was just the two of you in your small apartment—no Jinx, no gray, no problems in the Lanes. Just you two. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. She froze for a moment.

"I thought you missed me," she teased.

"I did."

"That’s not a reunion kiss. This is." Without warning, she leaned over and kissed you deeply. You welcomed her eagerly—it was like a breath of fresh air, something rare where you’d grown up. The kisses grew more intense, and your hands wandered over her torso and back. Vi positioned herself on top of you, using her hand for support on your pillow. But she quickly pulled it back.

"What’s this?" she asked.

You looked to the side, confused, and saw a large bloodstain. You hadn’t even noticed it. You sighed. "I’m really sorry." You sat up slightly, but Vi didn’t move off you. You grabbed the pillow and threw it to the other side of the room. "It’s been such a complicated day with the ventilation cracks."

"Yeah, don’t worry. I’m not at my best, either."

"Doesn’t seem like it." You kissed her intensely again, and she adjusted immediately.

"When all this is over, we should go on a real date. Like dinner and all that cheesy stuff."

You laughed against her lips at her failed attempt at romance. "I just hope it’s soon."

"It will be," she declared confidently. "Once they catch Jinx, everything will get better, and life in the Lanes will change—just like Vander always wanted."

Vi’s hands slipped under your shirt as you shared another passionate kiss, but her words lingered in your mind.

"Wait, wait, no," you said, pushing her slightly so she moved off you.

"Oh, do you want to take control, doll?" she teased.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" She looked confused, so you pushed her again to sit beside you. "The gas? Was it you?"

Vi stayed silent, hesitant to answer.

"Is this some kind of joke? You’re poisoning us just to catch your sister?" you shouted, furious.

"Hey, hey, it’s not like that... I mean, yes, but not how you think."

"You bitch," you spat, jumping out of bed. "Do you even understand the damage you’ve caused?"

"Listen to me. We used the gray to clear the streets, to keep people safe," she tried to explain.

"Used? Who’s ‘we’? You and your new enforcer friends? Well, you didn’t protect anyone!" You exploded. "Do you have any idea how many people you hurt? At least fifty came here today!"

"She’s a murderer! She killed half the council, she—"

"She’s not a traitor," you cut her off sharply.

The room fell silent as you watched Vi clench her fists in anger. You’d struck a nerve.

"Did you really do this for her? Or did your new enforcer friend convince you?" you spat, unable to hide your disgust.

"Don’t call her that!" Vi’s hands grabbed the collar of your shirt, pushing you against the wall.

You stayed inches apart for what felt like ten seconds before she let go, though she didn’t step back. Her heavy breathing mixed with yours, and you could smell the perfume from her uniform—a scent impossible to find down here.

"Get out of my house," you whispered.

"You have to understand—"

"Get out!"

Vi sighed loudly, grabbed her heavy gloves from the floor, and walked to the door. You opened it for her, stepping aside. She crossed the threshold without meeting your gaze but stopped in the doorway.

"I hope your new friend is worth it." She didn’t turn around, just kept walking down the dark street, away from your home.

You couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

What had you expected? Nothing had stayed the same over the years.

You locked the door before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow would be another hard day in the Lanes.