#that's a topic for another post but wait i'm having a moment

[edraculation]

look at my pinterest board boy

[holybibly]

𝔗𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔭𝔢𝔱 | Mingi x reader

Pairing: Professor Mingi x cam girl | student reader Summary: You hated Professor Song Mingi wholeheartedly. He was young, successful, too handsome to benefit himself, and сonfident as the devil himself. The living embodiment of all your red flags - 10 out of 10 on the "rich, narcissist, idiot" list. At the same time, Song Mingi was the sexiest, most gorgeous man you'd ever seen. But what will you do when Professor Song discovers your dirty little secret? And that he might be too interested in giving you a private lesson in good manners? Genre / Au / Trope : Smut, University!AU, Sex Work!AU, Non-idol!AU, sugar daddy, student х teacher, forbidden relationships, cam girl. Rating: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI Word count: 10.3 k Warnings: Unprotected sex, stomach bulge, fingering, degrading, pet names, size kink, face fucking, dirty talk, explicit sexual content, explicit language, squirting, pussy slapping, oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, сreampie, rough sex, masturbation, humiliation, blow jobs, rough oral, power play, spanking, orgasm delay, sex toys (dildo, sex machine), sex work and more. net: @cultofdionysusnet A|N: This ff has been in my drafts for a very long time and was supposed to be a really sweet "gift" for my bunnies. But for various reasons, it didn't turn out the way I had planned, and I'm personally not entirely happy with what I've written. But I tried too hard, so I'm posting it. I hope that the bunnies will be pleased with the amount of debauchery and lust that I am about to offer you.

Bunnies, Professor Song is waiting for you in the lecture hall.

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 @tiny-apocalypse @captain-joongz @alicedawitchbish @woohwababes @wlv-asteria @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisprincesss @lavishloving @teagietots @spooo00oky @sousydive @hwapou @bunnliix @softwsan @mjyungi @fantasy2wonderland @noirsfantasy @cassies-cookies @renaholicss @luffypants @hyukssunflower @watermelon2319 @peachygiku @bunnyxoxodarling @stolasisyourparent @soranosnowbunny @certifiedmoa @sanglix @slvtiny @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @hecateslittlewitchling @xxawl @pastellbunno @starlletsblog @seonghwasstar @hwanring @vtyb23 @pearltinyy @minjaeum @chasevixx @bomi-ja @onedumbho3 @sanglix @cursedeastern @itza-meee @pinkies-things @atinism @mxnsxngie @nenefix-on @therealcuppicake @annafeebou @sharksandminhos @@lixies-pixieboy @@vampzity

The real life of a student is not always as fun and glamorous as it might seem at first glance. If you think university life is an endless whirlwind of parties and passionate romances, then I'm sorry to disappoint you. Student life is nothing more than tonnes of homework, endless stress, and litres of coffee, which you probably drink on an empty stomach because you've been up all night studying for the next 'ultra-important' lesson, and of course impossibly annoying and boring professors who seem to be just waiting for the moment to ruin your life. So when there was an announcement at the beginning of the new term that your group would have a new French literature professor, you were completely oblivious. Your previous professor had been a boring, retired man with an unhealthy obsession with young female students and cigarettes who always left his classroom reeking of tobacco, so you didn't expect much from another 'amazing' professor. But, God, you were wrong. Professor Song Mingi was maybe, just maybe, the most handsome and attractive man you had ever seen in your life. With his elegant and chiselled features, he could definitely pass for a haute couture model. His body was an art form in itself and the hottest topic of discussion in the entire university, not only among the crowd of blushing girls in love but also among the female faculty members. 

The way his perfectly pressed classic shirts fit his broad-shouldered, muscular body and the tight, expensive fabric of his pants tightened over his thick, juicy thighs, outlining every muscle, could leave no one indifferent, and even you gave in to the temptation of checking his Instagram profile, especially on lonely evenings. In your defence, you weren't the only one who started fondling herself when thinking of Professor Song Mingi. After all, how could you resist when the man was literally a walking list of the categories on Pornhub? But while Professor Song was a wet dream come to life, he was also the biggest jerk you've ever met. And there were more than a few of them. He was 10 out of 10 on your red flag list: arrogant, narcissistic, annoying, and impossibly self-centred. The world seemed to revolve around him as he looked down on everyone from his lofty perch. 

Seriously, every time you thought he couldn't be more handsome and sexy, Mingi would rush out to prove otherwise, driving everyone around him crazy, but in the process, you found even more horrible traits that both excited you and made you hate him with all your heart. 

And it seemed that you weren't the only one to feel hatred and resentment, as Professor Song, for reasons unknown to you, decided to make your life a living hell, infuriating you with his every word and action. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't live up to Mingi's high standards, and you always ended up at the very bottom of his class. In all seriousness, the man treated you as if he had the proverbial stick in his arse 24 hours a day. But God, that arse, if you had the chance, you would have loved to sink your teeth into it. It was juicy and firm, and it just created an irresistible urge to hold it in your palms and pull his body closer as Professor Song fucked you hard into the mattress. All in all, if Mingi had been able to hold his lectures standing with his back to the students all the time, as a good student, you would have wanted a seat in the front row, but hell, that was a pipe dream because Professor Song Mingi found a new way to drive you to hysteria every time. 

It was really fucked up; you were rewriting your report for the third time, and it looked like you were going to keep on doing it for an indefinite amount of time. It didn't matter to Professor Song that everyone who read your report praised what you said and thought or that you spent a lot of time writing it, sacrificing sleep and nerve cells. But it seemed that nothing could live up to Mingi's standards, which no mortal could ever hope to reach—except for himself, of course. 

"Your report lacks depth and understanding of the subject; I'm afraid you weren't paying enough attention while I lectured, Y/N. Did you have more important things to do than listen? Your report is not very good for a student in the third year. I am going to have to ask you to make significant changes; otherwise, you will not be able to pass in my class. Don't let me down this time, or I'll have to take even more serious measures against you."

As if all you ever thought about was being a good girl for him, slobbering all over him, and giving him obedient nods. He can go fuck himself. You hated Song Mingi so much. 

French literature was always the first class of the day on a Friday, and it was absolutely terrible. After listening to Professor Song lecture for two hours in his deep, pornographic voice, you usually spend the rest of the day looking grumpy and depressed. And to top it all off, Mingi decided to wear one of his most stunning black designer classic shirts today, in which he unbuttoned a few buttons so that everyone around him could admire his stunningly smooth skin, which you wanted to lick. You swear that this man is a true spawn of hell, sent to earth to be your tormentor and sexual frustration. Needless to say, as well as he ruining your mood, your panties were hopelessly ruined by the sticky juices that tickled your labia whenever you moved. 

"Good, at least this day is finally over."  You mutter tiredly to yourself as you enter the dormitory that you share with your best friend, who you can't seem to see anywhere at the moment, which is understandable since it's Friday.

Shit, it's Friday; how could you forget it? Damned Professor Song Mingi. You forgot you were supposed to be streaming tonight because you were so caught up in the whole situation. 

You hadn't planned to do this all along. It was just a one-time thing to pay off some debts, but money is a real drug that you get addicted to too quickly. But it wasn't just the money; it was the attention. The huge amount of attention you got from your followers was so sweet and exciting that it was impossible to refuse. So, like most other poor girls, it was no surprise that you got sucked into sex work and webcamming too quickly. It was good money that paid your way through university and your way of life without much thought for the future. You received thousands of comments from people who were desperate to fuck that pretty pink cunt of yours, as they had always told you, or to do many other lewd and horrible things to you. You weren't ashamed to admit that you had always been an attention whore, and their words and praise made you want more. It gave you confidence in your body and gave you immense power over those on the other side of the screen, just because of your well-groomed little cunt.

With an excited smile on your face, you walk to your room and remember the package that was delivered to you this morning. A very special gift that you are hoping will be the highlight of this evening's stream. You give a slight squeak as you see a beautiful black box made of heavy, expensive cardboard sitting in the middle of your bed, with a small envelope on top of it. You pick it up, sit down on the bed, and bite your plump lower lip in anticipation. The envelope looks like it came from one of those books of gothic literature that you love so much. It's as black as the box it came in, with a blood-red wax seal in the middle.

As you carefully remove the seal, revealing the small note inside, your whole body subconsciously warms.

"I hope this will make you think of me, doll." Le Maître 

The white ink on the black matte paper looks too formal, and you're a little disappointed that the note isn't handwritten. But just to be on the safe side, there's no hint as to who the mysterious sender of the parcel might be. After all, for your own safety, you had to accept the parcel under a made-up pseudonym. 

Le Maître. You practically squealed like a schoolgirl when this user first appeared in your paid private chatroom after one of your streams. There were a few other people there, but Le Maître was different; he was regal and bossy to you despite the fact that he paid to jerk off on your body. He was your number one viewer, attending every stream, sending you huge amounts of money, and complimenting and praising you. By now, you can definitely see that you've developed an unhealthy obsession with praise ever since the first time he referred to you as his "good girl."

Just a few days ago, he sent you a text message saying that he wanted to do something special for you—a little gift in celebration of the fact that your account now has over 25,000 subscribers. The gorgeous gift box on your lap is a special gift, and you have an inkling of what's inside the decadent scarlet corrugated paper. You impatiently rifle through the layers of wrapping paper and gasp when you see what you have received—a little sex machine. As you inspect the shiny, erotic pleasure device, you notice a small piece of paper attached to the sturdy, mechanical body of the machine.  "A special gift for my angel, who already has more than 25,000 subscriptions. You are such a sweet girl. Please use it in your next stream so your Maître can see it. P.S. I have a controller, Dolly."

You swallow loudly, feeling a nervous shiver run through your body and heat build in the pit of your stomach; you're sure your pussy is already wet with a strangely arousing anticipation, juices dripping down the quivering folds onto your lace panties. Fuck, he's really going to fuck you, thanks to this sex machine. Your attention will be drawn to the large dildo that is attached to the mechanism. It's thick and long, with lots of veins running down the shaft, mimicking the swollen veins on a real cock. It's cold and textured to the touch, and you can imagine how shiny and smooth it will be when your cum runs down it. You squeeze your thighs together in excitement, looking forward to using it tonight and putting on a show for your audience that they won't forget for a very long time. You put your 'gift' to one side and get out of bed to get ready for your weekly stream. 

"Hello, bunnies! Are you ready for this evening?" You chirp, your voice sweet and luscious with a slightly childish, innocent tone, as you shyly rub the strap of your sheer lace lingerie. "Tonight I'm going to show you something different from my usual show; as you all know, by now I've reached 25,000 followers." You fidget slightly on the bed, twirling a strand of your long hair around your finger. You purse your lips, knowing that the shimmering lip gloss makes your mouth look just fuckable. 

The mini-sex machine is standing on a pouffe out of the camera's view, and you take a deep breath to calm your excitement before you lean closer to the camera so that everyone can see your face and how plump and juicy your tits look in that bra. Luckily, this site doesn't allow screenshots and will quickly ban any user who dares to do so; otherwise, you could be in big trouble. 

"You're all so nice to me; you deserve to enjoy my face. Today,  I'd like to be a little closer to you. Don't I look especially pretty today?" 

One by one, the comments come in, and you giggle at everyone's excitement. 

"Goddamn, you're beautiful." "I want to cum on that pretty face of yours, baby."  "Your face is making me so horny, sweetie." "These lips are made to suck cock." "You're so pretty; are you going to be an obedient kitty for Daddy?"

We all have our own dirty little secret that we carefully hide, and it happened that the secret of the seemingly arrogant and fastidious Professor Song Mingi was that his regular nightly routine involved watching livestreams of pretty webcam girls with small, tight pussies. A man has needs; sue him for that, and being so busy with work and surrounded by a crowd of hormonal, giggling university students every day, he doesn't have the time or energy to find a connection. And Mingi doubted that anyone could satisfy his sexual appetite. He had always been overly demanding in everything he did, and sex was no exception. Mingi wanted to find a perfect little doll who he could fuck and spoil as much as he wanted; he needed a sweet mouth and free access to a tiny pussy, and in return, he would be happy to give the cute doll his black credit card.

One evening, he found one who immediately caught his attention, and not just because of her pretty, juicy tits and doll-like, shiny mouth, while he was browsing through the numerous profiles of various girls. You were so adorable and innocent-looking, but completely slutty. It was an instant match made in heaven for Mingi. Imagine his surprise when he saw you the first day he started working at the university. You were his student, his sweet little student, the girl he had shameless fantasies about all the time. He thought that he should feel disgusted with himself, or at least ashamed, but to be honest, Mingi didn't care; your cunt was pink and tight, and that was enough to make him forget all sense of decency.

Mingi doesn't know how he feels about it, but the way his cock gets hard just at the sight of you means he'll be getting his money's worth and enjoying the show. His classic black shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his embossed abs and golden, luscious skin dripping with sweat. He unzips his trousers and pulls out his big, throbbing cock, which jerks at the sight of you in the slutty lingerie you have bought with his money. He hisses softly, biting his plump lower lip, his eyes fixed on the cleft between your tits. Mingi desperately wants to fuck your breasts.

"Someone very special has sent me a beautiful gift, my darlings, and I am definitely going to make use of it today." Your cheeks are burning from all the lewd comments, but it is only turning you on more and more, making your pussy even wetter and more needy.

You sit down on the bed, bend down until you can't see the chatter, and pull the ottoman between your legs to the edge of the bed. The sound of the incoming tips becomes loud and constant as soon as the erotic device appears in the frame.

Mingi slowly strokes his thick, veiny member with his hand, clutching the small sex machine controller in his other large hand. He can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the one to destroy your pretty pussy with his cock. His dark eyes bore into yours as he bit down hard on his lower lip and used the pad of his thumb to circle the already-leaking red head of his cock. If only he were able to fuck you right now.

You take a bottle of vanilla lube and smear it on the dildo, moaning loudly as you run your hand from the base to the head several times, tracing the ridges with your fingers to simulate veins, imagining that this is the dick of a certain professor. God, you hate and adore Professor Song at the same time; he is the star of all your most depraved and vulgar fantasies, which is why you always cum so hard and profusely. Fortunately, when you collapse during your orgasm, you have enough control over your mouth to keep from moaning his name.

With your other hand, you pull your pretty panties aside and run your fingers through your wet folds, spreading them slightly and showing off your wetness.

"Fuck, your pussy is so nice." "You've played with yourself before; you're already so wet." "Give me a lick of your pussy, angel."

The comments go on and on, as do the messages about the tips while you are gently massaging your pussy. You close your eyes, bite your lip and let out a soft moan as the pad of your middle finger makes contact with your sensitive clit.

"Damn it, I wish I could have your fingers playing with my pussy right now," you whine. Your free hand pulls down your bra straps, exposing your breasts to the camera, your nipples hardening with growing pleasure. You take the nipple between your fingers and gently twist and pull at it. Your pussy is leaking, the transparent, viscous mucus enveloping your fingers, making them shiny and smooth, and running down your milky thighs, leaving a wet, cold trail.

You imagine Professor Song's long fingers penetrating you, stretching your tight hole, and preparing you for the insertion of his dick into your pussy. Mingi has breathtakingly beautiful hands—wide palms, thick, long fingers, always adorned with rings and bracelets. Fuck, just to feel those rings inside you, pressing against the silky hot walls of your pussy, you would do anything. You circle your fingers around the wet, quivering edge of your hole before you slip two fingers inside, your soft walls tightening around them in an instant. Your other hand stops playing with your nipples and reaches out for the toy that is about to fuck you to death.

Your breathing becomes uneven, your chest rising and falling with your moans and gasps. Your fingers run over the silky walls of your pussy a couple of times before you start to fuck yourself to death at a fast and furious pace. Your eyes roll back in pleasure as you stick out your tongue and let it drip onto your naked tits.

You know the effect you have on your audience; they love seeing someone so sweet and angelic looking like a slutty whore, and to get more praise and tips, you pull your fingers out of your cunt and slap your pussy with them. The loud signal of the incoming tip is echoed by the wet, disgusting sound of your hand touching your skin.

"Oh daddy, I want your cock so bad; my pussy is throbbing for you," you say. You hold your fingers up to the camera to show how wet they are with your slick. "I'm such a sweet Daddy; I want you to eat me up. I promise I'll come on your tongue like a good girl." You put your fingers in your mouth; you lick them, suck them, and slurp around them. The moans you make sound more like whimpering than something soft and melodic.

On the other side of the screen, Mingi is moaning in a guttural way as he leans back in the big leather chair in his home office, squeezing and massaging his balls as he enjoys the wet slurping sounds that you are making. His cock is pressed against his hard belly, the viscous pre-cum dripping from the head of it and flowing between the reliefs of his abs. His eyes roll back in his head as he imagines fucking your cunt with his nimble fingers, stretching your tight little hole in preparation for his hard fucking. You will be moaning loudly and writhing as your juices flood his hand and run down his sinewy forearm.

You get on your knees on the bed and adjust the toy so that it's right in front of your dripping hole, holding your knickers so that they don't block the view of your pussy. You are already looking so messed up. A long string of mucus is coming out of your hole, straight onto the toy, and the strokes are coming in at a crazy rate. You look straight into the camera with your big innocent eyes; your lips are pouting sweetly. Mingi hisses at this, grabs his dick, and squeezes it several times. The fingers of his other hand are flicking the switch on the controller of the sex machine.

"Please, sir, I've been such a good girl for you. Are you going to fuck me now?" You are licking your lips with the tip of your tongue, and you are lowering your pussy down onto the artificial dick. The silicone is cold and smooth, and the contrast in temperature between it and your hot pussy makes you moan loudly and for a long time.

Mingi growls, the desire coursing through him as he hears the respectful title that falls from your plump lips, in the same way that you address him as "Sir" in class when you turn up for his lecture, and it drives him mad. He turns the dial, and the car comes to life and begins to move. Your eyes lose their focus, and your mouth falls open as the toy begins to move inside of you. Your fingers spread your labia, and you show the audience how the dildo is slowly stretching your tight little hole. The size of the toy is huge, despite the artificial penis being cold and lifeless, but that doesn't change the fact that it is tearing you apart. Your legs tremble as you try to maintain a stable position on the bed. Your toes curl as you begin to play with your swollen, sensitive clit, stimulating yourself further and causing more of the sticky, slippery fluid to gush out of you.

Mingi watched intently through the screen as you writhed and moaned; the toy was finally buried completely inside you, and he could see its impressive size causing your belly to bulge. Damn it! He can bet his bottom dollar that the silicone head of the dick is in direct contact with your cervix. When he sees how greedily your cunt swallows the toy, his predatory dark eyes flash, and he swallows noisily. You can take his cock like a good girl, and he'll see to it that it happens soon. Even though this toy is much bigger than any you've fucked your cunt with in previous streams, Mingi doesn't give you time to get used to its size. But he knows that in reality, you are an absolute slut who lives for the cock and that you can easily take anything that is given to you.

The sex machine picks up speed, and you scream loudly as you feel the fake veins on the dildo drag along the walls of your body with every mechanical movement—your hands cupping and massaging your breasts, your fingers pinching your swollen nipples. The pleasure coursing through your veins, your moans growing louder by the minute, and your head falling back. Your thoughts turn to Professor Song, of course.

God, that man—the way your body has reacted to him has been completely abnormal. Professor Song Mingi is an absolute asshole, and all he does is bully you and ruin your grades. But fuck, you wanted it so much—to destroy your pussy with his dick. You hate every part of his gorgeous appearance—that stupid long hair, a weird shade of orange that looks damn good on him, those sharp fox eyes that always look at you with judgement. There's such disgust and contempt in his eyes; it's like he's saying, "You're a worthless whore," and God, you really want him to address you like that, especially in that porn voice that makes your pussy leak.

Under your fingers, what will his hair feel like? Will it be as soft to the touch as it is to the eye? What will his eyes be like? Will they be filled with unbridled hunger as his long, slick tongue flicks across your clit? Will his deep voice vibrate against your skin as he moans softly and tastes you in his mouth? Will his big, rough hands be gripping your hips, digging their fingers into the soft flesh until you're bruised and scratched, holding you still as he buries his face in your cunt as if he couldn't live without it for a single day? All these vivid erotic images flash through your brain, the constant beeping of the donors just background noise as you imagine your professor's deep, velvety voice commanding you to cum.

"Wish you could fuck me now. Oh fuck! Please, sir, fuck your pretty little doll properly." You moan loudly as the speed of the sex machine increases, all the words blending together. The whirring sound of the machine synchronises with the rapid beating of your heart as the silicone cock thrusts into you, lewd squelching fills the room, and your moans and cries become longer and more pitiful, like a cat in heat, as your orgasm begins to build rapidly.

"Oh sir, I'm thinking about the way your dick is sliding between my legs. Is it as thick and as big as this toy? Are you going to feed your doll with your cum?"

There are few things in this world that can make Professor Song Mingi lose his balance, but the sight of his cute little student fucking her dripping, plump cunt with the toy he has given her is definitely the one thing that makes his jaw drop. You are fucking beautiful, a real doll that Mingi would like to sit on a velvet cushion in his house and admire like a work of art. He knows you're about to come—your cheeks are flushed, your lips are parted in a perfect orgasmic "oh,"  your trembling little hand reaches for your clit to rub the throbbing bundle of nerves and bring you to the desired climax, and your eyes are so closed you can hardly see.

Mingi's hand glides a little faster over his dick; it's slippery and shiny with the sperm that leaks out of it. At the same pace as you rub your aching clit, Mingi makes sharp, quick circles with his palm around his cock.

"Fuck!" Mingi growls as he grips the arm of the chair and pushes his hips into his hand, the massive bracelets around his wrist clanking as his hand comes down hard on his cock. As the sex machine fucks you hard and fast at top speed, the controller is forgotten on the table next to his laptop. Your piercing moans are music to his ears, and the way your thighs subtly tremble shows the immense pleasure he is indirectly giving you. Your head is thrown back, exposing your neck, and your hips roll on the toy, the juices from your vagina running down your ass and soaking the sheets beneath you, your juicy, plump tits bouncing with the movement of the sex machine.

"Sir, Daddy, please! Can I cum for you? Please let me come for you! I've been such a good girl for you!" You are shaking all over, your orgasm is growing stronger with each passing second, and you know that it is going to be amazing. The palm of your hand is slapping your pussy again, and the sounds of tipping over are coming with renewed force. What fucking perverts!

When he realises the effect he is having on you without even touching you, a tingle runs down Mingi's spine. He has complete control over your orgasm, and you will do whatever he wants without him interfering in your real life.

"Come for me, my doll." His voice is dark and deep, despite the force with which he fucks his hand, the leather chair creaking from the powerful thrusts of his thick, meaty thighs. As if you can hear him, you pinch your clit sharply and squeal deafeningly, your body shaking in small convulsions as you cum on a toy you imagine is Professor Song's dick. The walls of your pussy contract as you try to hold the fake cock inside you as you ride out your orgasm.

Mingi cum right after you, moaning gutturally, his eyes rolling back in his head as streams of cum spray onto his thighs and abs, his mind clouded by the orgasm, and he completely forgets that he hasn't turned off the toy that continues to mercilessly stuff your cunt. His attention is drawn back to you when he hears you squealing pitifully, the tears rolling down your face and smearing your make-up, and Mingi finds himself thinking that he would like to see the same look on your face when his dick is deep down in your throat.

"Oh my God, s-sir, turn it off! Please, I can't... Oh, bloody hell! Sir, I beg you..." You scream, the tears streaming freely down your face as the sex machine continues to fill your pussy with cock like there is no tomorrow, your hands gripping the sheets as the sensory overload washes over your body like a tidal wave.

Mingi looks at you with hunger and animal lust as he watches the toy abuse your used, dripping cunt. Of course, he could turn it off if he wanted to, but he doesn't because he knows that you could just lie back on the bed and put an end to your supposed agony, but you don't want to.

He gives you a devilish grin and licks his lips as he watches the fat tears roll down your flushed cheeks as you beg him to make it stop. Your whole body glistens with a subtle sheen of sweat, and as Mingi has watched your body countless times, he knows every reaction of yours—you will cum for him; he is sure of it.

"Oh god, damn, damn! I'm going to cum again, Daddy." You let out another loud squeal, your back arching as you come for the second time that night, and this time a clear stream of liquid shoots out of your pussy, soaking the sheets even more. The tipping sounds are louder than they were before, and if there was an audience in your room, they would definitely enjoy watching you squirt over and over again. Damn, you really put on a show for them that they won't forget in a hurry.

Mingi smiles with satisfaction and strokes his cock once more, this time prolonging his pleasure with lazy strokes as he watches you whimpering and twitching with the overwhelming pleasure of your orgasm. He is kind enough to put an end to your torment by picking up the controller unit from the table and turning off the sex machine. The loud mechanical whirring ceases as the toy stops fucking you. You slowly rise from your seat, the thick dildo sliding out of your pussy—glossy and wet with your essence. You whimper quietly, still too sensitive, your chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths. The next thing you do is make Mingi sink teeth into his lower lip until it starts to bleed.

"Let me clean you, Daddy; you have been so good to me today. My cunt feels so warm and full." Your pretty, plump lips wrap around the fake cock's head, smacking sweetly before shoving the larger half of the toy into your mouth, sucking and licking with your tongue like a real cock. After tasting the juices running down the length of the silicone, you close your eyes and moan.

Your brain forms images of how you would do this to Mingi, choking on his cock, swallowing it to the base, tickling his balls with the tip of your tongue; sucking him like a good girl, licking every swollen vein along its huge velvety length, and you know Professor Song has a big, thick dick. You think about how he will grab your hips, slap your butt cheeks hard, and penetrate your needy, horny cunt with one hard thrust until his balls are slapping against your ass. Fuck, you really want Professor Song to destroy you, and this desire almost overshadows the hatred you feel for this man.

Snap back to reality, and you're practically crawling over to your laptop with innocent, tear-stained eyes before pulling the toy out of your mouth with a wet pop and smiling brightly at the camera as if you hadn't just been ruined by a silicone dick. Your mouth is shiny and wet from a mixture of saliva, sticky pink lip gloss, and your juices.

"Fuck, that was so hot."

"I'd like you to splash on my cock as well, honey."

"Wow, baby, I didn't know you could do that. Will you squirt on my face if I pay you?"

"I want to cum in your cunt so bad, sweet cheeks, daddy must keep you full and pretty with his cum."

"You're so fucking beautiful, angel, I'll jerk off on your face every night."

"That was your best stream ever, princess."

All these comments are making you giggle. Men are really just horny animals; show them a nice pussy and they will be at your feet.

You spend some time interacting with the public, reading comments, and showing off your new toys and lingerie that you bought with the money you made from streaming. The cursor hovers over the bright red button, and before you press it to end the broadcast, you look straight into the camera, first slowly licking your lips, then slightly tilting your head to the side with the sweetest expression on your cute little face. It may seem that you are talking to all the viewers, but in fact you are talking to just one man, Le Maître.

"I hope you have enjoyed today's show, sir, and that you have had a lot of fun. But I really want you to use your real dick to make me cum and squirt so hard. I really, really want you to fuck me in real life, Daddy." You kissed and winked at everyone, and you finally finished your show.

Mingi couldn't sleep at all that night; after the show, he jerked off two or three more times, even using an artificial pussy, imagining he was fucking you instead of a cold silicone toy. He came so much that his cum was everywhere, even landing on his luxurious diamond-encrusted Rolex.

In contrast to your restless, overheated professor, you fell asleep almost immediately—tired and satisfied—from an amazing orgasm and from a huge amount of money that fell into your bank account after the stream had ended. Of course, your Le Maître was the biggest donor of all.

Next Friday

"I expect all of you to take this course more seriously and to have your homework done by Monday. From next week, there will be three more lectures on French literature in your course, so don't be a disappointment to me. The class is dismissed."

You sigh heavily, already anticipating the torment the extra pairings with Professor Song will bring you. Fuck, you hate him so much, but the sight of his thighs in those tight trousers should be illegal. That's a real crime against humanity. You gather your things and hope to get out of the stuffy lecture hall, which now always has the smell of pure sex—Professor Song's perfume. If you didn't know any better, you'd be thinking that the man was literally bathing in an aphrodisiac, because it's just not real to smell like that. You never thought you'd be turned on by someone else's perfume, but here we are, drooling on the floor at the incredibly sexy scent that Professor Song Mingi wears like a second skin. Sometimes you wonder: Does the bitch know how attractive he is? But he does, and he uses it to his advantage, judging by that smug, arrogant grin that always sits on those plump, sensual lips. 

You are just about to leave when you hear his deep, husky voice calling out your name. Oh no, not now. 

"I'd like to talk to you about your performance, Y/N." Mingi begins to speak slowly, stretching out the letters and putting emphasis on the last word. There is definitely a certain ambiguity in all this, which you can't quite make out. "What can you tell me about it?" He walks around his desk, leans his gorgeous butt against it, and crosses his arms over his chest. His poor shirt buttons try harder than the devil on a good day.

You tilt your head to the side in confusion and walk down the stairs, authematic, to be closer to him. Why is he asking you that now? Damn, he always finds the perfect time to throw you off balance. Your heart races, and you try to ground yourself, thinking about what an idiot he is and what strange things could be going on in that beautiful head of his. You struggled to read him; his stunning model face always had this arrogant royal expression that completely failed to convey his true feelings, so every time you talked to him, it was like playing with a big cat. 

"I think I'm all right, Sir. Why are you asking?" You stammer slightly, but when you hear Mingi's deep moaning, all your mental scolding about your nervousness quickly fades away. You stare at him with your eyes wide open in an attempt to comprehend what the hell is going on. Your eyes focus on Professor Song. The way your narcissistic jerk of a professor shamelessly adjusts his trousers, which now show a very noticeable bulge in his crotch.

Before you know it, you're standing right in front of him, and your nervousness has returned with a vengeance. He's even more handsome up close—classic glasses perched on the bridge of his perfect nose, his long fingers reaching up to remove them and place them on the table. He stares at you with his dark fox eyes, towering over your petite frame, as he carefully pulls the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, revealing the massive bracelets around his wrists and the bulging veins on his forearms. God, does he have any idea of the effect this has on you? Too afraid to look him in the eye, you cast a glance at the small cross around his neck.

"Yes, you're doing very well. Too well, actually, aren't you, Y/N?" As his thumb runs down your soft cheek, tracing the outline of your mouth lower until he slides it between your parted lips, you almost gasp and feel like you're going to faint. You don't hear anything but your heart pounding in your ears. It feels like it's about to burst out of your chest. You stare at him helplessly as he presses the pad of his finger against your tongue, stroking it lightly. A devilish grin appears on his plump lips, replacing his usual bitchy expression with something more sinister and dangerous. "Such a beautiful little dolly, aren't you? So skilled with your fingers, so good with that pretty little doll mouth of yours, and you definitely know how to serve that little cunt of yours perfectly." Mingi whispers as he leans closer to you, his other hand reaching under your skirt and squeezing your bare bottom. Fuck, you definitely shouldn't have worn a thong today. "I'm sure you're playing with your sweet bottom, too, bunny." He continues to rub his thumb over your tongue for a few more moments, while his other hand gives your arse a hard massage that makes you squeal with pleasure. You're quite sure that the skin on your bottom is already red from his aggressive touch. As soon as Mingi stops touching you and pulls his hands away from you, crossing them over his broad chest, the situation comes back to you.

You are watching his every move, breathing heavily, letting your eyes glide over every pulsing vein on his forearms, and praying to God that you will have enough strength not to lean over and run the tip of your tongue over them. 

"P-Professor, I don't have a clue what you're talkin' about."

"Oh, darling, don't play innocent; you have a very clear idea of what I'm talking about. I'm really glad you found a good use for the gift I gave you last night, my angel." Professor Song's voice is a velvety whisper, and considering how quiet it is in the lecture theatre, he might as well have shouted, the meaning of his words ringing loudly in your ears. He's like a predator, slowly circling around you, the soles of his designer shoes clicking on the parquet floor. Your feet feel as if they are glued to the floor, and you don't know what to do. When you try to speak again, your voice sounds broken, and you are on the verge of tears. 

"Will there be a report against me, Professor Song? Or what? You haven't got any hard evidence that it's me." You say it with conviction, and hope springs, but unfortunately, it dies as soon as Mingi opens his mouth.

"That may be true, my dear. But you wouldn't want such terrible accusations to be made against you, would you? Mingi taunts you; his deep voice suddenly comes very close to your ear. You feel so unprotected in his presence, so tiny in comparison to his huge, tall body. Why does this man have to be so bloody big?

"They'll never know it was me who found your profile on the porn site; I could easily pass it off as an anonymous tip." You catch your breath as you feel his rough, hot hand slide under your skirt and up your thigh. Mingi smiles at your reaction and leans in closer to you, biting the lobe of your ear. "Besides, this is going to get rumoured around the university. People will be tempted to do a check on your account—people you know, people you might be close to." He goes on, the heat of his breath making you shiver. 

His broad palm grips your mound in a possessive way, the heat from your pretty pussy causing his cock to twitch in his trousers. You try to stifle a shameful moan, but the sound escapes you, and you unconsciously lean forward, pressing your breasts against him. Mingi wraps his other arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his body as he does so. Oh shit, your head is spinning from the smell of his perfume so close, and on top of everything else, you're ashamed to admit it, but your pussy is terribly wet, and you're pretty sure Professor Song can feel your wetness in the palm of his hand. 

"It may be illegal to screenshot, and your streamers will disappear, but what about the pictures and videos you've posted? Of course, everyone will be able to see your sexy little body all over the place. And don't you dare argue about it. You always look like a thirsty slut, wearing those tiny skirts and shoving your tits in everyone's face. You are a worthless little bitch." Professor Song hisses and presses the palm of his hand harder against your pussy, and you want to rub it against it so badly that it's almost pathetic.

Your tongue doesn't turn into an object; it's as if it were glued to the roof of your mouth. Mingi was right; you've always dressed rather provocatively, and it's never bothered you, but it seemed to bother him. 

"Either way, your name will still be in tatters, and my reputation will be perfect and clean, as it should be. I'm a respected professor with a model student. I'm not someone who watches a cam-girl stream every Friday night and watches how she stuffs a fake cock into her luscious little cunt." Wiping away a tear that has accidentally escaped your eye, Mingi's thumb runs down your cheek. Your vision is blurred by the tears, and the dark, lustful eyes of Professor Song are the only thing you can see clearly.

"Please tell me... What can I do to stop you from saying anything about me?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your words are a useless string of letters. Mingi's eyes flash angrily at your whimpering plea.

"Ah angel, you sound even better in real life when you're begging." Mingi moans as his middle finger slowly rubs the folds of your folds through your panties, which are more like a tiny piece of lace and do very little to cover the plumpness of your cunt. You whimper softly as you lean back against his shoulder. You've always been easy to arouse, and the wet sound you make when Mingi's fingers tease your pussy makes it clear that you're absolutely flowing for him right now. You can be sure that as soon as he pulls your panties off to the side, your viscous slime will be dripping freely out of your hole and onto the polished parquet floor. "I think you know very well what it is I want from you. I pay you good money all the time; don't you think I deserve the real thing, my doll?" You let out a loud whimper as his big hand pressed down hard on your shoulder. "On your knees, little one; don't keep your sir waiting."

As you kneel before your professor, facing the growing bulge in his trousers, your lower lip trembles. Professor Song is leaning against the desk, his hands on either side of his body, gazing up at you from under the lashes of his eyes. Your trembling hands are fumbling with his belt, and the sound of the metal echoes through the empty room.

"Oh, now you're embarrassin' yourself, darlin'? Where's that slutty bitch who was squirting all over yesterday because she let her pussy get stretched by a big dildo?" Mingi says it arrogantly, tilting his head to the side and tapping his fingers on his desk in disappointment. You flinch at his words like a slap in the face, but don't bother to reply as you pull down his trousers and underwear, the sight of his thick, wiry cock making your mouth dry as you try to swallow the lump in your throat. Like everything else about Professor Song, his cock is amazing—a drop of pre-ejaculate glistening on the flushed head, a thick vein swollen and throbbing just waiting for you to run your soft tongue over it, and its size—he's got a huge cock with a massive girth that you can barely wrap your palm around. Mingi wraps his hand around the cock, his thumb smearing the wetness over the head before he brings it to your lips and runs his whole length over it, leaving a wet sheen, and slaps your mouth a couple of times. 

"Open your mouth, dolly."

Mingi's other hand tangles in your hair, pulling hard on the long strands as you obediently open your mouth for him. His thick cock enters your mouth slowly, your jaw tensing as you try to get used to the size of it. You choke as the blunt head of his cock hits the back of your throat and the balls rest against the side of your chin. Mingi's thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, and he cooed sweetly as he watched you gurgle around his cock, drool bubbling at the corners of your lips and dripping down your chin. His cock is hot and heavy in your mouth, the veins stretching across the sensitive, velvety skin. Professor Song doesn't give you enough time to get used to the size of his cock and pulls your head back until the only thing left in your mouth is his head.

"Don't you think you should lick me before I fuck you in the mouth, doll? You were very eloquent about wanting me to do it yesterday." You obediently run your tongue around the head of his cock, feeling more pre-cum pouring from his slit onto your tongue. It has a sweetly bitter taste, and you think that it is very suitable for Mingi. "Well done." Professor Song hisses at you before he pushes his cock all the way back into your mouth. You gasp as your hands fly to his strong, muscular thighs in an attempt to push him away as his hips thrust sharply forward, mindlessly using your mouth as his personal cock sleeve. The thick length of it presses down on your throat, and the bulge of his cock is perfectly visible against the back of your neck with each powerful thrust. 

"I have been waiting for such a long time to fuck that slutty mouth. Darling, I can see that you have nothing more to say to me, do you? That's how it's supposed to be; whores don't get to talk." Mingi lets out a deep moan and throws her head back as she pushes you down on his cock. Your saliva mixes with his pre-cum and sticky lip gloss, coating the length of thickly dick, making it shiny and smooth so it slides easily over your tongue and deeper into your throat. As you reflexively try to swallow, your jaw aches, your lips stretch around the thick circumference, and the walls of your throat contract. Never in your life have you sucked such a big, long cock, yet here you are, fulfilling the role of a pretty sex toy for your professor to enjoy. At least, unlike some lifeless silicone, no matter how expensive, your cunt and mouth are warm and moist. 

As he mercilessly fucks you in the mouth, Professor Song is not shy about his volume, emitting hoarse, prolonged moans and growls. Anyone could walk into the lecture hall at any moment and see your compromising position, but for some reason it turns you on. Maybe you really are a slut, although as long as you get paid enough, you don't mind being one, especially when Mingi is the one scolding you daily until you pass out. 

"Fuck, I'll cum." Mingi gasps as he wraps both of his large arms around your head, trying to hold it in place. You moan around his cock, the vibrations making Professor Song growl ducky as he presses harder into your slluty mouth and your grip on his hips tightens, your nails digging into the juicy flesh, leaving vicious marks, but Mingy doesn't give a shit; you could rip his skin off if he keeps fucking you like a personal doll. His dark, foxy eyes find yours, his beautiful, plump lips are slightly parted, and his balls are clenched, slapping you on the chin. Now you don't even know what to call him. If you thought Song Mingi looked like a wet dream before, then now he's sex itself. 

"Damn, damn, damn, doll!" He moans loudly, jerking his hips as his sperm pours into your mouth. As you forcefully swallow the viscous liquid that seems to have no end, your prolonged whimper is distorted. There's so much of his cum that some of it seeps through the corners of your mouth. He continues to slowly fuck your mouth. "Don't waste it, slut." He says it in a threatening voice, and you whimper at the venom in his tone. Mingi uses his long fingers to push his cum between your lips and roughly wipes the wet mess around your mouth. All of his rings are covered in a thin layer of cum and saliva, but you think it's hot.

You blink twice, catch your breath, and the next thing you know, your knees are no longer touching the cold floor, and your face, wet with tears and sperm, is pressed against Professor Song's spotless, cold desk; he has thrown you on the desk like a fucking doll. Fucking hell, that wasn't supposed to turn you on, but God, this man is just driving you crazy. You're too preoccupied with your thoughts to notice that Mingi has lifted your skirt, exposing your wet thong to his gaze. The cold air in the audience causes your hole to clench in reflex and the liquid to squirt out. 

You have to clench your fist to keep from squealing as the tight, expensive leather of his belt lands on your bottom with a loud crack. Oh my God, he has just hit you with his belt. Oh shit. Mingi doesn't let you recover; he holds your head against the table with one hand while he slaps your bottom again with the other. The sting of the contact between your soft flesh and the belt makes you squirm and writhe. 

"You just sucking my cock, and you're already so wet? You really are a slut. Aren't you?" He smirks as he leans down and sinks his teeth into the flushed skin of your arse before giving you another good spanking. You whimper as Mingi pulls your thong down your trembling legs, long strands of your own slime tugging at the insignificant piece of fabric as he does so. He pushes your buttocks apart so that your plump, flowing pussy is exposed to his hungry eyes.

Mingi picks up your leg, which is bent at the knee, and puts it down on the table. You whimper and grab hold of the edge of the table, embarrassed at how open you are to him at this moment. To be honest, it's the most disgusting feeling—you're embarrassed, but at the same time, you want him to do even more disgusting and humiliating things with you. Professor Song crouches down in front of you and spits into your cunt before licking a long, sloppy strip between your folds. Mingi uses his fingers to push your folds apart and then slides the tip of his tongue into your tight hole, tracing the edge of it. 

"Oh, God, sir..." As Mingi eagerly licks your cunt, avoiding your throbbing clit, you let out a long moan and arch your hips towards his tongue. He pulls back abruptly, his heavy hand coming down on your bruised arse to spank you hard before you can get the stimulation you need. 

"Did I tell you you could move, huh? You impatient bitch." You whimper at his reproachful tone. You scratch the wood with your fingernails as he spanks you again. "A good student answers the question, Dolly." Mingi hisses, mixing the scalding pain with the pleasure of the spanking, as his hand touches your bottom again.  "N-no, sir! You didn't tell me to move! I'm so sorry."

"That's right, doll, but I have a feeling the games are over for today." Professor Song says as he finally gets up to his full height and puts his arm around your neck.

Breathing heavily and hoarsely, Mingi feels the heat emanating from you as he guides his thick cock into your little hole. You let out a loud breath and wonder if his cock will feel like the toy he has given you. Probably not; however much you like it, nothing compares to the warmth and throbbing of a real cock, especially Song Mingi's cock.  You squirm as you feel the head of his cock pass slowly between your muscles, a soft howl escaping from your lips. The dildo you used yesterday is nothing compared to Mingi's dick; it feels bigger and thicker, the swollen veins of his cock stretching deliciously along your silky, trembling walls. The urge to hold him inside you is almost irresistible, and you can't help but clench around him. Fuck, and here you thought Mingi couldn't be more slutty and godlike, and you were wondering if his cock had been given special attention during his creation? You let out a loud moan, your tongue flicking out of your mouth, and right now you definitely fit the definition of 'well fucked'. Drops of sweat roll down Mingi's neck, disappearing beneath the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, exposing his hot golden skin and sculpted breasts. Heavy breathing replaces what he's saying, and you feel partly grateful for that. When he finally enters you at the base, the head of his cock touching your cervix and his forehead pressing against your shoulder, you both moan loudly.

"S-Sir, y-you're too big."

Ignoring your whimpering, Mingi grabs you by the hips and immediately sets a brutal but rhythmic pace with you. The objects on his desk shake and fall, shattering on the parquet floor as he fucks you, pressing your body against the desk with the full weight of his body. The fabric rubbing against your hardened nipples sends a pleasant tingle down your spine and makes you shiver from the added stimulation. Your moans grow louder and louder, your cheeks burning, and you can hear his heavy balls slapping against your clit as he thrusts your tight pussy back and forth along the length of his throbbing cock. The humiliation of pouring cream around Professor Song's cock brings tears to your eyes, but at the same time, you come to an almost orgasmic pleasure as he slaps your arse again. The sting stings like a bitch, but it feels fucking unbelievably good.

"That's it, goddamn it. I've been thinking about fucking that tight little cunt for ages. You really are the perfect doll to fuck."

It all makes you dizzy, and you moan "sir" and "daddy" as your pussy sucks him up greedily. You're getting so excited; you don't want to admit it, but you can't help yourself. You can't get enough of Mingi's cock. It feels so good inside you. 

"That's my good little girl. You're definitely worth what I've paid for you." Mingi growls in your ear as he pushes harder and harder into your used cunt. He presses down hard on your neck, pinning you to the table, not letting you move, and fucking you relentlessly, his hips moving hard and fast as he takes complete control of your body. Your orgasm starts to form, an intoxicating sensation of rapture coursing through your veins like lava. 

"Sir, please! Harder!" You need to cum so badly that you beg him to go harder.

Mingi's eyes were narrow—dark and cruel—and his muscles were quivering and tense from your pathetic begging. He's a professor, and professors always want the best for their students, especially the ones they like best.

"Look at you, begging for my cock like a good little bitch," he says. He accentuates the last word with a strong thrust and plunges so deep into your cunt that you can almost feel the head of his cock entering your cervix. A mixture of incoherent words and intermittent moans escape your lips. Your head falls forward as Professor Song releases your neck to grab your thighs again, leaving more bruises on them. 

"Will you cum for me, bitch?" He leans down to your ear and nibbles on your lobe, the slapping of your skin and squishing of your pussy echoing through the empty hall.

"Hell yeah! I'm going to cum for you! I'm going to cum for you, Daddy; I'm going to cum on your cock!" You scream, the knot in your stomach gets tighter and tighter, and Professor Song fucks your flowing cunt faster and harder.

"Then cum, bunny." He growls, his hips losing their rhythm and jerking, his cock throbbing as thick, hot jets of cum coat the walls of your cunt. He moans your name quietly while your voice is barely audible—a weak, panting whisper, 'Mingi'. Both of your bodies are slowly at rest, revelling in the haze of your orgasms. Soft cries and whimpers escape from your lips, and you shudder as you feel your mixed juices pour out of you, staining the floor that was once so clean. You collapse helplessly on the table, your body going limp, a puddle of saliva pooling under your cheek, and your breathing heavy as you try to clear your mind.

Mingi moans. He bites his plump lip as he comes out of you. You whimper, squirming awkwardly as more cum pours from your pussy. You turn back to look at Professor Song, and your eyes almost pop out of your head as you see him pressing your panties to his nose and moaning loudly and satisfied. He smirks at you vulgarly, licks his lips, and wipes his cock with your underwear before tucking his dick into his trousers, the zip jangling loudly. He dismissively tosses your thong aside and presses against you again, pinning you between the desk and his big muscular body, his hot breath touching your earlobe, before whispering in his deep porn voice.

"Don't think that this is just a one-time thing, doll. I have paid for you, and now you belong to me. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, Professor Song. I understand you perfectly."

"That's good. You're a real teacher's pet. On Monday evening, I will be expecting you for an extra lesson. Don't you dare disappoint me, doll." He slaps your butt once more before he pulls himself away completely and walks out of the classroom. 

Oh, this is really fucked up. 

[wombywoo]

do you have any ghostsoap favorite fics, perhaps?

boy do I....

I should preface this by saying that I'm pretty...particular with what types of fics I enjoy reading (I only like certain character interpretations/tropes/writing styles, etc) so bear with me...

These are all mostly canon-compliant, non-AUs, ones that I regard highly~

Seasons--by StinglessWasp: This is pretty much my go-to fic rec for anyone into CoD and ghostsoap in general. It showcases everything I love about these characters, in a setting that feels as authentic to the games as possible, while also exploring the depth and sincerity hidden under the surface. So well-written and paced--the dialogue and military references all contribute to that 'feels like a mission out of the game' experience. Plus, I just love this interpretation of our boys--the humor, the inner struggles, the intimacy--Wasp 100% *gets* these characters and it's a joy to read <3

Except You, You Can Stay--by Iravaid: While this one isn't *technically* ghostsoap until the last chapter, in my opinion, it's required reading for anyone who gives a shit about Simon Riley. This is *the* character study--an intimate dissection of Ghost's past that seems so realistic and grounded, you forget how ludicrous those comics really are. Ira takes such care in treating these heavy topics with delicacy and effectiveness. Each chapter has you going 'oh wow, this is even better than the last', but as a whole--it's a stunning, fleshed-out glimpse into Simon as the character he was always meant to be. And the final chapter which eases you into his relationship with Johnny is so authentic and sweet, it just makes perfect sense that they should be together, and that this poor poor man deserves some goddamn love <3

bleeding in the house of god--by revolvermonkcelot: This is a really great 'missing scene' fic, a perfect opportunity to explore the in-between moments that the game so carelessly chooses to gloss over. I can't praise Monk's writing enough--it's slick and crisp and very tasty; the imagery just jumps off the page and you can practically feel the sweat. Plus, the dialogue exchanges between our two boys are so well-timed and in-character--love all the slang and British references~ This whole fic reads like an addition to their mission flirting, and I'm all for it! You can truly tell this author has such deep understanding and experience with this franchise (winkwinkwink, this is a joke) Read it--it's good!

The Dead are all Living--by Kabbal: This fic blew me away when I first read it. It's such a unique take on the retirement trope, I just adore this interpretation of Simon as an aging recluse while he builds his home. I tend to lean towards more subtle, grounded characterizations of Mr Riley, and this really fits the bill. All of these glimpses and fragments into his post-military life contribute to an overarching love story; the scenes with Johnny are so poignant, it's like you're pining alongside them both. I love how not-perfect they are; flawed and difficult and real. There are some moments and lines that just....struck something in me so deeply. I'm sure I'll still be thinking about it for a long long time <3

Portrait of Taction--by a_platypus: Another Simon-centric fic that I absolutely love. The character voice in this is off the charts, I can hear him so vividly in all of his inner dialogue and stunted attempts at conversation. Simon is so endearingly dense in this fic, you're just waiting for him to finally get his act together, but the clumsy, oblivious steps he takes in his relationship with Soap are truly a treat to read. I love this version of Johnny too--confident and considerate, but still hopelessly crushing on his superior. It's comedic, well-written, and the paragraphs describing Soap's journal give some of the best insights into his character I've seen <3

come on, haunt me--by flyby2: This was a really good long fic that I took my time savoring. What could have been a typical 'on leave' fic instead took time to develop a unique spin on the backstories as well as throwing our boys into some wholesome encounters. Both Soap and Ghost felt very true to character, and I appreciate the exploration of PTSD and the subsequent struggles that come along with...all that. There was a really nice balance in having their romance spread across the chapters, and I can promise a very sweet, happy conclusion <3

in the mess of it all--by flowersferns: A lovely one-shot that exhibits some of my favorite aspects of these two characters. I'm a sucker for 'one of them is hurt, the other is freaking out, they are both idiots in love, etc'. There are some really great dialogue and character moments in this, plus the overall prose hits hard. Love this take on their romance--the mutual trust, the familiarity of their bond. And just the general theme of impermanence--the inevitability of what this relationship means for them--two soldiers, willing and ready to sacrifice their lives at a moment's notice, still clinging to each other because...god...that's all they have---big fan of this :'D <3

Lapsus--by Lisbetadair: Another really great one-shot and 'missing scene' fic. The authenticity in the writing is spot-on--it's like you can feel Soap's pain right off the bat. I love how smoothly the banter flows between the two, and the attention to detail and references all help lend to that 'hardened military man' exterior. Ghost smelling like flowers because of a face wipe is such a delightful addition, plus the scene where Soap is, ah, donald-ducking it in just a t-shirt with his jewels out is such a funny mental image, I still think of it fondly from time to time. It's funny, it's surprisingly cute, it's very in-character. Stick around for some awkward but adorable cuddles <3

I'm sure I have more to recommend, but these are the ones I can personally endorse for now~

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 2)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | AO3 summary: worried about your exchange with joel, you decide to go to tommy's house, see if there's somthing you can do to help. little do you know, it just makes things worse. author's note: hi! tyvm to everyone who has shown some love to this series so far <3 it's taken me a bit but here's part 2! i'm posting it before i change my mind haha. please heed the warnings and if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. topics of death/murder and losing a child. dealing with the grief and guilt joel feels about sarah, ellie & tess. suicide attempt. tommy, maria and benji make an appearance. joel being a good uncle but a dick to everyone else. arguments. mean/cruel!joel. there's a suicide letter from joel to tommy. dual pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is 61 and reader in her 40s. wordcount: ~7.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

He was such a failure, he couldn’t even kill himself properly. What a fucking shame of a human being.

After closing the door right in your face, Joel trudged towards the couch in his living room, exhausted, mind still buzzing from the near-death experience. He sighed heavily, eyeing the noose and broken hook on the floor, pieces of plasterboard dotted around the mess where he had laid just a few minutes before.

He should have died. Death had been so close, within reach… At his fingertips. And now felt distant again, like a dream he’d woken up too early from. And despite the heartache, the vision of Sarah silently begging him not to do it, Joel needed to chase that illusion. Yearned for another peaceful moment with his daughter, longed for the moment he would see her again. Alive and young and well. Like no time had passed, like she’d been by his side for the past two decades—his personal guardian angel.

His heart was still mourning the loss, his pipedream gone. Hadn’t thought of God and Heaven in a very long while, his wavering faith lost when Sarah was taken away from him. But now, perhaps, there was a chance that Sarah was waiting for him. Somewhere, somehow—and Joel was determined to find her. Whatever it cost—even his life.

Had you not interrupted, his dream may as well have come true. But the banging on the door and window along with your incessant calls had ended up filtering into his brain. Like a motherfucking, unwanted wake-up call. You’d brought him back when he truly just wanted to die, to reunite with his baby girl. Damn you.

He’d only had to try again. Try harder next time. Because he wasn’t done. Not yet, not until he put an end to his own misery. Joel was determined to finish what he had started, and nothing nor no one could stop him.

Not even you, with your pleading doe eyes. His stomach twisted at the thought of your hand reaching up to his face. How your eyes roved over his neck, worryingly and intensely. How your nose scrunched a little and your lips fell into a pout. How your brows creased with concern for a stranger, an old man you didn’t know. Joel could only hope you hadn’t put the pieces of the picture together.

His heavy sight wandered around the room, his hand palming the wrist where Sarah’s watch rested.

Time.

“Fuck, what’s the time?” Joel mouthed, throat dry and tender, while he stood up.

In the kitchen, the clock on the wall told him he was already late. Ten minutes late to a dinner he hadn’t planned on attending. And now he’d have to go, pretend nothing had happened, because of you.

Joel walked towards the door, his back stiff like a wooden plank. His left knee cracked loudly, and a burning thunder went up his thigh. At the same time, the dull pain on the back of his head shot all the way through his skull, piercing his eyeballs. The sudden sting almost made him lose his footing, feeling dizzy and unsteady. He crouched down a little, his hand grasping the armrest of the couch as Joel fought an unexpected wave of nausea.

The fall had definitely been a bad one. Regrettably, not bad enough to have him killed. Only if he had hit his head a bit harder…

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes together while bile rose up his throat, leaving an acidic, bitter taste on his tongue. Groaning, he palmed the nape of his neck and then a bit further up, just to notice how his fingertips became wet. Frowning, Joel squinted one eye open to inspect his fingers.

Blood. Fucking great. Now he’d have to deal with that before going to Tommy’s. And of course, he blamed you. For all of it.

Thirty minutes later, Joel was at his brother’s doorstep, curls damp and nose cold. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he blew some warm air into his cupped palms to heat up his face, mind drifting back to today’s events.

“Joel?”

His eyes focused, travelling up from his boots to the frowning face in front of him. Seemed like his little brother had already spoken and was waiting on his reply.

“Are you gonna come in or are you gonna stay out there in the cold?” Tommy asked with a huff, moving aside to let him in.

“Right. Mind’s somewhere else today,” Joel mumbled an excuse while Tommy closed the door behind him.

“You’re late,” Tommy warned. “Maria ain’t happy, turkey’s going cold.”

Joel hmphed, removing his gloves and then his coat. Hung them on the hook by the door. When he turned around, he almost bumped into Tommy, who was standing too close.

“What’s that?” his brother’s eyes squinted, head tilted.

“What’s what?”

“Your neck. It’s… bruising. The heck have you been doing?” Tommy’s fingers reached up to the neckline of his shirt, pushing it down to have a better look. Just as you had tried to do.

Joel swatted his hand away, huffing dismissively. His skin crawled, the idea of being touched unbearable, even by a friendly hand.

“‘S nothing. Had an accident, that’s all,” he mumbled, sauntering towards the dining room.

“An accident? Did you accidentally put a rope around your neck or what?” Tommy laughed at his own occurrence, palming Joel’s shoulder as he walked besides him.

Internally, Joel flinched—a gesture he didn’t let break through the surface. “I have. I’m tired, brother. I want this to be over. It’s… I feel like my life is slipping away through my fingers. I’ve survived insufferable things, and it just feels wrong now. I’m drained of purpose. I’m tired, so very tired. I need’a rest—lay my head on the pillow and drift away… forever. See my babygirl, hug Tess. God, Tess…” he thought. But those words never escaped his mind, tucked away in the confines of his guilt, of his dread. Of his desperation.

Perhaps he should have spoken then—crack the shell of his feelings open, ask for help. But what had help gotten him so far besides heartache? Besides an overwhelming sense of failure? Speaking to Gail had only made things worse for him, forcing him to paint the picture of a crude reality with a clarity he’d been evading for years. Decades.

But he didn’t speak—wouldn’t burden his brother with his thoughts. Because it wouldn’t make a difference, Joel had made up his mind. No words would change everything he’d done, all the decisions that had led him to Death’s door.

“Benji’s been asking about his uncle the whole day. He’s got two new toys, a couple of miniature dinosaurs. Ellie gave them to him this morning,” Tommy happily chirped away, unaware of the hole he was digging in Joel’s chest. Deep and throbbing like an open, infected wound—a wound that would never heal, that would fester until his heart would rot past mending. Past salvation.

Was Ellie getting rid of everything he’d gifted her? Was she trying to erase the memory of him? Of everything they had shared up until that fateful day?

Joel had found those dinosaur toys in their visit to the Wyoming Museum of Science and History for her sixteenth birthday. Ellie had been so impressed with the life-size sculpture of the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the thick woods of the museum, Joel knew she would appreciate to have those as a memento. She’d been so elated with his gift, those two miniatures had had a special place of on her bedroom’s shelves up until she moved out to the garage.

And now she had gotten rid of them, passed them on to Benji. “At least she’s not thrown them away,” Joel weighed in his mind. Had he found those in the trash… it would have dented his rugged heart even more, that muscle condemned to the forgetfulness of death.

“Uncle!” Benji jumped off the chair, running towards him with his arms extended.

Joel’s whole demeanour shifted, a ray of sunlight slipping through the cracks of his darkness. Benji was a blessing in his life, loved him as his own. His nephew would never fill the hole of his loss but softened the edges of the gaping wound in his chest.

He knelt on the creaking wooden planks, arms outstretched to give Benji a big hug. The little Miller laughed, the sound so full of life, Joel wondered when was the last time he felt so at ease, so problem-free.

“Look! Ellie gave me these!” and then Benji shot off his embrace, skipping towards the table.

Besides an almost empty plate—Benji always had an earlier dinner than the adults and already had a dinosaur-themed pyjamas on—laid the two toys that held a special place in his heart. Benji tiptoed near the table and managed to grab them before he returned to Joel, still kneeling on the floor.

“This one’s my favourite, Uncle. Ellie said it’s a Tydono… I dunno, something-saurus! Big, big dino, he was the king of the jungle! Would eat anyone in his path. And look at this one!” Benji kept on babbling, explaining everything Ellie had told him about the figurines.

Joel listened attentively, a softness tugging at the corners of his mouth. His nephew was recounting the same stories he’d chronicled for Ellie three years ago. A part of him—the one that held to a fragile shard of hope—wanted to believe that Ellie still thought fondly of him, that perhaps she didn’t hate him as much as she’d yelled.

“Benji, it’s bedtime,” Maria chipped in, entering the dining room from the kitchen. “Hi, Joel.”

“Hey,” he greeted back with a nod, eyes going back to the Brachiosaurus toy Benji was still talking about, purposefully ignoring his mom. “I can put him to sleep, read him a bedtime story.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Thanks,” Maria agreed. “But quick, I’m reheating the turkey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel agreed. “Come on, big guy.”

Joel picked Benji up, his knees and lower back loudly protesting when he stood up. Helped his nephew get into bed, read a passage of his favourite children’s book and stealthily walked out of his room when Benji drifted off. He’d enjoyed this bedtime routines with Sarah—but unlike Benji, she would get too excited about the story and ramble about it endlessly. She’d talk so much, she’d tire herself out and fall asleep halfway through a sentence.

With bated breath and an aching heart again, Joel carefully closed the door behind him with a soft click. When he arrived downstairs, Tommy was carving the last of the turkey and setting it down on a plate.

Joel reached for the dish and mumbled a “thank you” before he sat down at the table with his brother and sister-in-law. For a moment, the silence was hefty and thick, like trying to breath through a wall of water.

“Tommy said you have a new neighbour. Don’t scare her away like you did with the last one,” Maria warned him, a mighty brow cocked, looking at him over the fork she held.

Joel huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Agnes was a pain in the ass. Still is. In the span of a week, she knocked my mailbox down twice, and not by mistake,” Joel shook his head in disapproval, stuffing his mouth with the turkey.

“That’s what you said. Both times I checked, your mailbox was still standing,” Tommy butted in, a glitter of joke in his eyes.

“Because I fixed it before you came round,” he hissed, eyes averted, focused on the food.

Had he been looking up, Joel would have caught the hint of worry in Maria’s eyes. How she’d thrown a sideway glance at Tommy when she saw the bruising around his neck. How Tommy had shrugged, downplaying her concern.

Solitude is a silent storm that breaks down all our dead branches.

And the silent storm was brewing with every metal clink of cutlery. A storm Joel had been avoiding, playing ignorant to how things looked on the outside.

“How’s everything with Ellie?” Maria asked out of nowhere.

Joel’s heart plummeted to the bottom of his stomach—a strangling twist contorting his entrails when the simmering anxiety took a hold of him. But he couldn’t show it—how this all affected him, how the solitude wrecked him, playing mind games with him. As if Death was mindlessly toying with him.

“We’re good,” was his automatic answer.

“We ain’t blind, brother,” Tommy intervened. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

��Fuck everyone then and their stupid gossiping. People are fucking bored in this town if that’s the only thing they can talk about. Don’t they have anything better to worry about? We are fine,” Joel barked, throwing the fork at his plate, hand shaking. “‘S just a phase.”

“Problems don’t just resolve themselves if you don’t talk about them, Joel. They don’t disappear; they just grow bigger until they are blown out of proportion. If you need us to talk to her…” Maria offered calmly, unfazed by his sudden outburst.

“I said we are fucking okay, alright?” Joel’s tone grew louder, frustrated, the legs of his chair screeching against the wooden floor when he pushed it back to stand up. “Mind your fucking business, both of ya.”

“Hey. Watch your fucking mouth!” Tommy stood up, one hand pressed on the table while the other pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You don’t come to this house to disrespect us like that.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t come at all,” Joel gritted out, the tips of his ears hot with anger.

“Yeah, perhaps you fucking shouldn’t!”

“Both of you, calm down,” Maria spoke serenely, the only one keeping a cool demeanour. “No one is getting kicked out of our home, Tommy. You’re welcome here, Joel. We are just worried, that’s all. We don’t need to talk about it now, I’m sure you’ll come around when you’re ready.”

Just as Joel was about to reply, a gentle knock on the front door quickly dissipated the argument. Surely for the better—deep down, Joel appreciated the concern, his rage misplaced.

“I’ll get it,” Tommy muttered.

You twisted your hands resting on your lap, the loud noises of the community hall not reaching your ears at all. You were physically there, but your mind was elsewhere.

You really had tried to keep your mind busy for the rest of the day, pull out some dying weeds before running back inside to clean. But every time a task required some sort of focus, you just couldn’t do it. Your hands were too flimsy, trembling. An impending sense of doom had taken over your soul and you just couldn’t shake it off.

Joel Miller wasn’t well. So far, that was everything you knew. The whole exchange you had with him, how he became instantly defensive when you mentioned his fall… Any other person would have admitted what happened or at least downplayed if they were embarrassed. Not him, though. If your fingers had reached any closer to his neck, you were sure he would have bitten your hand off.

Perhaps he was just a grumpy old man. The type who would bark at every neighbour if they stepped on the grass or if something dropped from their back pockets, instantly accusing them of littering.

The type who would not let anyone help him, not even when he wasn’t okay. And that was what worried you the most. You had seen people falling to their demises just because they were too proud to admit they needed a hand. But his sin wasn’t pride, it was… something that was luring him into the dark. Something personal and painful. Something that was eating him alive.

A sudden noise startled you, jumping on the wooden bench, derailing your train of thought.

“Sorry!” A kid exclaimed happily, grabbing the football leaning against the leg of the bench.

You smiled at her, heart warm with memories of a life lived what seemed a century ago. A sparkle caught your eye—she was wearing a beautiful piece of jewellery around her neck, most probably a hand-me-down from a family member before the outbreak that changed everything.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay!” You replied before the girl giggled and ran away.

With a grin still curling your lips, your mind went back to the topic nagging at the back of your mind: Mister Joel Miller.

There and then, you decided you couldn’t just stand by with your arms crossed. And of course you were not about to knock on his door again, afraid he might actually kick your butt and throw you off his porch. Approaching Tommy was probably wiser, just to see if there was something you could do covertly, perhaps keeping an eye on Joel for him.

Standing up, you thanked the people around you on the table for the warm meal and waved them goodbye. A cacophony of “byes” followed suit—everyone was so nice here, it was like a blanket hugging your heart.

You stood just outside the main door, suddenly realising you didn’t know how to find Tommy. Thankfully, there was a woman smoking outside—Gail, as you found out when she introduced herself—who gave you directions to Tommy and Maria’s house when you explained to her where you wanted to go.

Wrapping yourself in your coat and securing your woolly scarf around your neck, you trudged forward through the thick blanket of fresh snow. A few minutes later you arrived at a cul-de-sac with just a handful of houses, not far from yours. Gail had said that the one you were looking for had a swing bench on the porch.

Scanning the area, you clicked your tongue when you saw it and ran towards the house—your toes were freezing in your winter boots, the cold nipping at the skin of your face. Determined with your mission, you walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

There was a rush of movement on the other side, some loud voices filtering through. Unable to make out what they were talking about, you just patiently waited for someone to open.

A minute later, Tommy appeared under the frame—a pronounced pinch on his brows, his mouth twisting angrily, as if you had inconveniently interrupted a heated argument.

Clearing your throat, you took a step back, realising this might not be the best time.

“Uh, hi, Tommy. Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I can come back lat—” you stumbled over your own words, feeling awkward and out of place.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted you by name. You were surprised he remembered, considering how many people he’d welcomed in. “Don’t worry. We were just having family dinner, you know how those go…”

You nodded with a weak smile—yes, you did. But it had been a long time since you sat around a table with your loved ones. A very long time, indeed.

“Who’s it?” A deep, husky voice inquired from the adjacent room.

You knew who it was before the booted steps betrayed his presence, your heart racing wildly in your chest as your mind tried to come up with some sort of excuse for your visit.

You gaped, a shaky sigh escaping your lips, when the source of your worries appeared behind Tommy. The reason you were here—to tell Tommy you thought Joel wasn’t okay, that he needed help. And you were doing it so behind Joel’s back.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barked bitterly, nostrils flaring and a hand on his brother’s shoulder to push him out of his way. “Huh?!”

His unrequited rage took you aback. Stepping further back, you almost lost your footing with one of the steps but managed to grab onto the handrail before you fell backwards.

Why didn’t you think of this? That Joel might be here for dinner? What were you thinking?

You stared at Joel, then at a surprised Tommy, then back at Joel, all the while you just wanted to throw up your heart at their feet.

“I asked you a goddamn question,” Joel snapped, walking out onto the porch.

Your heart sank to your stomach. He was truly pissed off at you. Perhaps rightfully so—being sneaky like this was not a good start to any friendship.

“Whoa, whoa! Calm the fuck down, where are your fucking manners?!” Tommy quickly intervened, grabbing at his brother’s shoulder and pushing him back away from you. “What’s wrong with you today?!”

Your eardrums throbbed with the increased blood pressure, your heart pumping violently in your chest. You knew you had erred, but didn’t deserve such dreadful treatment—your intentions were pure, coming from a good place. You just wanted to help, make sure that Joel was surrounded by a loving support system.

As your mind raced and the two brothers confronted each other, Maria, Tommy’s partner, made an appearance. Her aura almost instantly put you at ease, her presence calming.

“Can the both of you keep quiet? You’re gonna wake Benji up,” she scolded them, stepping between the Millers before her eyes found yours. “What’s the matter?” she asked you with a smile, offering you a hand to walk inside with them.

You glanced at both Joel and Tommy, who were obviously locked in on each other, then back at Maria. Letting go of the handrail you were holding onto for dear life, you gestured with your hands.

“It’s nothing. Just a clogged pipe at home, nothing of importance. I can come back tomorrow so you can point me in the direction of someone who can help,” you stumbled over your own words. “I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll leave you guys be.”

“Nonsense,” Maria said, stepping aside to let you in. “Come on in, we were about to have dessert. We’ll send someone first thing tomorrow to help you out.”

“I’m going. M’not hungry,” Joel mumbled, jaw tight like a bow.

Was he leaving because he didn’t want to be in the same room as you? Did he despise you that much with so little interaction? You two had really started off on the wrong foot.

“Don’t be a child, Joel. I’ve got my hands full with Benji already. You’re having dessert too. Let’s go,” Maria reprimanded him, and you felt bad for forcing this situation onto him.

“I can go…”

“No, you’re staying. Everyone’s staying,” and with those final, indisputable words, Tommy, Joe and you followed Maria inside.

The house was warm, the smell inviting—cinnamon mixed with vanilla lingered in the air. The soft orangey shadow the lamps and ceiling lights casted was very comforting, pleasant to the eye. When you followed Maria’s lead into the dining room, you spied some toys scattered on an empty spot on the table. This wasn’t a house, it was a home. Lived in, cared for, full of life. Of hope too—Jackson was a permanent stronghold, a place where families could settle and blossom.

“Any allergies?” Maria asked you, tipping her head towards the empty chair besides Joel in invitation.

“No, none.”

You hesitated, Joel’s discomfort radiating off him, enveloping you. But considering there were no other empty chairs, you had no other option than to sit next to him.

Maria left the room, quickly followed by Tommy. You could hear them bickering in whispers because the silence between Joel and you was loud. Your hands nervously twisted on your lap, deciding whether to apologise or just put the matter to rest.

Before you could make up your mind, Maria and Tommy returned. The younger Miller was carrying a tray with some delicious cinnamon rolls, while Maria set down some porcelain mugs on the table.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Her hospitality was touching, especially considering the state of the world outside Jackson’s palisade. You’d only encountered hatred and greed out there, a thirst for power so potent and pungent it would consume a human’s soul within seconds. Jackson and its people felt… different—neighbourly, kind, altruistic. The town seemed to run smoothly.

Maria and you did your best to fill the silence with chitchat once you’d relaxed a little. On the other hand, the brothers appeared to be in some sort of mean staring contest between themselves. Which, truth be told, made you feel a tad better—perhaps Joel wasn’t really mad at you but at Tommy, and you just happened to be in the crossfire.

“Yeah, of course I would like to help,” you said instantly when Maria mentioned that they were one person down on tomorrow’s afternoon patrol. “I’ve been out there for longer than I care to admit, I know my way around this area too.”

“Perfect. Joel’s patrol partner is in the infirmary with a fever. I was going to cancel it but if you don’t mind joining him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

You almost choked on the last bite of cinnamon roll, which you had to force down by sipping on your tea. Being on patrol with Joel did not sound appealing at all—not because you would be uncomfortable, but because you knew he would.

“Listen—” Joel began to complain, but as soon as Maria shot a warning glance at him, he stopped right in his tracks. “Alright.”

“It’s settled then,” Maria concluded with finality, she wasn’t going to let Joel argue with her.

Fifteen minutes later, you were saying your goodbyes to the Millers and thanking them for having you. When the door closed behind you, you ventured a bashful look in Joel’s direction.

“We don’t need to walk together,” you gave him a way out of this uncomfortable situation.

“You want to walk the streets alone at night?” Joel questioned, raising a thick, silvery brow.

“Do I have something to worry about?”

“As idyllic as Jackson is, not every single one of us are saints.”

The veiled truth behind his words confirmed what you suspected—Joel didn’t see himself as one of the “good guys”, as worthy of the tranquillity this town offered. How much truth there was to that… you’d only have to unearth it yourself.

“Do… do I need to worry about being alone with you then?”

“What? No,” his reaction was instantaneous. His eyes had widened when his brain caught up with his own words. “Fuck, no. That’s not what I meant. I just— Well, you shouldn’t trust someone just because they are from Jackson.”

“It’s okay, Joel.” A little smile had softened your lips, his mortification somewhat endearing. “We can walk together. I trust you, I think.”

Joel hmphed but didn’t oppose. In silence you walked, but this time wasn’t as excruciating as you had feared. Perhaps he was a man of few words, and that was okay. You understood that when there was nothing of importance to say, it was better to remain silent.

Arriving at your street, your paths parted when it was time to hide in your respective homes. But before you disappeared through your door, you turned around.

Joel was standing in the middle of the road, watching you go up the steps of your porch—as if he was making sure you were getting home safely. When he found himself caught, Joel shoved his hands in the pockets of his furry coat and veered.

“Joel?” You waited for him to face you. “I’m sorry. I know how that looked like, but I wasn’t trying to… I just, you know—”

“It’s okay. I overreacted. Hope they can sort out the pipe for you tomorrow. Don’t be late for patrol,” and with that warning, he trudged forward through the snow and climbed up the steps of his porch.

You pouted—he’d misunderstood. You meant to apologise, “I wasn’t trying to go behind your back. I just worry unnecessarily, I’m sorry I overstepped your boundaries.” But he didn’t give you a chance.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed the door open and locked it behind your back. There had to be something in this house you could block a pipe with, so the plumber’s trip wouldn’t be in vain.

It gnawed at him—how you cheerfully tried to make some small talk while the only thing he could do was grunt and huff in response. Joel wasn’t trying to be rude on purpose, he just didn’t enjoy the proximity of humanity anymore. Not that he had been a big fan of socialisation in the past anyway, but since losing almost everyone he held dear, Joel didn’t see the appeal in connecting with someone else.

And after his confrontation with Tommy, the abyss separating him from the rest of the world just cracked further apart. Everything he touched, died—not everything, but everyone. As if Death was chasing after him, patiently waiting to claim him.

Death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws.

Joel was tired of this waiting game. Wanted it over, to be put to rest. Besides Sarah’s grave back in their Austin home. He’d even dared to put those thoughts into words a few days ago.

As soon as the ink had dried on the parchment, Joel had regretted it—asking such a thing from Tommy was cruel, evil. Selfish. But deep down, it was his dying wish; he truly believed that his bones wouldn’t find solace sitting alone six feet under, that Sarah’s presence would sooth the ache he’d left behind in this world.

He’d also written a note to Ellie. But that one… it wrecked his soul just remembering it—how the tears had blurred his vision, some falling onto the paper, smudging his calligraphy. All the things he wished to say when the silence between them would stretch, the unspoken, broken words that would hang in the void, pestering and rotting what little was left of their bond.

Did he hide them well?

“Do you like to read?” your question caught him off guard. “I saw you with a book when I met you yesterday.”

Joel looked at you askance, riding beside him. Blinking rapidly and watching his twelve, he’d hoped you hadn’t noticed the dampness in his eyes—the only visible tale of his agony.

“Mhm, sometimes,” Joel conceded, sharpening his senses to ensure the surroundings were safe.

“Anything you’ve read lately?” you insisted, your mare coming too close to his horse, rubbing necks together, neighing softly.

His stallion didn’t appreciate the caress, pulling from the reins and swaying away. The subtlety of the animals’ exchange didn’t go unnoticed by any of you, your expression wavering for a moment—were you so hurt too when he openly rejected your hand yesterday afternoon?

“Easy, Old Beardy,” Joel whispered, leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck. When the animal calmed down, he straightened his back and gave you a stern nod. “Yeah. Been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. Dunno if you’ve heard of it.”

“Are you kidding?” your hearty laugh piqued his interest, a frown creasing his brows. “I love Gabrial García Márquez’s writing. My favourite book is Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Have you read it?”

“‘M afraid not,” was his succinct reply.

You were insistent, he’d give you that.

“Oh, I have a copy you can borrow. It’s been with me since, well, all of this happened,” you gestured around you. “While I was working in my family’s garden center, I was also getting my degree in literature. My thesis was going to be about Gabo’s writing, actually.”

“You didn’t finish?”

“The outbreak happened in my third year. Didn’t have a chance,” your excitement died off with your words, a pout painted on your lips.

“Sorry,” he apologised, even though he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with losing the life I had before that ominous day.”

You’d made your peace. What an alien thought—one Joel couldn’t grasp. It’d take a very strong, determined person to let go of the tethers of the past. Perhaps you were braver than him, at least on the outside.

Was he the only one who crumbled to his knees whenever the memories flooded back? Had age weakened him? Broken him past mending?

“Anyways, about the book you’ve been reading! There are so many beautiful passages in there. Any favourites so far?”

You were assuming he’d only read it once, but reality was, he’d lost count.

“Yeah, uhm…” Joel cleared his throat, the words coming back to him as if he’d been mentally reciting them for weeks. “He felt himself forgotten, not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart, but with a different kind of forgetfulness, which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death.”

He should have thought before that quote slipped. To anyone, it’d have been a quirky answer, a dark one at that. But you, it seemed, had picked up on the sadness of his heartfelt delivery—how it spoke more about himself than he’d ever admit—because the silence that followed was telling, consuming.

“It… it is a beautiful quote,” you whispered, and Joel felt the full weight of your eyes on him. “The forgetfulness of death is what we all are condemned to if we don’t nudge a dent on the people we leave behind when we pass. Is that…?”

Joel raised a hand, signalling to halt.

A faint sound that he’d grown too familiar to—a clicking, throaty call. Subtle, but enough to make his senses flare, the hair on the back of his neck stand. As far as Joel could tell, it might only be one, but the noise the clicker emitted could summon others.

Reeling your mount closer to his, you listened in silence. And when Joel’s eyes searched for yours, you gave him an understanding nod.

“We’re too close to Jackson,” you muttered.

“Yeah, gotta take care of it before it becomes a bigger problem,” Joel dismounted Old Beardy and you followed suit, tying both horses to a rail guarding the dilapidated building you both were circumventing. “Go right, sweep the area. Make sure there’re no others. I’ll go left.”

You didn’t question his decision—the alertness in your orbs bright enough to make him understand you’d encountered hundreds of clickers. Your body language had shifted too, your stance stiffer, your shoulders squared as you unsheathed a knife from your belt.

He did the same and turned around, hunting knife on hand.

The building was a wooden structure, possibly an old shed for the farmland besides it. The wood had rotten, blackened with the passage of time. The ceiling was half collapsed, an outbuilding with barn doors attached to the side.

The clicking became clearer as Joel sauntered towards the outbuilding, fingers clutching around the hilt. Crouching a little, his free hand caressed the O-shaped rusty handle and pulled, taking a step back to put some distance between himself and the threat.

A woman laid among the mouldy straw, wriggling in pain. She was in the first stages of the infection, at the point where one could still see their humanity. She had greying brown hair, wavy and long.

It wasn’t her suffering what froze him in place, but her eyes. In the darkness of the shed, they were green as a blooming meadow. The same eyes he’d woken up to for thirteen years—Tess’s. The similarities were striking, like a dagger of the past staring right at him.

Since Tess’s death, Joel had drowned the memories of her, locked them away in a godforsaken drawer of his mind and threw away the key. Because he’d never done good by her—never said what she really meant to him, how she kept his mind cool and his path straight. And in the decade they’d spent together, Joel never dared to say the three words that would have settled their relationship. Never told her how much he cared for her either—because he was a man of acts of service, wasn’t eloquent enough with the spoken word.

And then she died, sacrificing herself for the greater good, for him and Ellie to escape unscathed. Succumbed to clickers alone, with no one by her side. Without a chance to right the wrong he’d carried in his soul, his heart.

Had she known? Joel regretted never whispering an “I love you” when she’d fallen asleep in his embrace. Never opened up to her—his feelings too messed up, entangled with a fear of loss, with a caution he’d learnt after losing Sarah. Because he’d thought that if he ever said the words out loud, Joel would lose Tess. Because everyone he touched, died.

And that wasn’t the worst part, not telling her how much she meant to him. It was how Joel had stepped back away from her when she walked towards him after becoming infected, how he’d built a wall to guard his own sanity, without considering how Tess must have felt. How she’d whispered “oops, right?” to hide her own hurt at his rejection.

“I never asked you for anything. Not to feel the way I felt—”

How his breath had hitched after muttering a breathless negative. “No, you didn’t have to ask, Tess. I do feel the same way. You mean the world to me—we’ve been together for thirteen years. How could I not?”

But instead he’d been too stunted to speak, to voice his feelings, to crack the dam he’d been hiding behind for so many years.

“Joel, save who you can save,” and with that, he’d grabbed Ellie and got the fuck out. Didn’t even hesitate, didn’t mutter a goodbye, didn’t look back—his protective instinct taking over, needing to take Ellie to safety.

It still haunted him. Wrecked him even to only think about how he’d wronged her till the very end. He was a bastard, deserving of all the bad things that had happened so far. This was the universe’s retribution for all his wrongdoing.

The woman’s head snapped around in his direction, a deep clicking sound reverberating in her chest. Slowly she got up, dragging one of her feet along the straw, head tilting sideways in an unnatural, mechanical way.

And Joel simply froze. Was this poetic justice? How he was supposed to die? Perhaps it was—the end would most definitely be fitting. It was what he deserved. For being emotionally stunt, for being selfish, for being a coward, for being a murderer. For existing in this world and feeding into its malice. For being a part of the problem.

His shallow breath caught, a flood of memories drowning him—everyone he lost, appearing in front of his eyes like a grotesque newsreel. It felt like a heavy stone was crushing his chest, his lungs constrained within his ribs, his heart pounding fiercely while sweat gathered atop of his brows. Panic bubbling, clouding his mind to a point where Joel couldn’t think straight anymore.

The clicker approached, and this time, he didn’t step back away from her—from Tess. Joel dropped the knife, the woman snarling at him, his eyes shutting close.

The prospect of dying wasn’t daunting, but strangely soothing, his heartrate slowing down. Welcomed.

“Joel? Joel!”

A commotion took him back to the present—you had decked the clicker to the floor, the hilt of your knife gruesomely protruding out of her temple.

Joel blinked—not in relief, but gutted at the lost chance. The irreversibility of such a death would have been a balsam to the open wounds of his soul.

You got up to your feet and threw yourself at him, blissfully unaware of the situation. Or so he thought. You enveloped him in a crushing hug—your warmth seeping through the thick fabric of your coat, reaching his bones.

“Oh my God, Joel. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Has it bit you?” you stumbled over your own words, frantic with a rush of adrenaline.

Your hands patted his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest—your eyes wild with worry, searching for any sign of an infected wound. Inspecting him from head to toe, with a concern he’d not seen in someone’s eyes ever before.

Your eyes finally focused on his face and, for whatever reason, they darkened. Your eyebrows lifted into your forehead, the sadness washing over your features was a heartbreaking sight. As if you cared about him—a complete stranger who had only been rude to you, kept you at arm’s length.

“Joel,” you whispered, your ungloved hand raising up to his face.

This time, he didn’t retreat, still coming to terms with the fact that today he wouldn’t yield to the forgetfulness of death.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, a slow, sweet motion as your lips fell into a thin line, a sorrowful pout curling your mouth.

“Joel, why are you crying? What’s the matter?” you uttered, voice tinged with an anxiety he was feeling deep down in his aching bones.

Joel hadn’t realised the sheer magnitude of his emotions until then. Until your fingertips became wet from his unwanted tears. Then it hit him—not the sadness, but the anger.

“I ain’t crying,” he barked, taking a few steps back, the warmth of your hug turning cold. Running the inside of his elbow through his face, Joel turned away from you. “‘S nothing. I’m fine.”

You looked at him doe-eyed, but with a resolution he feared. You shortened the distance he had imposed, getting dangerously close to him, open hands reaching towards him.

“I said I’m fine!” he shouted at you, losing his composure. “What’s the fucking matter with all of you?! Why doesn’t it register in your fucking brains that I want to be left alone, huh? Is it so fucking difficult to comprehend? Are you fucking stupid or are you just pretending to be? God fucking dammit.”

He snarled like the animal he was—like a scared dog cornered, barking and showing teeth, because he dreaded the gentle hand that approached him.

Dreaded falling to his knees and breaking down in front of you, of anyone.

Dreaded opening the dams of his demons and not being able to herd them back inside.

Dreaded that once he spoke the words out loud, they would only be truer.

His heart was racing again, the vein in his neck bulging, blind with a misplaced rage you didn’t deserve. Deep down, he knew you didn’t. But his fear was louder than his reasoning.

Your whole expression folded, taking a step back away from him. Had Joel been the animal he thought himself to be, he would have smelt your fear. But he didn’t need to—the light behind your eyes dimmed, like a lighthouse running out of power in the middle of a stormy night.

You managed to hide your face from him, veering around without a word to head towards the horses.

Only then Joel realised he’d fucked up. He’d mistakenly taken his fury out on you. He wasn’t mad at you―damn, he wasn’t mad at anyone except himself. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Twice in a row.

“Hey,” Joel called out walking towards you, tone softer with remorse. You quickly glanced at him over your shoulder before your head snapped back to the horse. This time, your eyes transpired no emotion. “Look—”

“I got the message loud and clear, Joel,” you cut him off coldly, getting on your horse. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go back.”

You didn’t wait for him, trotting away before he could get on Old Beardy.

“Fuck,” he groaned under his breath, shaking the reins to catch up with you.

taglist: @wow-life-love4 @denisanoemi @wencontre @ccmoonshine @mystickittytaco @peelieblue @guelyury @marisemonteiroo @fangirlcentral1 @layaispunk @brittmb115 @mrsbilicablog @thedilfdiaries @eff4freddie @missadangel @moel-jiller @sunnytuliptime @queenofdisaster12 @lizzie-cakes @pedrofan @ladywraith @jessthebaker @readingiskeepingmegoing @aleariixx @anoverwhelmingdin @prose-before-hoes

[leighsartworks216]

Understanding

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

I DIDN'T FORGET TO POST THIS ON THURSDAY!!! I found updating on Thursdays actually a horrible idea considering it's one of my busiest days of the week, so I'm shifting to post on Saturdays now. Sorry for anyone who was looking forward to an update then and didn't see one <333

Warnings: none that I know of, but lmk if I missed something

Word Count: 1,910

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You’re scared to leave your room the next day. Not for fear of being hurt… or worse, surprisingly enough. You spent all night (day? It’s hard to keep track of time here) organizing your thoughts and morals. You couldn’t rest until you figured them out, and you were awake still long after, figuring out what to say to him.

With a deep breath and a quick run-through of the script you put together, you follow the rocky walls through the lair. You feel like a child again, trying to sneak out of the temple. As though any moment you’ll be caught and forced to recite hymns to atone for your mischief.

Your search for the fiend is made easy when you hear the quiet clink of metal hitting each other. It leads you to the treasure room, far more echoey than any other room you’ve been to thus far and with air that doesn’t feel as condensed.

Something is tossed into a pile of coins. You can hear them sliding down the side, scraping over one another before coming to rest on the floor. And again.

“Are you… organizing?”

The coins still and you’re left in the silence. You can just barely hear his breathing, the swish of air around the tail you’ve seen in your visions.

“You…” You inhale, trying to find the words you rehearsed to yourself over and over again, lost somewhere in the aether, never to return. “I don’t think you’re… as much of a monster as you make yourself out to be.”

He chuckles humorlessly. You startle at the sound. “No? How come, pet? Is it not in my nature to desecrate the world and its innocents? Is it not destiny that makes me maim?” Something is lifted from one pile and tossed into another with a loud clatter.

You clear your throat. Destiny is a complicated topic, one that has no tried and true answer. Thinking such is blasphemous in itself. You banish the thought quickly before you call down Astra’s ire upon you.

“You said they were trying to kill you. If that is the truth, then you are the innocent here. Everyone will do anything in their power to save their own life, even if that means taking another.” You exhale unevenly. “As far as I’m concerned, their lives were forfeit as soon as they encroached on your…” You gesture vaguely around. “Home.”

“Does your god share your opinion?”

A weak laugh jostles out of you. “Probably not,” you admit. You swallow nervously. “I’m sure He’ll let me know if He doesn’t. But He doesn’t speak for me, and I can only speak so much of His will into existence. Whether He likes it or not, I have beliefs outside of Him, and I believe that you’re not as unredeemable and unforgivable as the stories say… If you were, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Your heart thuds uncomfortably in your chest as you wait for any sort of response from him. Maybe you said something wrong, somewhere, somehow, and made things worse. Maybe calling him innocent was an insult, a miscommunication between dragons and mortals, blindly overstepped. But you wait. You listen.

Slowly, you hear him moving again. “Come here.”

For a moment, you think he’s calling you over so he can kill you, strip your bones and discard you with the rest. You force that assumption down, despite how tempting it sounds to get the hell out of there. You wouldn’t get very far anyway.

Carefully, you step further into the room. You have to abandon the reassurance of the doorway in favor of wide open space. Sliding your feet across the floor, you’re careful not to step on anything, with your arms outstretched to feel for anything solid. Some ways from the door, something hard and strong wraps around your waist and drags you to the side. You jump, yelping uncertaintly as you’re nudged to sit down on something plush and soft. It’s unlike anything else you’ve felt around the tunnels.

“I am organizing,” he confirms, as though your outpouring of sympathy never happened. “You can sit here while I do.”

You hesitantly, curiously, feel the plush cushion. It’s almost velvety beneath your fingers, if not a bit rough. “How long has this been here?”

It’s rhetorical, but you hear him chuckle. “Long before you got here, oracle.”

You try not to show your surprise at the new nickname for you. Anything aside from “pet” is greatly welcomed. It does more to ease your nerves than anything else he could have chosen to say.

“Speaking of which, any new insights on your prophecy?”

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten all about it. “Not especially,” you say, “though you being a fiend does answer some of my questions.”

More clinking metal. Rather than being thrown, it sounds like it was carefully placed on the floor. “How so?”

“Your appearance, primarily. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

“‘Seen’? Did you forget you’re blind, or have you lost your wits in the short time you’ve been here?”

You laugh. Ah, right, he’s never met a Chosen before. You find a back to the furniture you sit on. It’s wooden and intricate. You adjust to lean up against it, legs stretched out along the rest of the cushion. It feels heavenly after days of sleeping on hard rock. “No, I’m as sane as I can be. It’s how I receive the prophecies from Astra; he plays the events in my mind and I can see them actually played out before me as I sleep.”

He hmphs. Something heavy shifts across the floor. “That’s a bit cruel.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long have you been blind?”

“Um, my whole life. I was born this way.”

“And yet he dangles the gift of sight before you every time you need to relay the future. You’d think a god like him could find a better way to do so.”

You pick at the cloth on your hands. “I… I have no comment.”

“Do you miss it when you wake up? Being able to see?”

Do you? You’ve become so intimately accustomed to it, you don’t think about it anymore. Being allowed to see prophecies in such a unique way has become so detached from your blindness; you can’t seem to reconcile them together anymore. The waking world and the world of dreams are two separate entities, incomparable.

“I guess I just don’t think about it once I’ve woken up,” you choose to say.

“Do you wish you could see?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation, no doubt. You feel his eyes on you as you smile. “For all the hardships and struggles, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Do you wish you weren’t a dragon?”

He scoffs, amused, but a sour note lingers. He doesn’t answer. You suspect he may just wish such a thing.

You undo the messy knot in the cloth around your left hand and begin to unwrap it. Your hands don’t hurt anymore, so perhaps they’ve healed? Either way, these things probably need to be changed out. You clear your throat. “I don’t know much about dragons. Nothing that I’d consider trustworthy information, anyway.”

“What have you heard?”

“The usual: fiends are terrifying beasts that feed on human flesh and steal innocent girls for their own pleasure. They have huge lairs full of gold and priceless treasures.” You set the first wrap aside and begin working on the second. “The lair and hoard are true, I would assume, since…” You gesture around.

“Yes, those are true,” he laughs. You hear his footsteps getting closer. “I can’t say anything for my appearance, but we don’t eat human flesh. I’m sure some of us have stolen girls in the past. As for myself, you’re the first mortal I’ve brought back here.”

“What do you eat?” You can’t recall hearing him eat anything since you arrived. Even from afar, you could usually pinpoint the distinct chewing sounds, as unpleasant as they are. And for how many skeletons you stumbled upon yesterday…

He doesn’t respond right away. His steps stop in front of you, halting your wrapping as you wait for what will happen next. You nearly startle when his voice returns beside your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin and drawing goosebumps along your arms against your will. “Human souls,” he says. You think he’s smirking. He sounds far too amused. “The bones you found. They’re from hunters who come to kill me. Thieves who try to claim my treasures. I ate their souls.”

You swallow. “Will you eat mine?”

He chuckles as he backs away, speaking to you face to face. “Would you like me to?”

“No,” you answer sharply.

“Then I won’t.”

“I assume this is a very rare special treatment, not extended to others.”

“As curious as I am to know what an oracle’s soul tastes like,” he teases with a mournful sigh. “Let me see your hands.”

You finish unwrapping your right hand. The cloth drops into a pile with the other, and you hold both your hands in front of you, palms up. Something hard and sharp holds the back of your hands, startling you. They leave for a second, before holding them again.

“Are those… your hands?”

He hums an affirmative. He tilts your hands from side to side, examining the old injuries you sustained. “They’ve healed well,” he says, sounding impressed. “I guess I was wrong to underestimate you.”

You huff a laugh. “I told you! The people in the city are rough; even I picked up some things here and there for my own sake. I probably wouldn’t have been able to run away if I hadn’t been just a little resourceful.”

“You’re getting cocky now, oracle. Mind your head doesn’t get too big and fall from your shoulders.” He lets go of your hands. Something flicks your forehead. You grab it before he can fully pull away.

It’s sharp and tough, with ridges and plating coming together to form gauntlet-like fingers and a rough palm. He doesn’t take his hand back. You can feel his eyes watching you, staring you down like a bird of prey, but your curiosity fends off the embarrassment.

When you find his wrist, you think maybe you’ll find soft skin. Instead, it’s just more hard plating, as high up as you dare to feel. It’s cold, texture akin to a beetle’s shell. You hold the back of his hand in your palm, as he’d just done to you, and trace the other overtop. A small heart shape catches your attention. You follow its contour a few times, before lightly feeling up the lengths of his fingers. The tips are pointed, enough that if you dared press any harder, they’d surely break through your skin and draw blood.

“Why did you run away?” he asks, voice reduced to a low rumble.

You release his hand. “Astra gave me a prophecy that they didn’t like,” you explain matter-of-factly. Though, maybe he can see the sorrow that crosses your face. “It’s not the first time, but this one predicted the coming of doomsday. It topped the pile of bad prophecies, tipped the scale too far, and they decided I was the one wishing doom on their families. I heard them talking wherever I went, plotting to kill me at dawn’s first light, as a sacrifice to appease Astra. So, I ran.”

“Just the messenger, right?”

“Precisely.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @m0onfl0x @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @leiakitty

[axolotsofluv]

❝𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐥❞ [𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐫. 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

a/n: My fixation on this man is no joke. I think I might organize my blog in the future, tinker with my previous posts a bit. Just so that it'll be clean and consistent. Here are more crumbs for the ratio nation. Please excuse any writing errors. Enjoy (^._.^)ﾉ☆

synopsis — the curiosity of Ratio's fellow colleagues are piqued when they see him greeting the arrival of a woman in the rain.

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

❥ pairing: veritas ratio x reader

❥ tags: humor, romance, fluff, domesticity, rain, acts of service, established relationship, ratio x reader

❥ song inspo: this will be (an everlasting love) by natalie cole

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

The first crackle of thunder dawns onto the gray sky. A canvas once splashed in a vibrant blue hue now benighted by the overcast clouds that heralded a promise of howling winds, torrential rainfall, deafening thunderclap and a potential power outage that would forcibly reel people out of their plane of escapism to face the true horrors of reality.

Ratio finds himself immersed in conversation with a couple of his colleagues. The topic doesn't deviate much from their field of specialty, an idiosyncrasy that clings to them like a second skin—the insatiable ache to always engage in academic discourse no matter the time or place. As much as the doctor often laments about the influx of idiots in his workplace, there are a few moments in between the mediocrity when an idle conversation is shown to have yet blossom into a fruitful exchange.

Researchers and staff members trickle in and out of the establishment, carrying with them an air of haste untouched by the turbulent gloom of the weather. Everyone resume their activities as usual, paying no mind to the rain rapidly pelting the pavement nor did they bat an eye when a burst of light emerge in stripes from above.      

Ratio makes himself comfortable in the couch stationed near the receptionist while his colleagues follow suit, occupying the seats across from him. Terminologies and technical terms flow from their lips in surges, pooling into a fountain that will no doubt confound any passersby. As engrossed as Ratio looks with the conversation at hand, the two men with him can still pick up on the discreet glances he throws at the entrance, as though awaiting for a particular arrival.

"Doctor, forgive me for prying, but is something on your mind?"

Ratio shakes his head, remorse adorned in the lines of his frown and furrowed brows. "Not at all. Apologies, gentlemen. It is not my intention to appear absentminded."

The easygoing one out of the crowd raises a hand in dismissal. "Oh, no. We're not upset, doctor. We were just wondering if you're waiting for something. A letter, perhaps? You seem to receive them often."

Again, Ratio shakes his head again, schooling his expression into his default mien of refined composure. "It's nothing. Let's continue our discussion, shall we? You were just about to elaborate on the mechanisms behind one of your recent projects."

"I would be more than happy to indulge in your curiosity, but should we move elsewhere? The break room, perhaps. It might provide for a more conducive environment than here in the lobby," another suggests and is swiftly met with a chorus of agreement. Except it isn't unanimous, as noted in Ratio's pointed stare at the automatic sliding doors.

The chatters turn abysmal at his distracted state. The stretch of silence dispels his deep rumination, and with a dignified cough, Ratio redirects his attention back to his entourage. "Please, you may go ahead. I'm still... waiting for someone."

If Ratio isn't as abstinent as he is towards public emotional outbursts, he would have burst into laughter at the expressions on his colleagues' faces that all embodied different forms of surprise.

"Waiting for... someone?" One of them parrots back with a bewilderment reminiscent of their early days as a naive, clueless student before becoming a renowned expert in their field.

To this, the erudite doctor hums affirmatively.

The group of colleagues share a look with one another, engaging in a telepathic dispute regarding who would be chosen—or in other words, sacrificed—to ask for elaboration with the high chance of being castigated for their nosy tendencies.

Eventually, the easygoing one concedes. "A-And... Who is this someon—"

Divine intervention befalls onto this willing volunteer as Ratio disregards him entirely, standing up with an unusual disconcerted demeanor. The group devotes their undivided attention to the scurrying figure of Veritas Ratio as he passes the front entrance and grasps the shoulders of someone clad in a raincoat. The umbrella in their hand is extricated, cast aside like a pesky gnat swatted away. Ratio's hands lower the hood, and the sight of a woman nearly sends one of the older ones in the group into cardiac arrest. 

As if the sight of Ratio within close proximity to a woman isn't mind boggling enough, the group takes notice of the woman's appearance, her bare feet, a plastic containing a pair of clean shoes in one hand, and a gray insulated lunch bag in the other. The bits and pieces of information they procured via observation is solid enough to conclude that whoever this mysterious woman is, she weathered the dreadful conditions, risked getting herself sick and struck by lightning, all to deliver someone's lunch. 

"Would you mind telling me why on earth you're walking in the middle of the rain?" The volume of Ratio's voice put even the heavy downpour to shame. 

"I promised you I'd bring you lunch," the woman responds with a nervous chuckle, raising the bag for emphasis—or perhaps to shield herself. 

Not even she is immune to the doctor's scathing personality. 

"I can see that." He guides her to one of the few remaining chairs that were unscathed from the ferocious attack of the torrential rain, his hand pilfering the insulated bag from hers as he makes sure she is properly seated before finally resuming his reproachful tirade. "But that does not explain why you travelled all the way here without a vehicle."

She opens her mouth, but the doctor is quick to interject. 

"No, don't think that a cheeky response will ameliorate this scenario nor will it distract me from the issue at hand. Yes, I brought the car with me, but last I checked, you can order a ride with your phone." 

Left without ammunition, the woman slumps in her seat. 

The weather does little to assuage the tension, merely serving to heighten the severity of Ratio's ire as lightning strikes the sky with impeccable timing. It's as if the heaven above is attuned to this genius' emotions and decides to enact the simmering aggravation at the sight of her having to brave the storm for no good reason. 

"So?" He prods with crossed arms. 

"The price tends to spike up in rainy weathers," she murmurs. "Not to mention, the demands for cars become high as well so either I have to wait a long time to get someone to accept my order or I have to raise the price to have my order prioritized."

Ratio's eyes narrow into slits. "That doesn't answer my question. Why didn't you do it? If you're required to spend more money than usual, then just do so."

"But the money—"

"—is something I have enough of." His glare intensifies exponentially at the flimsy rebuttal of a resource that he deems is far from scarce. It is only when the woman glances down sheepishly does he let the scorching embers of his previous annoyance gradually flicker into oblivion. "Listen... I appreciate your sensibility and aversion to excessive spending, but this is unreasonable. In a bid to maintain your frugal stance, you would risk travelling by foot with nothing but your raincoat and a single umbrella to combat the weather and temperature."

"I took a bus here. I didn't walk from home completely," she mumbles out. The retaliation flees her lips like a frail defense of a cornered debater. What is she even thinking? Actively engaging in a dispute with the man who religiously participates in educational discourse with numerous individuals who share his perspicacity.

Sure enough, those sharp amber hues narrow in disapproval, and if his raised shoulders denote anything, then it's definitely a sign that he's ready to tear her argument apart.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And yet here you are. Drenched. Trembling like kitten dumped in cold water."

A diminutive noise resembling an apology flutters from her downturned lips. 

As the last traces of anger dissipate, Ratio finally regards her with clemency. "You act as if I don't provide for you." Crimson-gold irises scrutinize the stray droplet cascading down her cheek, the sight compelling him to brush it away instantly with a gentle swipe of his thumb. He lowers himself to meet her eyes, his body assuming a kneeling position.

Ratio's colleagues, who are still very much eavesdropping on the conversation, tune out the interaction that follows. The drastic shift in his attitude fries their brains to the point of causing static noise to fill in their heads—a medium utilized to conjure theories, conflate ideas, and bring said ideas to fruition now pushed to disarray when they see the notorious sharp-tongued scholar acting so... tender. The woman's expression contorts into one of bewilderment, and despite not being able to make out much of her words, they're able to use context clues to surmise that she must be fussing over Ratio dirtying his slacks.

The brief intimate moment fizzles out quickly though, as any traces of tenderness on Ratio's face evaporates.

"Now, take out your phone and order a cab." His tone reverts to the default strident tone he often uses, and he can be seen tapping away on the phone in her clutch. "There. Confirm it. No, I will not accept your protests this time. I have the money; use it."

"O-Okay..." Her finger hovers above the screen, but it doesn't match the speed in which he expects her to move. 

"Don't you dare stall, [name]. Confirm the order. Now."

"I am, I am! Here! Look, it's confirmed!"

A colleague snickers at the spectacle before him, watching the woman frantically fidgeting with the phone while Ratio supervises her from behind. "Now, why does this look like a hostage situation?" He takes a slow sip of his coffee.

"I'm pretty sure this is how the doctor normally acts." Another shakes their head in commiseration for the frazzled woman who is now being on the receiving end of what appears to be an on-brand tongue-lashing from the Veritas Ratio. 

A snort is all they got in response, accompanied by another slow sip.

"Does this mean you're not going to accept my lunch?" Ratio tears away his gaze from his blatantly eavesdropping colleagues to spare her a glimpse, catching the dejection that floods her face.

He shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous. I might not be keen on your method of delivering this meal, but that doesn't mean I will waste perfectly good food."

Hearing that, the woman gives him a slow nod. His palm that lays on her knee acts as a thawing agent to the frigid surface of her skin. With a smile now adorning her visage, she tucks her fingers under his hesitant ones, silently urging him to set aside his inhibitions. Their gazes meet briefly, and oddly enough, Ratio is the first one to shy away with a visible gulp.

Before the moment can blossom any further than that, a vehicle pulls up to the front of the lobby, and Ratio takes it as his cue to escort the woman to the door. His colleagues decide that there is enough surprise for the day, when they happen to catch her waving at Ratio without signs of stopping even after the car has moved. She's already out of sight before anyone can articulate the confusion her very presence evokes. 

Ratio returns to the assembly of wide-eyed spectators, the lunch box in hand, with a countenance that seems lax enough to be labelled as "bliss".

"We have dawdled long enough. I don't have anymore business here, so let's move to the break room at once, shall we?"

"Uh..." One of them reclaims their composure before they can even formulate anything coherent. "Dr. Ratio... Forgive me for being forward, but who was that?"

This august genius, undeterred by the opinions of common people and unswayed by the menial desires of men, ever so austere yet ever so snide, turns to the one who voiced that query. 

"My wife." Then, he strides away. 

No one left with a cardiac arrest that day, but someone did leave with hot coffee sprayed on their face. 

[kabr0ztrousers]

I fucking love when you do Portals, if you’re not bored already with this topic may i ask another? i’ll be waiting in your queue🥰🫦

Kabr0z Writes episode 92: Communion

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Portals; freeuse; CNC; religious mentions and ceremony; public sex; exhibitionism;

A/N: I was actually struggling for inspiration today... Whatever would I do to make sure I'm not retreading old ground. Thankfully the algorithm came to my rescue while scrolling for inspiration. Is it blasphemy? It's certainly not respectful.

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These were rapidly becoming your favourite underwear. After the coffee shop? Then that "issue" with tuning them between connections? Best sex of your life. The only issue is, after all that, however would you top it?

That's the question that plagued you as you walked into town. You were wearing your portal undies, because of course you were, but what can a girl do to transgress some social boundaries on a Sunday morning?

Wait. It's a Sunday. The beauty of rural Wales is the massive proportion of churches to people. You barely had to walk half a mile and you found one. Open doors, organ softly playing as the occasional person slid through the front room to the main church. A quick selfie, posted to just the right website along with a freshly-generated session code. A tap, a swipe, and the app locked. Four hours on the clock, that's long enough for a church... Session? Worship? You wondered what the actual verb for attending church is as you took a pew and the bloke in the robe took the pulpit.

God he was boring. Something Jesus, something heaven, something repentance. You were just about to get up and leave when it started. The metal disc in your underwear buzzed insistently, then the portal opened.

For a moment, nothing happened. Cool air passed over your pussy, before being replaced with hot breath. A finger traced your entrance as you sat there, trying not to show off that something was interfering with you. The soft touch was easy to pass off. Sure, whoever this was felt good, but after what you're used to with these, this wasn't hard to hide.

What was harder was when the finger pushed in. Maybe the setting was getting you more hot and bothered than you thought, or maybe you just needed this. The gasp was hard to swallow, especially as another two fingers joined in. The three fingers filled you, turning and angling themselves in ways no lover would be able to without a magic portal fleshlight on the other end. You pulled your phone out of your skirt pocket to check the app, who's connected?

Who else. It's WolfDaddy again. You put the phone back before anyone spotted you. At least, you hoped you did. The sounds of him stirring your cunt were soft, almost drowned out by the droning cleric as he went on and on. He was saying something about interpretation, how sins change over time so some things that might have been sins once, aren't now.

Those fingers curled inside you. You felt yourself blush as you suppressed a twitch in your legs. This was still probably a sin.

You clenched your cunt against those fingers, gently pulsing it to try and send him a message: "fuck me already"

His fingers kept hard at work, rubbing and stroking as your body fought you, trying to gasp and moan, whine and wriggle at the invading digits. You couldn't. All you could do was sit there and drip, feeling your juices flow from you in rivers. He brought you to the very edge, then stopped. The fingers pulled out just as you threatened to crest the peak, letting you slide back down for a minute or two before pushing again. If you got closer, he'd leave you for longer. If he took a little while, you'd get the next edge a little sooner.

You ached so badly by the time the priest was done lecturing. The rest of the church got up and into the aisle, but they weren't leaving. You half-remembered something about sacraments? Eating the body and drinking the blood of God to get closer to him or something?

Sounds kinky.

You got up and joined near the back of the line. The fingers felt you move and withdrew, letting your pussy squeeze in vain. A blunt tip replaced them, pressing gently into you. The first inch slid in, fully hard and leaking that lupine precum all over you. Then he pulled out. Over and over you'd get just enough to get excited, but not enough to get you off. Your whole lower body hurt now. The constant teasing of your leaking, drooling hole was taking its toll on you.

You reached the front of the church. Kneeling in a line before the altar. Maybe kneeling made your body move a certain way? Maybe he could just tell you weren't upright any more. Either way, it earned you another inch. You clenched again, trying to keep a steady rhythm to encourage him. You got another inch. Then another, then another.

The priest was moving down the line. First a small biscuity thing, then a sip from a jewelled cup. One by one the other churchgoers were seen to. Whoever WolfDaddy is, he had a good handle on how long this took.

Six people to go. He fucked you harder. Cock pushing up to the very edge of your cervix. Five people, a pair of fingers joined in, rubbing your clit as you began to squirm. Four, the cock was faster now, hammering into you as the lupine on the other end of the portal rewarded you. Three, you bit your lip. The feeling of climax building in you, coming towards you hard and fast as you dug your nails into your palm

Two, the cock hilted into you. You could feel the knot starting to inflate. One, cum spurted forth, the cock throbbing and twitching as jet after jet flooded into you.

Just you left now.

The pastor said something, you opened your mouth, feeling your eyes want to roll back in your head as you begged a present from church.

"Take this, my body" A flavourless wafer landed on your tongue

"And this, my blood" a sip of acid-tasting wine

"T-thank you father" you stuttered out, mouth watering and body burning. You felt it coming. You looked in his eyes. He could tell. You could see he could tell. You suppressed a scream as you fell off the cliff.

You clenched every muscle to try and stop yourself shaking, tried to suppress a scream of triumphant release, instead it emerged as a long squeaking wait as your jaw slammed shut around it. Your eyes rolled, defocusing until there were two vicars in front of you, then back to one, then two again.

There's no way he didn't see as cum started to leak from you. No way he didn't notice as the portal cut off how suddenly there was a damp puddle where a worshipper was so recently sat. You could smell the cum on you, dripping from your oozing cunt.

You took a seat on the pews again. Reassuring wood to lend you stability. The church cleared. You saw the vicar step into a booth at the other end of the church. Dark wood and varnished to within an inch of its life.

You walked into the other side. A wickerwork screen and a small slot were between you and the man you'd just came in front of.

"F-forgive me father, for I have sinned"

Who knows, you might get more fun out of this yet

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Never fear about requesting a portal fic from me. Easily one of my favourite kinks of all time.

Especially when I get to couple it with monster cocks

[iheartcoffeecakesm]

"Anything" 💙 Curly x Anya

art credit: seagummies on twitter

warnings: angst, topic of miscarriage

this is a good ending au of mouthwashing! if u are a hater, then dni🥰 this post aint for u, babe

Chapter 1

Jimmy had been dead for the past few months due to the crash. The crew has been slowly rotting. They have lost all hope, and for good reason. Daisuke and Swansea are unconscious because of hunger and exhaustion. Curly and Anya are slowly losing grip. Despite all this, the beautiful glowing screen still showcased the moon and stars. Curly's hair sticks to his face due to anxious sweat. "Well, we had a good run. Didn't we." Curly smiled. Anya laid beside him and she smiled despite the tears rolling down her face. "Yeah." Curly's breath hitches "Anya... I'm-”

Curly opened his eyes with a jolt. There he was, in the hospital. His whole body was aching. A nurse walked over to his bed, "How are you feeling, sir?" His eyes widened harshly. "Where is my crew?" He yelled. "Are they okay? Is Anya alive? I never got to tell her I'm sorry!" Curly's heart beat spiked. Thinking about Anya's distressed face made him feel nauseous from guilt. He placed his head in his hands, as if grappling with reality. The nurse spoke gently to try and to calm him down, "Everyone is okay. Some are still waking up." He sighed, feeling relieved. A doctor came into the room. "How did we survive? How are we home?" Curly was more than shocked. The doctor walked up to him, holding his papers. "Another space ship found you guys. Some astronomers were on an expedition in the area. You all were very lucky they were out there." The doctor said, cracking a smile. Curly looked down at his hands. "What room is Anya in? If you don't mind asking." Curly asked quietly. The nurse responded, "Room 25. And this is 24." After doing some basic checkups, and giving him some medicine for the pain, the doctor and the nurse left. Curly laid there, alone with his thoughts.

A few hours pass by, and unable to just sit and do nothing, Curly sneaks out of his room. He finds Anya sitting down in the lobby. The moon light shining on her in her hospital gown. She looked tired as usual, and mentally drained, but she still smiled faintly when she heard his voice. "Anya!" He cried out, limping towards her. She looks up at him and smiles with tears in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her and cried. She held his head gently. "Anya... I-I I'm so sorry. I should have done something. You already had told me that you felt uncomfortable around him. I felt like I was losing my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'm so sorry that I made it seem like I didn't care. I care so much. I will do anything you want to gain your forgiveness. We don't have to ever talk again if that's what you wish. I'm so sorry, Anya." The words came out almost pleadingly, and rushed. He couldn’t hold back a sob. "Captain-... Curly. Our worst moments don't define us. I don't blame you for what happened, we were in the middle of space. But it will still take me a long time to heal. Thank you." Anya was always the more quiet kind. She didn't know how to respond. After several quiet minutes spoke quietly, "I lost the baby." Curly looks up at her, his eyes slightly wide. To not offend her, he asked honestly, "How do you feel?" Tears rolled down her face, as she stared at the ground. "Empty.”

In the morning, Curly and Anya met up with Daisuke and Swansea. It seemed they were recovering well. The crew all sat together in the lobby. It was surreal, everything felt so much lighter. Almost happy. "How are you guys doing? What do you plan on doing after this?" Curly asked. Daisuke's face lights up, "That was totally crazy! I'm happy we survived. I can't wait to see my mom." Swansea pops in, "Heh, It will be nice to be with my family again. No more pony express. I get to be a retired lazy old man!" Swansea chuckles. Anya and Curly look at each other smiling. It felt like a dream.

A few days went by, and the crew slowly recovered. Everyone was released from the hospital once they were fully recovered. Getting back from the hospital was refreshing. The sterile white rooms grew to be nauseating. He could finally go home. Curly pulled up to his home, the sight of his big white house with blue shutters made him smile. That company never cared. Some random astronomers were the ones who cared enough to save them. He was free from that stupid job. He hated being glorified, he soon realized. Curly felt like a monster after everything that had happened. His loving pet guinea pig was waiting for him in his bedroom. Curly’s mother would take care of her every day while Curly was gone. Whenever anyone visits, they are surprised that he has such a small creature when he's such a big guy. Almost every time someone says the classic "Wow. I thought you would have a dog of some sort, captain." He sighed and flopped on the bed but gently held Daphne. He felt so relieved to be home, after all this time. But every time he tried to close his eyes, he would see Anya's crying face

☆

sooo this is my first fan fic ever that im gonna actually commit to😭 plz be patient. also, im gonna try to write the miscarriage plot as realistic as possible. i have had multiple friends and family that have suffered from miscarriages

[oceansoul001]

Couple of random thoughts regarding KCD2 last conversation with Hans.

[Spoilers!!!]

1. You can have this conversation either still in Suchdol (after talking to Sir Hanush) or in the Devil's Den post credits. They don't differ beside last topic ("What are your plans now?") that is removed if you choose the latter.

2. Generally there is not much of a difference between romance and non-romance paths. Romanced Hans tells you everything that the non-romanced does, just adds a few unique sentences. You can probably notice switch of tone in "What are we going to do about the wedding" topic, for the romanced lines: "I'm not sure what to do... after what happened, you know...? I mean... me and you... I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how things turn out..." I find this reaction very believable given the situation, I recon they both need some time to sort things in their heads, as the ongoing siege/bringing reinforcements didn't leave them much time and space for reflection. So I am very okay with them not discussing the topic further at this point. And, I know this might sound strange, but I also really like that there are no love confessions at this point, I greatly dislike it when games throw them at me after literally one night spent together with someone.

BUT. Directly after this part comes the non-romance part where Hans worries about his bride being ugly and then proceeds to talk about naming his son after Henry, and I don't know... I mean, yeah, we all are aware of the fact that Hans most probably still has to get married, and have an heir, and it does not matter at all whether something happened between him & Henry, or not, but is this really the thing he would casually say at this moment...? Okay, maybe he would, it's Hans. But what is even more bizarre to me is my Henry, who is happily babbling as if nothing has changed at all, even though like a minute ago he was this awkward mess thanking Hans for "the encouragement". So what I'm trying to say is, I would prefer at least for Henry to act/respond differently in the romanced version and remain more awkward throughout this convo. But maybe I'm overthinking this! 😅

3. Another difference in the romance path occurs when discussing Hans' injury, as only in this version Henry asks if he can take a look at the wound later, and I think it is so sweet. Very minor detail, but I love it. ❤️

4. The thing that I definitely don't like is asking Hans about his talk with Hanush, and Hans responding with "You don't need to know everything", like??? My guy. Please. You've just shared with me probably the most intimate and secretive moment OF YOUR LIFE, and now you don't want to tell me some shit about Hanush, even though it is not even a secret and like everyone in Rattay already knows (your own words!). I don't get it at all, why in the romance path this still requires a speech check and why is Hans so weird about not telling me "everything", even though mere hours ago he was ready to die from grief if I don't come back 😭

5. Speaking of dying, romanced Hans can say the following at the beginning of your conversation: "I'm glad nothing happened to you. That would have killed me", but it only happens if Sam does not survive. So not in my game, as I would never leave my brother behind. Hans can also admit that he was jealous of Sam, which for me was very clear during the game, but also under the condition that Sam does not survive.

6. Last, but not least - I wish we could have another conversation with romanced Hans after couple in-game days pass, after we both have had a chance to collect our thoughts. Nothing groundbreaking, just something short and sweet, and you know, maybe get the possibility to share a kiss in our room at the Devil's Den when we want... I know it might sound greedy, or silly, after all we've just got this perfect, almost unreal relationship at all, but nothing can stop me from dreaming. 🥹

Happy to hear your thoughts on the subject! ❤️

[burnthatbridge]

if you love him let him go (if you love him let him know) 

pre-buddie, bucktommy | T | 3k | angst, pining tommy needs to tell eddie something not on ao3 atm because i can't figure out if this is done or if i'm continuing it - please let me know your thoughts! now on ao3 because i hate not having all my fic in one place

“Can I get you another beer, man?”

Eddie checks his watch. It’s only a little after nine thirty. He’s kind of hoping to get home before Chris goes to sleep, but he’ll not be heading to bed any time soon, will likely stay up later than Eddie. Friday night means he disregards his supposed bedtime — not that he sticks to it that well on school nights, now he’s sixteen. “Sure, thanks.”

Tommy nods, disappears into the kitchen, returns a moment later with a can of IPA in one hand, a bottle of lager in the other. They’ve already finished the six-pack Eddie brought over, but trust Buck — well, Buck and Tommy — to have Eddie’s favorite beer in their fridge. Tommy hands over the can, already cracked open, and Eddie takes a sip as Tommy settles down at the opposite end of the couch. He doesn’t turn to face the TV, sits twisted towards Eddie instead, but he does pick up the remote and turn down the volume, the post-fight commentary rendered nearly unintelligible. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Eddie twists towards Tommy himself, something not-quite-anxious-but-almost flaring in his chest. Over the years they have been friends, he and Tommy have spoken about lots of things, including those not so easy to discuss: their respective experiences in the army, Tommy’s tough childhood, Eddie’s difficult parents, the hard aspects of the job. But they’ve all been topics that have come up naturally, raised organically. Tommy has never led into anything with such a pointed opener before.

Eddie studies him. He has one knee pulled up on the couch cushion, foot poking out off the end, the other foot planted on the floor, nearly parallel to the base of the couch. One arm is up on the backrest, the other relaxed, beer bottle in that hand, resting on his thigh, dripping condensation painting a charcoal ring on his — probably Buck’s, in fact, given how tight the fabric is stretched over the muscle of his leg — grey sweats. He’s not tense, but he’s not smiling, and there’s something about his expression that Eddie can’t place. It’s not that he hasn’t seen this look before, because he’s pretty sure he has, witnessed it in flickers across numerous occasions over the years, there and then gone, present for but a heartbeat. But he’d never known what it meant any of those times and he certainly doesn’t now.

“'Course,” Eddie says, when Tommy doesn’t go on, seems to be waiting for some kind of sign. Then adds, feeling like it’s necessary given the gravity he can feel pulling this lightsome evening down to something more serious.  “Anything.”

Tommy sighs, bites his lip like he doesn’t want to speak, even though he’s the one who said he wanted to talk, then shakes his head and takes a pull of his beer.

“Is everything okay?” Eddie’s starting to feel worried now. He mentally scans back over the past few weeks, trying to remember if Tommy has mentioned anything about work that could be a problem. He saw him at basketball last week, and nothing had seemed off. Plus, Buck hasn’t said anything. Not that he’d necessarily tell Eddie about an issue Tommy was having, not if Tommy wanted it kept private, but Eddie can usually tell when Buck’s concerned about someone, and he hasn’t picked up on anything, not at all. 

But maybe this isn’t about a problem Tommy is having. Maybe this is a Buck problem, something Buck has kept from Eddie. It would make sense why Tommy would bring it up with him; sometimes a concerted, multi-person effort is the only way to get through to Buck. And Tommy’s more likely to bring in Eddie first, and then expand the team to include Maddie, Chim, more, as needed. 

“Is Buck okay?” Eddie asks, something like panic constricting his throat, making the words come out a little strangled. 

Tommy actually laughs at that, a small, choked thing, an exhale of sound and air. He shakes his head again, but not a no. More like an extension of the laugh, a motion to accompany it, to better convey the disbelief — not humor — contained in it. “He’s fine.”

It’s a relief to hear. Buck had seemed physically okay, when Eddie had seen him briefly before he left the house, since he’d maybe purposefully waited to order his Uber until Buck pulled up in his jeep outside, despite Christopher’s insistence he didn’t need to wait for Buck to arrive, despite the fact that his kid is more than old enough to be left in the house alone for the twenty minutes it would have taken Buck to drive over, while Eddie was ferried the opposite way. But there could still have been something, Buck could have been fighting through pain, much better at hiding any hurt of his body than he is at masking his emotional distress. 

“But,” Tommy says, and that one word is enough to have Eddie’s muscles tightening once more, “It is Evan I wanted to talk about.”

Again, Tommy doesn’t follow it up with anything. Eddie has found, in their time as friends, that Tommy is not often a man lost for words. Quite the opposite, in fact. He usually says what he means, means what he says, and is an expert at listening and delivering sage advice. This reticence– it doesn’t feel like it bodes well, has the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck prickling.

“Alright,” Eddie says, a feeble prompt. “So, Buck?”

Tommy nods, like he’s gearing himself up for something, to face a challenge, to take a punch. Eddie is expecting something bad, so the words he says catch him even more off guard than they would have. “I want to ask Evan to marry me.”

Maybe if Tommy had seemed eager, excited, when he turned to him, Eddie could have anticipated the blow, could have felt a creeping suspicion this is where Tommy was headed, could have been provided with enough of a heads-up to brace himself. As it is, he doesn’t see the hit coming, takes it full force to the chest, so hard it steals his breath, knocks the wind from him. His mouth goes slack, and he feels his fingers slide against the slippery sides of his beer can, almost spills it over Tommy and Buck’s lounge carpet before he gets a hold on it, on himself. He forces himself to smile. “That’s– that’s great,” he makes himself say, only faintly aware that Tommy isn’t smiling back, like this moment should call for. “Did you–” he swallows around the bile climbing his esophagus, “Do you want help planning the proposal?” He wishes he could take the words back the second they’re out. Because this — just hearing that Tommy wants to ask Buck — is torture enough. To be involved with it, to help enable it, Eddie will be lucky if it doesn’t kill him. Maybe not his body, but certainly his soul. 

“No.” Tommy shakes his head. “No, I want to ask him to marry me. But I’m not going to. At least, not now.”

Eddie squints at him. The news that Tommy wants to marry Buck might hurt Eddie, but it’s not exactly surprising. Eddie’s seen how much Tommy cares for him in the years they’ve been together, has seen the way he looks at him, the way they look at each other. Has felt the way it burns him, the scorching heat of flame, the searing cold of ice. He doesn’t understand what Tommy is saying, doesn’t understand why this proclamation seems not to be a happy one. “Why not?” Eddie asks, almost grateful for the opportunity to present confusion, curiosity, rather than forced pleasure at the thought of one of his closest friends and his– best friend marrying each other. “You guys are serious. I mean, you live together.”

Tommy huffs another laugh, still more disbelief than humor, really the opposite of humor. “His lease was up.”

“Right. But he chose not to renew it. He chose to move in with you,” Eddie says, slow, struggling to understand, the pounding of his pulse not helping him think clearly, see through the puzzle that is everything Tommy has said so far and the way he has said it. 

“He was never going to renew it,” Tommy tells him.

And that’s– that’s something Eddie didn’t know. He hates it when he learns information about Buck from Tommy, always has, even though he fights with everything in him not to feel like that. Tommy is Buck’s boyfriend, of course he’s going to know things about him that Eddie doesn’t, know him in a way that Eddie doesn’t. 

“We hadn’t spoken about living together,” Tommy says, eyes on Eddie. “But he’d said he thought the loft was too expensive and he was spending nearly every night at mine by that point. When he wasn’t on shift. Or at yours.” Eddie pulls his eyes away, takes a sip from his beer for something to do, even though the bitter taste is turning his stomach. “He said he wasn’t going to renew it, that he’d look for somewhere new, cheaper. But this was too close to the end of his lease to find a place before he had to move out. I asked where he was going to stay in the meantime.”

“And he said with you,” Eddie guesses, more a statement than a question.

But Tommy shakes his head. A smile curls his lips but his eyes– his eyes don’t match. “He said he’d crash on your couch, actually.”

Eddie takes another mouthful of beer, holds it there, on the back of his tongue. He didn’t know any of this. Buck would, of course, have been more than welcome. Likely why he hadn’t asked in advance, why he planned for it without seeking permission. 

“I said he could stay with me, instead. That he’d be able to sleep in a bed here.” Eddie swallows, the beer somehow thick and cloying in a way that it shouldn’t be. “And then when he started making noises about looking for a new place, I told him he should stay.”

While it’s not how Eddie had, unwillingly, pictured it in his head — Tommy and Buck mutually agreeing that Buck shouldn’t renew his lease, deciding they wanted to live together — it still doesn’t explain what Tommy has said. “And he did stay,” Eddie says. “So, why aren’t– Does Buck not want to get married?” But that can’t be it, that can’t be right. Eddie is certain Buck does want to be married, only he’d tried hard not to think of Buck wanting that with Tommy, with anyone. Anyone else. 

“No, he does,” Tommy confirms it. He leans over and deposits his beer on the coffee table. Then sits back, still turned to Eddie, but arms crossed over his chest, like a protection of himself. “We’ve spoken about it, discussed it. And he’s told me he’s always wanted that, to get married, to be part of a family.” Tommy pops one hand out of the fold of his arms to hold it up, out, quelling, like Eddie has protested. He hasn’t, but his heart is doing something approximating a riot at the idea of Tommy being Buck’s family. “And I know he has a family. He knows he does. In you and Chris, in Maddie and Jee, in the 118. But–” Tommy breaks off, tips his head to the side, gaze boring into Eddie’s face so strong that Eddie wishes he could turn away, duck and run. “You know how much he’s always wanted to belong somewhere.”

He does, Eddie thinks, the thought almost violent in its intensity. He belongs with me. Except, he doesn’t. Not really, not how Eddie wants, not the way he does with Tommy.

“And I want that for him,” Tommy goes on, tucking his hand back in, squeezing his arms tighter about himself. Eddie’s never seen him like this, hunched in on himself, curled small. Tommy is usually so open, larger than life. “I want to be the one to give that to him.”

Eddie wants to be the one to give that to him. Desires it desperately, a secret need he’s tucked as far inside himself as he can. He can feel it now, raging to be let out, to be set free. But he can’t, he won’t. Buck is with Tommy, he’s happy with Tommy. Tommy who is so warm and kind and good, Tommy who is better than Eddie in every conceivable way, who brings so much to Buck’s life, who gives all of himself to Buck. Who wants to give him even more. Wants to, but apparently won’t.

Eddie doesn’t understand. “Then, if you want to, why won’t you ask him?” he questions, trying to. 

“If I ask him now, he’ll say no.” Tommy states it like indisputable fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that Buck would refuse him. 

Eddie shakes his head, understanding even less. “But he loves you.”

Tommy smiles again, then, larger than he had before, but as devoid of happiness, as empty of cheer. This smile hurts to see, reflects the way Eddie felt inside when Tommy had said I want to ask Evan to marry me. “I know he does.” Tommy’s tone is sure, but wistful. “But he loves you more.”

It’s like– It’s like nothing Eddie has ever felt. Or maybe it’s like everything he’s ever felt. The shock of a residual lightning bolt, the joy of being a part of the 118, the pain of a bullet ripping through his shoulder, the awe of holding his son for the first time. Eddie wants Tommy’s words to be true maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything. But he also cannot believe them, has no trust that they are true. Because they can’t be. Buck loves Tommy. Not Eddie. 

“We’re friends. Best friends,” Eddie points out. “Of course, he– he loves me. But not more. Not like he loves you. He’s in love with you.”

Tommy sighs, arms uncrossing, palms coming to rest on his thighs, body taking on a posture Eddie is familiar with, the one he falls into when he’s talking someone through something, the one he adopted when Eddie came out to him some six months ago. “Eddie, he’s in love with you.”

Eddie shakes his head. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear, but coming from the wrong lips. Spoken by not by Buck himself but by Buck’s boyfriend, oh god. “He isn’t. Tommy, he can’t be.” 

But Tommy is nodding, nodding like what he’s said is true, like he wants Eddie to believe it. 

“He’s not,” Eddie says, hears the denial, the disbelief spill from him. Buck doesn’t love him. He doesn’t. But Eddie– Eddie loves– “I’m sorry,” Eddie says, almost a gasp. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy cuts him off. “I knew what I was getting into. When I started seeing Evan, I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. I just–” Tommy sighs again, scrubs his palms along his thighs. “I didn’t expect it to get this far. I thought we’d just be a fun, easy thing. Something to ease Evan into his sexuality, that new part of himself. I didn’t expect it to go like this. I didn’t expect to feel like this.” Tommy closes his eyes, lashes falling to his cheeks. He breaths in and out, while Eddie’s own breath is caught in his chest. When Tommy opens his eyes, he says, “But I don’t have to tell you how easy it is to love him.”

Fuck. Tommy knows. Because Eddie does. He loves Buck, loves him so endlessly he doesn’t know where the feeling starts and where it ends. Doesn’t know when it started; doesn’t think it will ever end. “I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, needing to say the words again, needing Tommy — his friend — to hear them. 

Tommy lifts one palm from his thigh, his wrist pressing into the muscle as he cuts his fingers to the side in a dismissal. “Don’t apologize for it. I’m certainly not going to. I’m never going to be sorry for loving him.” He drops his hand back down, pats his leg, emphasis of the point. “But it is a problem.” He smiles, rueful. “I thought I’d be able to break up with him, if he didn’t break up with me. I should have, ages ago. I certainly should have when you came out.” 

Eddie, selfishly, had hoped Buck would break up with Tommy then. But it had seemed like a farfetched fantasy. He had told Buck he was queer after Buck had already moved in with Tommy. He’d admitted it to himself, to Frank, before that, but hadn’t told anyone else for weeks. In hindsight, sometimes he figures he’d left it too late, but most of the time he didn’t think it would have made a difference at all. But now, with what Tommy has told him, maybe it would have. It’s a knife sliding between Eddie’s ribs to think maybe. Maybe.

“But I didn’t.” Tommy looks resigned, shoulders drooping. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie needs to know. It seems like Tommy has known for years that Eddie has loved Buck. Loves Buck. I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. So why is he only bringing it up now?

“Because I didn’t. Because I can’t. I can’t break up with him. But I want to move forward. And I want to do so with him, for us to further our life together. But if I ask him to marry me when he doesn’t know for sure that you’re not an option, he’ll say no.”

Fear freezes Eddie’s insides. “So, what– what are you asking me to do?” Because Tommy is asking something of Eddie, wants something. Something Eddie fears he will have to make himself give.

Tommy straightens up, shoulders rolling back. He’s serious, solemn but not demanding or pleading when he says it. A devastating request. “I’m asking you, as my friend, to let him go.”

Eddie could be sick, he thinks, could vomit up the three and a quarter beers and the half a dozen chicken wings he’s consumed since he got to Tommy and Buck’s place. Could spill the mess of his insides up all over himself, all over Tommy, all over their lives. Tommy is his friend, was his friend before he was ever Buck’s boyfriend. Eddie should do this thing for him. Should give Buck his blessing to marry Tommy, give Buck up, give him over, completely, to this man who has loved him so well for the past three years. Eddie should; in his gut he knows it would be the right thing to do. But his heart– his heart is in revolt. It’s Buck. He loves him. How can he ever let him go?

Tommy leans forward, places a hand on Eddie’s leg, squeezes his fingers around the ball of his kneecap, until Eddie lifts his gaze and meets his eyes. “Or,” he says, somehow even more serious, “I am telling you, as your friend, to go and get him.”

[live-laugh-lenney]

LOCKED IN | ARTHUR FREDERICK

chapter three is here! i'm so sorry about the wait but i'm hoping to become a lot more regular with my schedule and posting this story. thanks for all the love so far! feedback is always welcomed and my inbox is always open so please, please, please don’t hesitate to let me know your thoughts on the story. enjoy! <33

MASTERLIST

- C H A P T E R T H R E E -

“YN, to the Store Room.”

“Are you really going to make me get out of bed to come for a brief chat, Sugarlips?” YN groaned, letting out a disgruntled sound as she rolled over and planted her face into her pillow. She felt Steph rub her shoulder from above the duvet, having perched on the edge of YN’s bed as they said their good morning’s to each other. “I’m so cold. Don’t make me go.”

“Maybe it’s another secret challenge…” Steph wondered, standing from her place and grabbing fistfuls of the duvet with both of her fists, “come on, lazy bones. Up you get.”

“I’m cold,” she reiterated, feeling the chill of the bedroom air hit at her exposed legs, “please. Do not make me get up.”

Her socks felt twisted and uncomfortable on her feet and she guessed it was a good enough reason to sit up on the mattress because she couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling below her ankles. The sleeves of her jumper had risen to her elbows, the cuffs feeling tight around her arm and left crease marks in her skin, which she would use as knowledge that she had slept brilliantly through the night. 

Because she was finding it much easier. 

Everyone was pretty relaxed around one another now and everyone had adjusted to routines and little habits that needed to be done before ending their day. Snoring became a sound that soothed her to sleep rather than woke her from her slumber. The background chat that came in the mornings became her alarm clock and she didn’t mind waking up to join in with whatever topic they were talking about. Everyone’s mess became everyone’s mess around the house and she found herself busying her mind by tidying the different rooms in the house every so often. Because once she picked a t-shirt up or put a pair of shoes away at the end of someone’s bed, she had to pick the rest up. Time was still a struggle and she was finding it hard to go about her day without reaching for her phone or her laptop, needing some kind of escape from the small bubble, for just a moment but it was a detox that she’d be thankful for once she left the house and went back to the normality of her day-to-day life in London.

She slipped her feet into her slippers, a big and yellow smiley face adorned on the front in a carpet-like material, and scuffed down the alley of the beds and into the hidden room round the corner, opening the door and closing it behind her.

“Good morning, YN.”

“Sugarlips,” she greeted with a soft smile, sitting down and crossing her legs like she was back in a school assembly, hands holding her ankles to keep them in place, “what information can I grace you with this morning? Since you woke me up and had me leave the warmth of my bed.”

“How did you sleep last night?”

YN smiled a genuine smile at the camera.

“I slept brilliantly, thank you,” she nodded, sticking her two thumbs up, “I really did, honestly. It’s becoming so much easier to just fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. No snoring keeps me awake now.”

“That’s good for a light sleeper.”

“I am not a light sleeper, let me tell you, Sugarlips. I just struggle to get to sleep, especially in a place where I’m surrounded by strangers who might look at me weirdly in my sleep,” she took a second to clear her throat into her fist before she continued, “once I’m snoozing and I’m all comfortable and warm, I’m out for the count.”

It sounded like heaven.

Most people could only dream of falling asleep as soon as they clambered under their bedsheets and and as soon as their heads hit the pillow behind them. As soon as their eyes closed and as soon as their brain switched off from the day, into a state where nothing was able to distract them from a much needed slumber after a busy day of working. 

YN saw it as a curse.

Where she loved being able to nap anywhere she wanted, loved being able to have a quick ten minute shuteye session on the train or in the back of a taxi cab, there had been many times where she would curse herself for being such a deep sleeper. Many a time where she’d slept through an alarm and had been late for work or for a meeting or for something as important as a video shoot for a channel she had been asked to be a guest on, many a time where she had overslept on a day off and wasted half of her day in bed because she was far too sleepy and far too comfortable to move elsewhere in her house (and why would she need to move if she had no plans?), and there had been many a time where she had overstayed her welcome in hotels because she would work hard for the event she had been invited to and really reap the benefits of being in a five-star bed in a five-star hotel building in a location that she could only dream of working in. 

In a house full of people who slept so differently, she felt it was more a blessing than a curse, at that very moment. 

“Who do you think is the loudest in the house?”

“Oh god, in what way?” YN sat herself up a little straighter in the chair and clasped her hands together in an excitable way, “because if we’re talking in general, I’d have to say Spuddz. He’s such a loud character who gets passionate and really excited about things that happened in here.”

YN had become used to his antics now.

Spuddz was the prankster of the house who liked to play jokes when there was a tiny lull of boredom; he’d hide and jump out at people when they walked passed him, he’d take away something they would use quite often and pretend he had no idea what they were talking about to only place it somewhere so inconspicuous that they wouldn’t even think to check there, he would jump on someone if they were snoozing under the covers in the bedroom, and he’d tell the wackiest jokes that you’d just have to laugh at because it was his delivery rather than the punchline that made it. 

He brought a bit of chaos to the place and he was entertaining, to say the least.

“But if we’re talking about snoring, god, then it has to be Jokeman. Without a doubt. I feel bad for Arthur having to sleep next to him,” YN admitted and shook her head in amusement; there were many times when a group of them would giggle amongst themselves at the sounds escaping his nose and throat, “I think I’ve just learnt to drown everything out now. It’s become such common knowledge in the house that you just learn to live with it, almost like it’s background noise.”

“And who do you think is the messiest in the house?”

“The messiest? Oh god,” she cackled softly and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, holding them there for a brief moment as she tried to recount everything from the last two days of being in the Locked In house. Her mind raced between everybody; their beds in the bedroom, their section of the bathroom, who left their shoes out and about and how they were when it came to cooking and cleaning after themselves. Including herself in the mix because she knew she wasn’t the cleanest person that entered the house. “I honestly, honestly couldn’t tell you. I feel like we’re all incredibly messy. My clothes are always all over the place. Spuddz always chucks his clothes out of the bathroom when he’s getting ready. All of us girls leave make-up everywhere when we’re getting ready in the mornings,” she tapped her chin in thought, “everyone contributes to the mess without really thinking about it.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, apart from Arthur, I guess. He might leave the odd bowl out from breakfast but he’s pretty neat with everything. His bed is always so pristine in the mornings,” she smiled softly, “he’s a neat freak, I think they call them.”

She remembered just what his bed looked like when she woke up that morning. Not a single trace of him left behind; no dip in the mattress where his body had situated through the night, no dip in his pillow from where he’d laid his head, no crease or lump to signify he was still there. He’d seemingly woken up before everyone that morning, she assumed, because his duvet was pulled up and his pillows were neatly placed at the head of the bed like he was done with it for the day, and YN wondered where he’d gone before Steph had made her way to her bed and flopped herself down. 

“I need him to start making mine, I think. Nothing is allowed to touch that bed from the moment it’s made, till the moment he gets in it at nighttime. He hates it.”

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The kitchen, just after lunchtime, was the perfect level of quiet. 

With the humming of the kitchen fridge and the whirring of the extractor fan above the oven and the trickling sounds coming from the tap once everything had been washed and left to dry on the drying board, it held a sense of silence that was the complete opposite to how it was just a mere half an hour ago; lunchtime being the time when everyone congregates in the kitchen to decide who wanted what for lunch with the limited items they had left from their big shop down just over two days ago. Shouting over each other as they let everyone know their orders on fried eggs opposed to scrambled, ketchup instead of baked beans and who wanted nuggets instead of sausages. All whilst other conversations were happening between he housemates. 

Chaos.

A lovely chaos but pure chaos, none-the-less.

“So, Youtube chat.”

“Yes,” YN grinned, taking her seat on the stool beside the brunette dressed in her peach tracksuit, “the one you wanted to have earlier?”

Anastasia nodded softly, watching as YN opened the pack of digestive biscuits and set them between the two of them.

“Now, I’d say we’re quite similar in what we do on Youtube, wouldn’t you think? I think we’d both fall into the subtopic of Lifestyle,” Anastasia stated, reaching for another chocolate biscuit from the pack that YN had placed on the kitchen island not too long before, pairing nicely with the two cups of tea she had made when Anastasia had asked her if she fancied going for a private chat somewhere - so they could get to know each other in a little bit more of a deeper level than just leaving it at a minor introduction, “I do a little bit of everything and I find I can’t stick to one topic in life. Where most of these guys have make-up or football, I feel like I dabble in a bit of every kind of thing you can show on Youtube.”

“Quite similar? I’d say very similar in terms of what we post,” YN laughed softly, “I just sit and chat. Almost like a vlog-style but not in the format of a vlog. I’m also yet to introduce my family onto my channel, like my parents and my grandparents and whatnot, and I want to make sure they’re comfortable before I bombard them with a camera in their face,” she took a sip from the mug of tea in her hands, “I have no siblings so it’s just me doing my own content. With the occasional pop up from a friend.”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“I don’t,” she shook her head, placing the mug back down on the island top and pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands, “no boyfriends for me currently. I’ve been so thrown into this Youtube thing over the last twelve months that I just don’t find myself looking.”

“Not even just swiping Tinder or?”

YN shakes her head.

Sure, she had the dating apps downloaded on her phone; Tinder, Hinge and Bumble. 

But they were only there because her friends had encouraged her to put herself out there in the world of dating and had practically downloaded them to her phone themselves one night when they were together. Insisting that she had something good going for her and that people needed to see the true her and not the girl she portrays herself as online and in her Youtube videos. She found herself using them a couple of times, when curiosity got the better of her and she was in the mood to be nosey, when she was at home by herself and trying to find something to cure her boredom… yet nothing ever came out of swiping right or agreeing to a conversation that would become the driest chat she’d ever had.

“I feel like boyfriends, in this line of work, are something hard to find.”

Boyfriends would come and go in her life. 

Where she would love to have someone to settle down with, go on late-night drives with and take romantic walks through London with, her job came first. With her schedule being something that would almost look crazy busy to someone with a normal 9-5 office job and with her job being something out of the ordinary and not a sit-down job, it was something she thought would scare people off; who would want cameras in their face all day? Who would want their life to be broadcast for millions of followers to see? It would be somewhat of a dealbreaker between her and someone she liked to be around so she saved herself the heartache.

“Yeah, I find that everyone feels intimidated by it when I say I’ve got 1.3 million subs. The look of overwhelm on their faces just says it all really.” 

“Not that I’m holding back on relationships but,” YN sighed heavily and the feeling of dejection ran through her body, “I guess I’m just waiting for someone worth it. I don’t want to go through heartache after heartache, dealing with break-ups, when I could have saved myself from it from the very start.”

“Youtube is tough of the private life sometimes,” Anastasia agreed, nodding softly and she chewed upon a bite of a digestive biscuit held in her hand, chocolate coating her fingertips, “but once you find someone who loves you for you, who supports you and becomes your number one fan, who cheers you on and agrees to do things you want them to do for content, yeah… it’s the best feeling in the world.”

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“When was the first Nike Air Force 1 first released?” 

Johnny turned from the screen he read the question from and looked to face his team; Jemel, Jamie, Anastasia and YN, all of them looking at the four answers with puzzled looks on their faces as they thought long and hard about what the correct answer could be. Throwing around different ideas, conferring as a team, looking frantically at the brand-new white shoes on YN’s feet as they searched for any kind of clue that could give away what the answer could be.

“Does it say anything? At all?” Jemel questioned, looking over YN’s shoulder and shaking her head, “nothing at all.”

“Just split the items across the board. At least we win something, if not nothing,” YN suggested, “but put more on what we think may be the correct answer. If we win then there’s a lot of our items to have and, if we lose, then there’s a small minority of our items. A win-win either way.”

Johnny split the luxury items according to how YN stated, confirming with his team what number they were going for, dividing everything up and placing them on the dropboards before him.

“Lock in number 4. 1991,” Johnny confirmed, standing back from the table, “fuck.”

Number 2 dropped before them.

Number 3 dropped before them.

“Look me in the eye,” Johnny stated confidently as he made eye contact with the four players of his team, “this isn’t going anywhere. This,” he waved around the pile of items on number 4’s dropboard, “this isn’t going anywhere. Just look me in the eye and trust me.”

Trusting him is what they did…

… and trusting him is what they wish they didn’t do.

Number 4 dropped before them and they watched as the majority of their luxury items disappeared beneath the table. Sounds of complete shock filled the challenge room as they watched the events happen before them, leaving one tiny luxury left behind on number 1’s dropboard. YN frowned as she watched the collection of Cadbury’s Caramel chocolate bars disappear, her heart instantly dropping with them, and her face dropped to her hands. 

“You’re joking,” Jemel groaned behind his hands, hiding his face and dragging his palms down his cheeks, “we were certain.”

“Johnny, we’re not listening to you again,” YN frowned playfully at him as he paced the floor in front of the table, “you were so confident.”

“We’re a team, we all went for it. If you thought differently, you should’ve said,” he bit back in a tone that sent an ache through her chest. Making YN’s fake frown turn into a real frown. The creases on her forehead became more prominent, her eyebrows furrowed closer together, her eyes held a dark look behind them and she chewed her tongue in order not to fight back with him - it was a game after all. “Next question, next question.”

Cashews were on the line.

And the question was to do with the population of London, with answers varying between 2 million and 13 million, yet YN chose to keep herself from inputting an answer, staying put and staying silent. 

She watched as they dropped into the table and Johnny slammed his palm upon the tabletop, jumping in her place on the bench beside Anastasia, her cheeks going bright red and she could feel the two men behind her as they hunched over and groaned into their hands, crouching towards the floor. 

“They were cashews, the least they owed us was cashews,” Johnny hurled the words into the room, “cashews.”

The blue team thought they’d done the worst out of both teams partaking in the challenge… until the red team took their turn. 

As quick as the new piles of luxury items had been placed on the four dropboards, they had quickly disappeared after they gave the wrong answer to their first question. A question on Chunkz and his music. With a musically-inclined person in their team. 

The irony couldn’t have been any better.

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“Which one of you is doing the secret hiding challenge thing?”

Arthur broke the silence that had fallen amongst the group, all eyes focusing on him as he stood before the group, asking the question that had been brewing in his mind for the most of the afternoon once he realised a piece from his chess set had gone missing. Knowing that Jokeman wouldn’t have done it and that YN wouldn’t have taken it from him because she hadn’t had a reason to mess with him like that, and he hoped she didn’t take his accusation personally, but he had his suspicions on who it could be. 

“It’s not me,” he pointed to himself, “and it’s not you,” he pointed to Anastasia, “so who is it? Someone’s taken the rook from the chess set.”

YN gripped hold of the edge of the make-up table with her fingertips and leant back upon the yellow stool she was perched upon and tilted her head back to look at him, genuine concern on his face as he looked around the room and made eye contact to see if anyone was lying to him. His eyes holding more on those he thought could be the culprits. 

“It’s not me, I promise,” YN smiled softly, “I’ve barely been down there all day.”

Arthur looked down and nodded, “I know it’s not you.”

“How?” Johnny asked, “it could have been? Just because you fancy her, it doesn’t mean she couldn’t have stolen it as a joke or something.”

YN rolled her eyes.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d done to annoy Johnny and it hurt her brain to think about anything she could have said to him, in the three days they’d been there and in the very few conversations they’d had, that would have upset him or given him a reason to treat her poorly with his words. 

The words twanged at her insides and she frowned, eyebrows pinching together and her eyes went darker than usual, and she busied herself by cleaning up the make-up table in front of her and organising things into a more structured layout. 

And it wasn’t just YN who was upset by his words.

Arthur wanted to bite back. He wanted to defend her but it wasn’t worth the hassle because he would have fought in a game that would have had dangerous consequences on the outside world; he wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t one for confrontation and he didn’t need to argue back in front of cameras that would have picked up the entire thing. He watched her, eyes flickering back to her every now and then, and he could see YN’s mind thinking the same thing with the way her eyes were dark yet still holding a touch of her usual spark when she made eye contact with him. 

“Bold on that one, Arthur,” Jokeman laughed from next to him, in an attempt to lift the mood and nudged him in the arm with his elbow, “although, YN’s far too sweet to even think about making someone so paranoid. This man is going through it right now. Look at him.”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a bright pink.

“I just, I’ve been down playing chess for most of the day and I haven’t really seen YN all day so I didn’t think she’d do it,” he explained, “she might have done it behind my back or when I disappeared for a moment but I don’t think she would have done me over like that. She knows that chess is one massive love of mine.”

YN’s cheeks mirrored Arthur’s and she felt the heat creeping up her neck. 

He disappeared from behind her and into the bedroom where she could hear him asking Anisa, Jamie and Spuddz on whether they had taken the rook to his chess set and, once they swore to him that they didn’t, whether they knew who did take it from the board because he was determined to find the one who had done it.

“I think it’s you,” he stated, looking at Steph as she feigned shock, a hand placed over her heart and her eyes widening, “it has to be you. I’ve asked everyone else.”

“It’s not me,” Steph argued, shaking her head and placing her hands on her hips, “Arthur, it’s not me. I didn’t do it.”

“We’ve been upstairs,” Anastasia chimed in, “she wouldn’t have done it. She couldn’t have done it. She’s been with me.”

“I’ve managed to cross everyone else off the list. It’s you,” he frowned, “it has to be you. I’ve asked everyone else and they’ve all got pretty good alibi’s.”

He stood and waited for a reply. His eyes darted between the two girls before him. 

“Well, it’s not me,” Steph said, “it’s not, I promise you.”

Getting nowhere close to finding out who took the chess piece, Arthur gave up. 

A permanent frown etched on his face for the entire early evening and annoyance written across his body, his body language changing from his usual bouncy self to a more constricted self, because he was being kept away from doing something he enjoyed doing. Something that helped pass the time. Where others had the art of coming up with conversations to help them through the lingering hours, Arthur didn’t and he didn’t excel in conversations with people as well as everyone else so chess was his solace.

Minutes passed by, that turned into hours passing by, and by then, they’d all disappeared and dispersed into another room. YN found comfort on a beanbag with a blanket wrapped around her, to the back of the room where everyone had seemingly congregated so she could still listen to what was going on and she could still be a part of conversations that were happening, and it was the one thing she was thankful people understood about her; how she liked to be by herself, with her own thoughts, without forcing her to do things she didn’t want to do.

And her moment was torn from her when she watched Steph take Arthur aside.

She wasn’t staring, she wasn’t really interested in what they were saying and she didn’t really care for them being sat together and having a chat in the corner, but what seemingly bothered her was how she pulled him into a hug and kept him close, arms wrapping around his neck as his snaked around her waist. And she felt a pang of… dare she say it… she felt a pang of jealousy surge through her chest and she found it hard to take her eyes away from what was happening. She knew the cameras were on her and she knew they were watching her every move, as they were with Arthur and Steph, and deep down she knew she needed to stop feeling that way… yet she couldn’t stop herself.

“I did take your chess piece,” she announced proudly, “it was me. I’ve hidden it in one of the kitchen cupboards.”

And YN was torn from her distant gaze as he let out a blaring ‘I knew it’ into the quiet room and shot up from his seat, chasing Steph from room to room and ending out on the patio of the house where, just for a tiny second and through the gap between the doorframe and stairs, YN saw a second hug happen.

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‘Steph, your Shrimp 🍤 crew is absolutely here 💯 goooooo Steeeph 🤩’

“Shrimp crew?” YN laughed and looked across to Steph, “what’s that about?”

“It’s because my posture is always like this,” she hunched over in demonstration and brought her chest to her knees, letting her posture drop compared to the straight back she was sitting with prior and YN cackled softly, “it’s so bad so I just call my little following the Shrimp crew.”

“Do you know that girl?” Arthur questioned and looked at her and everyone snickered around them, even YN had a small smile tickle at the corner of her lips as she looked at his flushing cheeks and clueless look behind his eyes, “what?”

“It’s a comment, bro,” Johnny teased, pushing Arthur’s shoulder in amusement, “just a comment.”

‘Here we go!!!’

“Saffron,” Steph cooed, “that’s so cute.”

“That’s my best friend,” Anastasia grinned, pointing her fingers at the camera and smiling wide, “that’s my best friend. Love you Saff!”

‘I can’t wait, rooting for Jamie!! (LDN movements)’

“Jamie!” 

Everyone cried out his name once they read the comment on the screen and he stood to his feet, a bashful look on his face and he played shy for the group and for the cameras, clasping his hands before him and doing a tiny twirl before he sat back down on the sofa.

‘Arthur is too sweet. What a winner’

Everyone clapped for the comment and Arthur blushed a bright pink, Jokeman clapping him on the shoulders and giving him a gentle shake, cheering behind him. 

YN blushed when he looked at her after the noise and the commotion had died down, giving him the softest thumbs up and the cheesiest grin she could muster, and he shot her a wink before he turned back around and looked back at the screen. 

‘YN all the way! Love you girl! Smash it in there!’

“Yes, girly,” Anisa grinned and wrapped her arm around YN’s shoulder, pulling her into a hug as gave cheers of agreement with the comment before them, “guys, this is my winner right here. Along with me, of course. We can split the prize money.”

Arthur gave her the cheesiest grin he could muster and threw her a thumbs up, in the same fashion that she had done to him, and she giggled to herself and looked to her hands. 

The cutest, she thought to herself, absolutely adorable.

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The house had finally settled.

And, for YN, it was the first real moment of solitude that she’d felt that day. Night time seemed to be the first time, that day, where she managed to find time to herself, and it was like a breath of fresh air after another day spent navigating through people, friendships, challenges and tasks to win points throughout the show. She didn’t have to convene with anyone, no conversation was needed and she could finally be at peace with her thoughts as she reminisced on what was happening around her.

As her housemates retreated upstairs, either already asleep or engaged in the familiar ritual of preparing themselves for bed, she found herself drawn to the sanctuary of the lounge. She’d said goodnight to everyone as they made their way into the bedroom as she collected her lounge clothes and slippers so she could chill out in the living room, dragging the duvet down the stairs behind her, and saying goodnight to the last few housemates who were trudging themselves up the stairs.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day,” Arthur hummed quietly, taking the seat beside her on the sofa and pulling some of the blanket from her legs so he could cover his own from the chill in the air, “I definitely haven’t spoken to you all day, I don’t think.”

She smiled softly and shrugged gently, cosying back into the sofa and pulling her legs up to her chest.

“Are you okay?” 

He gazed at her face as he waited for an answer, whether it be a change in emotion or verbal, yet nothing seemed to make it obvious to him. 

“I’m fine, I’m just…” she watched as Spuddz and Jamie walked through the lounge area and towards the kitchen, saying their goodnights as they were the last two to disappear upstairs and get ready for bed, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” he pointed out, watching as the features of her face contorted into a look that seemingly made her look like she was about to cry, “did I say something?”

“No,” she frowned and she refused to let the tears that had been stinging at her eyelids come to bay, “I’m fine, honestly. I think I’m just overtired and now I’m struggling to feel tired enough to lay down and go to sleep so I just feel all-”

“Emotional?” 

She nodded and giggled softly, pulling the blanket up to her chin and focusing her attention on the soft fabric between her fingertips.

“You weren’t upset about what happened earlier, were you?”

He didn’t need to remind her; the situation had sat at the front of her brain for the majority of the evening. 

“Not really, it just annoys me that they insinuate things after everything we do together or whenever one of us defends the other,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders and the stinging of tears seemed to subside a little as she spoke about what she had bottled up all day, “I think I just need to stop letting words affect me and grow up a little, I guess.”

“I think it was a valid reason to be upset,” Arthur said, “there’s a lot of loud voices in here that it’s hard not to feel upset when something is said with a little vigour and brashness. If it helps, I was going to bite back but I didn’t think it was worth it… he has a lot more fans than I do. I think, publicly, I’d have been torn to pieces.”

YN smiled softly at him and shook her head, “I think you’d have a lot of defence behind you. I’d be your number one defender, for sure.”

“Likewise,” he jabbed his elbow into her side, “we make a great team.”

[sugary-daydreams3]

Quiet inbetween [Sukuna x Reader]

Summary: Collections of quiet, cozy, intimate moments you share with Sukuna, who thinks you two won't last a year. Someone who used to live a wild, fast-paced, loud lifestyle couldn't possibly be fit for a long-term relationship. But he doesn't know that you're the one he needed this whole time.

Word Count: 3.7K words

Rating: Mostly fluff with a little spice (sexual content) at the end, but no full explicit content. Mostly T with a little M.

A/N: Happy holidays y'all. This might be my last fic posted in the year so I hope you guys transition into the new year safely. Goodness, do I love writing my A.U. version of Sukuna. So fun and flirty that he makes me blush sometimes and I control what he says. But I guess that's a good thing, right. Sadly my next fic is dealing with a not so fun topic, haha. (It's Gojo-centric, so you might know where I'm going with this) Anyways, stay safe out there and I'll see you again in 2025. Enough yapping from me, enjoy!

Normal, quiet moments tend to bring discomfort within Sukuna. Dating trouble as a teen limited his time to sit and enjoy the small pleasures of life. He was all about the grand, overwhelming, taboo pleasures that one wouldn’t dare chase but rather daydream about. Or worse, make simulation games about and live out their guilty pleasures vicariously through fictional characters. But with taboo pleasures come consequences which landed him in jail for some time.  

Within the year after his release, he met you which slowly inspired him to alter his fast, vicious lifestyle. You introduced him to things he never would have found himself participating in. Things he used to tease his twin brother for being a sheep for society for. A mom-and-pop coffee shop was one of them.  

“How do you drink this shit?” Sukuna sticks out his tongue. Tanned liquid trapped in your mouth almost spills. Air blows from your nose, signifying your amusement at Sukuna’s first experience with coffee.  

Swallowing down the first sip of your coffee, your eyes admire Sukuna’s childlike distaste for your go-to morning beverage. “Because I order mine with cream, sugar, and caramel. You’re pretty much drinking burnt black water.”  

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”   

You give him a “really?” look. “I said you should start out with the caramel Frappuccino but you said, and I quote.” You notch your voice down several pitches lower. “The hell I look like drinking that sissy shit.”  

“You could have recommended me any other drink but this. This was a terrible first impression.”  

“I can order you another one to make up for it.”  

Sukuna pouts. “I’ll pass. I fear I’ll be disappointed again.”  

“Sukuna, you just drink straight black coffee, you can’t write the whole thing off just because you had one variation of it. That’s like saying “I hate potatoes” because you ate unsalted, lukewarm fries.” Sukuna scrunches his face.  

“That’s not the same.”  

“Yes, it is. It’s a perfect comparison.”  

“It’s two completely different scenarios. You really thought you schooled me with that, huh.”  

“Shut up. I’m ordering you a new drink.”  

Waiting for his redemption cup, Sukuna stares at you typing away on your laptop computer. Your hair curtains over part of your face, tempting Sukuna to reach over and fix it. Yet the messy hair curtain highlights your beauty so effortlessly, he couldn’t stop adoring your natural radiance.  

The strong smell of roast occasionally makes its mark. Ranges of chatter mingle with the loud cycle of brewing and baking. Quirky, cheesy posters hang all over, providing a drowning sense of positivity and relatability. Generic chill music slithers through the atmosphere, failing to chill Sukuna’s social anxiety. Thankfully, his new drink just came to save the moment.  

Taking a drink from the flat white laced with sugar and cream, he sits back to allow his brain to register. His eyebrows raise with a small smack of his mouth, giving you some hope that coffee redeemed itself on the oh so great Sukuna’s tastebuds.   

“Well?” You ask impatiently.  

“Not bad. Could use more sugar but it’s drinkable.” Sukuna reviews. A pleased smile killed your worry. “I’m glad you gave it a second chance. I hope we can have more coffee dates like this.”  

Sukuna narrows his eyes. “This is a date?”   

Your eyes roll. “No this is a job interview.”  

“I’m not one for customer service but if I get to look at you all day long and the pay is good then sign me up.” You hate that something as corny as that made you blush.  

“Hush Sukuna, of course this is a date. This is like our twelfth time seeing each other, I like to think all of the time we spent together so far wasn't a waste of time.”  

“Ooh someone’s no-nonsense.” Sukuna smirks, large arms crossed.  

You sigh, “I’m just over the hookups and the flings. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t just one-and-done me.”  

“Eh, all of the one-night conquests and strictly sex ordeals were starting to get stale. You got a nice face with a body to match. You’re on no bullshit and are fun for the most part. You haven't bored me yet so I don’t mind continuing this.”  

“Yet?”  

“I tend to get bored with my women so I wouldn't hold hope of this lasting past a year. Just letting you know so the heartbreak will hurt a little less.”  

You smirk, amused by his lack of filter. “Well, a year will be record breaking compared to my recent relationships these last few years. So bring it.”  

Your polished nails navigate the grassy fields of dusty pink, natural hair oil inked on your fingertips. Your poor thighs are weighed down under his dumbbells for arms. Your other hand caress Sukuna’s right bicep, fixating on the jet black tattoos contrasting with his pale skin. He rubs your left knee as he rests against your stomach.  

Sukuna releases a deep sigh, letting go of the temporary stresses of life. He’ll rather die than admit it but this is what he mostly looks forward to when he goes about his day. It took him a while to get used to you being positioned behind him, often side eyeing the first few times you two were like this.   

Call it trust issues. Slam the non-medical diagnosis of PTSD resulted from a rough upbringing and life as a criminal. Or if we’re really getting psychological, throw out the fancy “internalized misanthropy” word. Re-fucking-gardless, he’s always been highly aware and on guard whenever people are in close proximity to him, ever since he was a kid.  

Now, the more he allows himself to turn his brain off in your lap the easier you hear him lightly snoring within several minutes. You giggle as his resting figure emits loud snores thirty minutes in of scalp scratching and head caressing.   

“Sweet dreams.” You reach down to peck warmth on his forehead.  

Your wishes go unnoticed as child-like ease warps itself across face tattoos and a sharp jawline. A surprisingly dynamic clash.  

Your laughter saturates the kitchen space accompanied by music from the vintage radio. Flour dressed your behemoth all over, making it the sight of the century. Sukuna frowns as he attempts to smooth the pizza dough with the rolling pin. Tears edge your eyes; the catastrophe he was causing was funnier than any standup comedy.  

“Hush. You're breaking my focus.” Sukuna was struggling to knead the dough enough to be a thin foundation. It usually ends up shaping to be a deep dish or just a regular sized pizza. This was his third effort to mold the pizza, with two “epic failures” baking in the oven.  

When your laughter demoted to light chuckles, you rub his arm for support. “You know I can help you shape the dough. It took me fifteen tries before making an objectively decent pizza.” Sukuna shakes his head.  

“That’s because you were the one making it. It’s gonna be perfect this time.” Sukuna smooths out the dough and smirks at his “perfectly” thin pizza. You roll your eyes and walk over to gather the cheese and other toppings.  

The pizza rises within the oven, gluing the toppings within the cheese. Sukuna watches it carefully from the kitchen island, like his life depended on whether this Thursday night dinner was great or not.   

A marathon of T.V. commercial ramblings was bugging background noise as you tidied up. The other two pizzas sat on the cooling rack, being forgotten tasty mistakes. Flour ages his hair many decades, snowing down his chest with every tiny movement. He turns to see an unlikely troublemaker look down at him, a small hill of flour ready to be thrown from your palm. Sukuna narrows his eyes with a challenging look.  

“You’re playing a dangerous game, darling.”  

“Game on.” You threw it, igniting a two-man war.  

The remaining time for the perfect pizza to cook filled with flour fights, spotting majority of the kitchen with white powder. The cooking timer goes off as you two lay across the table exchanging flour and zeal between prolonged smooches.

This epic fantasy was seducing your imagination during the mundane hours of the late evening. You sense Sukuna spying on you and your book from the corner of your eye. However, the clever arrangement of words trailing above your bookmark helps you ignore him.  

“How do you read these things? That shit looks bigger than The Bible.” Sukuna pokes at the spine of your novel, trailing over the gold-engrained lettering.  

“I don’t judge stories based on length. If it’s engaging enough then I wouldn’t mind reading three hundred-plus pages of something.”  

“Where do you find the time to invest in a story that long?” Sukuna wasn’t even teasing at this point; he was genuinely curious.  

“People watch 10 seasons worth of television or animes with more than 100 episodes.”  

“Watching TV and reading are different no matter how much you try to make them feel the same. I can simply turn on the T.V. and watch 100 episodes of something without exerting much energy. You have to sit up, read so many words, and decipher hundreds of pages worth of story. It’s not the same.”  

“True, I’ll give you that. I just find it funny that people draw the line at consuming a story through reading only because you have to put a little more effort in it.” You bounced back.  

Sukuna rubbed his chin. “I remember being into poetry and haikus a lot as a teenager. But I started getting involved in other shit so I lost interest along the way.”   

You snap to him, no longer being a silent witness to a passionate kissing scene. “You like poetry?”  

“I suppose. I always liked how poets managed to craft thoughts so elegantly. Perfectly describing the complicated or unsaid.”  

“You know the local bookstore down the street has a whole section of poetry books. What’s your favorite poets? I could buy you some of their latest work.” Your comforter became a temporary bookmark with your book lying face down.  

“Hmm, I don’t really have a favorite poet. I used to buy a bunch of random poetry or haiku books and kept the ones that stuck with me. There is one writer that I really like though...”  

You wait in anticipation as you witness him in thought. Simple things like racking his brain makes him a cutie. Sukuna snaps his fingers.  

“Ahh, Yosa Takahama is his name. His work is usually written in Japanese but some translators re-publish them in their mother’s tongue. His work is hard to find around here though. I don’t even know how I managed to snag one of his books in the first place.”  

Despite the challenge, you were determined to get it for him. “I’ll figure out a way to get you one. That way we could be reading buddies.”  

“You don’t have to do all of that, doll. You’ll rip your hair out trying to find those books. I’m fine watching you ignore me in favor of a book that can knock your teeth out.” You chuckle.  

During the rest of the night, you noticed the boredom on Sukuna’s face as he mindlessly consumes television. The least you can do is try to hunt down this haiku book for him. Dating him for some time, he confessed to losing touch with so many hobbies he grew up with over the last few years. You wanted to bring that inner child back to life, killed by proving to the world how tough he was.  

Getting him to read something that actually interests him can be another way to embrace the innocent pleasures in life. You can tell he misses that wild delinquency some days, but you hope he doesn’t miss it enough to end this relationship over. If you can find it, hopefully it can be a building block that rebuilds his new path after leaving the old behind. Anything to help you be closer to him.  

6 weeks later 

Sukuna emerges from the bathroom. The odors of the food he cooked from his restaurant today were replaced with standard soap and his natural scent. Like every other night, you sat with your book, seemingly ignoring Sukuna’s lingering stare.  

After dressing himself, he sinks on the mattress and attempts to lay against his pillow. His thick neck isn't met with the soft cushion but instead a hard surface in the middle area. He stares at his pillow, offended for it not providing comfort, so he lifts it up. A white hardcover book reveals.  

“What’s this?” He asked, not turning to you yet. You shift from the words to your boyfriend’s confusion. “I don’t know where that came from. Maybe the book fairy paid you a visit.” You played dumb.  

“You’re so corny.” He holds up the book.  

“A corny girl you’ve been dating for almost a year now.”  

“Quiet. I’m trying to see what this is.” Sukuna didn’t even examine the title, the pages of the book flutter until he lands on a random page. He reads aloud.  

“Vindictive winter / A white, mighty rabbit looks / betrayed by the king / ...wait.” Sukuna looks at you and you copy his shocked expression.  

“This is Yosa Takahama’s stuff. How did you even get this? This must have cost you a fortune.”  

“It was costly and took me weeks to find a readable copy but the look on your face right now makes it worth it. I wanted you to read with me instead of being a T.V. zombie. Even if that means reading mind fuckery haikus.” You chuckle.  

Sukuna grabs your waist from the side and unleashes many wet pecks around your cheek, neck, and upper chest. You giggle as you brush his hair and hug him back.  

“I appreciate it.”  

“No big deal.” You replicate his cool cat version of “You’re welcome.” that he usually throws at you. Sukuna smirks at the playful imitation.  

The rest of the evening is spent with you two lost in your own worlds of literature. Your brains mixed imagination, broadened perspectives, and emotional intelligence from honeyed words inked against the white.

“I’m too big for this tub. You barely have any room to stretch your legs.” Sukuna commented.  

He adjusted his position behind you, the bubbles shifting from his large body. Your feet rested on the tip of the tub to keep from smushing against the porcelain. You turn to him, offering a reassuring smile. He snickers at your ridiculous face mask, particularly the cucumbers concealing your eyes.  

“No, you’re not. You say that every time you get in with me. You’re fine Kuna, really.”  

Sukuna rests his arms around the top edges of the tub, leaning back to make himself comfortable in his slightly cramped soak. The warm water, Epsom salt, and meditation music playing from your phone kneads away the hidden tension that plagues his body from the everyday.  

“Before I met you, I haven't taken a bath in almost fifteen years.” He confesses.  

“That sounds so disgusting out of context.” You cringe. Sukuna chuckles.   

“You know what I mean.”  

“I can’t imagine going that long without a bath. Baths are way better than showers.” You admitted.  

“Showers are for a quick wash. Baths are more for relaxation.”  

“I shower for fifteen minutes minimum, thirty-five minutes max. I spend about three minutes just letting the hot water hit my body and think about whatever. There’s no way I can just shower for ten minutes or less.”  

“Is that why you’re so smoking.” Sukuna flirted. You shake your head, “That was so corny, Kuna. C’mon you can flirt better than that.”  

“You’re right. I just wanted to see your reaction.”   

You two enjoy each other’s company. The heat protects you from winter and the sheet of bubbles float around and pop within. Sukuna arms lay over yours, rubbing over your wrist. Sukuna focuses on your face and develops a sense of mischief.  

“Babydoll.”  

“Yeah?”  

“Turn around for me.”  

You quirk a brow but obeyed by slowly turning his way. In a swift motion, Sukuna moves forward and bites off the cucumber sitting on your right eye. Your right vision sees Sukuna munching on your edible eye mask.  

“Really, Kuna? You couldn’t resist temptation to eat that?” You scolded. You take off the other cucumber, abandoning your hopes to keep your eyelids nice and fresh. Sukuna steals the other cucumber from your hand and flings it in his mouth.  

“You’re impossible to relax with sometimes.”  

“Thanks for the snack.” Sukuna mumbles through chewing.  

You sigh then lay against his chest and close your eyes. If he was going to interrupt your beauty routine the least he can do is be your pillow.

Sukuna big toe hugs your own after caressing your right foot. Both of your feet poke out from the thick blanket, suffering from the gentle lashes of the nippy air condition. You rest your head on his squishy but firm chest, goosebumps forming from his rough hands brushing your skin.   

“We should light the fireplace.” You suggested.  

Sukuna let out a lazy sigh, “What you really mean is that I should light it.”  

“Yeah, you should.”  

“I could but I fear I’ll turn into a popsicle.”  

You giggle. “Hey, at least you’ll taste good.”  

Sukuna smirks, “I already taste good. You should know out of anyone.”  

You playfully shrug. “Eh, you’re alright. No fine dining though.”  

“Oh really?”  

“Yep.”  

“How about you taste this then.”  

Sukuna leans down and traps your lips in the moment. His lips were smaller than yours yet they managed to govern the heat stirring between each lingering kiss. The frigid air in the room is forgotten in your minds as you and Sukuna make out under the grey blanket. After a couple minutes of sensual touching and lip pulls, Sukuna goes for your neck.  

“Well?” Sukuna lands soft bites inches under your chin.  

“I was just kidding earlier but that was...”  

“Better than fine dining?”  

“I don’t know what’s better than fine dining but, yeah, better than that.”  

Sukuna chuckles, “Glad to remind you.”  

Sukuna “accidentally” lands a hard bite just above your collarbone, caging a pleasured groan within closed lips. Sukuna kisses the forming red patch, “Sorry baby, got a little greedy there.”  

“I hope I give you a brain freeze.” You joked, trying to take your mind off the aching spot.  

Sukuna hooks his finger around the side of your silk underwear, his other hand slowly appreciates your ass. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

Your body slowly rocks on top of him, the yellow and orange from the fireplace illuminate your dips and curves. The aftershocks of your second orgasm calm down, giving you the signal to stop riding him. One hand caresses the trimmed hairs sprinkled across Sukuna’s chest. The other traces the small gold chain decorating his pecs. Sukuna squeezes the body fat from your hips then pats your left butt cheek.  

You hop off and lay down on the blanket you set down for your second round. Sukuna pulls off the condom and gets up to throw it away. The contained fire warms your naked body from a distance, defending you from the army of white cold. You hum while the fire entertains you until Sukuna comes back. He’s wearing the boxers he had on earlier with the embroidered knife patterns. Where he got those kinds of boxers you may never know.  

Sukuna drops the pillow he stole from the couch then sits down on the blanket. He pulls you towards him and you two lie down together. You perform his signature trait, pushing his hair back, enabling his wild look. Sukuna traces your spine, quietly admiring both how strong and weak one’s bone structure could be.  

“I never thought I would enjoy silly things like sitting in front of a fireplace during winter.”  

“It’s silly?”  

“Not really. I guess I just associated this with Christmas activities. Christmas always seemed too cheesy to me so I associated things like this as silly holiday stuff.”  

“Yeah, I get it. Sex in front of the fireplace, just silly wholesome Christmas activities.” You joked. You instantly felt Sukuna’s laughter rumble throughout his chest. After calming down he gives your arm a light pinch.  

“You know what I mean.”  

“I’m just happy you allowed me to bring some mellow in your life. I remember when I met you, you were always in some crazy illegal trouble. It seemed like I could barely keep up with you and your fast-paced lifestyle.”  

“Yeah, it was fun for a while, I’ll admit. Even getting caught had some sort of thrill. Now that I’m pushing thirty, I just feel over it.”  

You chuckle, “Not a spring chicken as you used to be.”  

“Yeah. I suppose every hot shot has their limit.”  

“Well, I’m proud that you’re beginning to settle down. I know your brother is too.” You rub his cheek.  

“I was surprised when he offered to help me set up my fight clubhouse. He’s usually against violence and shit.”  

“Maybe he thought that it would be a nice distraction from your life with crime. Even if it meant supporting you doing something he also doesn’t like. Like a lesser of two evils kind of thing.”  

“I never knew someone so predictable yet unpredictable at the same time more than him.” Sukuna said. You giggle then sprawl your hands across Sukuna’s abdomen, trailing over the ridges in a playful matter. Sukuna tender gaze studies your features as he softly pulls little cushions of your skin.  

“Thank you for sticking with me.”  

You look up to see the wild orange shadowing his strong features. His usual too cool-for-school attitude was replaced with a loving nature only reserved for you. A nature molded by small, seemingly insignificant moments sparked by a mutual agreement of casual dating. You plant a few kisses against his jawline then lay back on his chest.  

Before your eyes close for the night, you slur a few words that gets a smile out of Sukuna. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”  

[kyri45]

Hey! This is a weird ask to send, but Imma go for it ^^'

I know your probably pretty busy too- so please just ignore this if you don't want to answer it- no pressure 😭

I really love your comics! Just in general. You do really amazing work and I absolutely love it!! I love the style you have, the expressions, theviews, shaping, the body language- just everything is perfect! Thanks for giving your time and effort to these projects, and thanks for sharing it with all of us <:D! It's been wonderful looking at everything here.

But I did want to ask- your Shadowpeach bio parent au, and the other aus, are really amazing! I myself am starting on a LMK au fan comic, and it's the first comic I've actually published online, or actually gotten to work on ^^' so, before I get started on it, I wanted to ask you for tips, or things you think would be useful to know! I really don't want to mess it all up one way or another, so I thought I'd ask for some tips from one of the best ^^'... sorry for the bother <:3

If you do end up reading this in the *undoubtably* large inbox of asks you have, thanks for your time, and please remember to take a break and make time for yourself <:D. Thank you again, and I wish you a lovely, day, night- timezone-

Cant wait to see more of *anything* you post, really ^^ have a wonderful time!

Hello!

I would absolutely love to give you tips! I'll be honest though this is, again, a pretty wide topic, and I'm overwhelmed with work at the moment.

So! Like last time, would it be ok for you if I talk about it in a stream?

Would you guys be interested in that? on my TWITCH

[amaderika]

. . % JUST MY LUCK ! yoru x reader

001 CW SMUT, long fic, f!reader, nerd!yoru, loser!yoru, popular!reader, reader is lowkey mean, blowjob, boob job, inexperienced yoru again im so sorry 😭 002 A/N nghghf finally got the time to post <33 this has been in my drafts for months...

the nervousness yoru was feeling at the moment was indescribable. there was a pair work, again. he dreaded pair works—he loathed them. usually, his partner would let him do everything. all because he was considered a star student. it was a curse and a blessing at the same time.

“why did sir let us pick our partners..? i'll for sure be a last option for whoever's as unlucky as me. .” he thought.

you, on the other hand, did not care one bit. it was starting to annoy you. he was fidgeting with his ID, the sound of his keychain hitting the frame making an irritating sound. why did you have to be seated beside him? his only redeeming quality is his intelligence. people only talked to him if they needed help with academics.

although yoru was smart, he knew no one would pick him. he was a loser, after all. people found him unapproachable and awkward. he had weird, messy, black hair, a lot of ear piercings, and his outfits were just.. weird.

as you looked to the side, you noticed the poor boy beside you, still feeling anxious. it was baffling how someone could be this stressed over pairings. yoru watched as people were picking partners while he was sitting there in silence.

he was scared—not only on behalf of his dignity, but his academics too. if no one chose him, how would he do the project? if no one chose him, how will his grades be—

“yoru, do you wanna partner up?” you asked him.

that sentence made him shiver a bit from the unexpectedness. you? out of all people? were asking to be partners with someone like him? oh, he'd just consider you his savior.

he turned to face you but quickly looked down out of shame. he almost forgot how to speak a coherent sentence when he looked in the same direction as you. you were just wondering if he knew how stupid he looked. his hair was basically covering his eyes as he was looking at the floor. “uh. . yoru?”

“ 'm sorry! yes, i would gladly appreciate if you were partners with me. in fact, i'm so grateful you gave me this oppurtunity to—”

you interrupted him. why does he only have 2 sides. . ? not talking at all or talking too much. you wished yourself goodluck as you realized what you got yourself into. your hands ran through his hair and you pat his head. “yeah, yeah, whatever. let's meet at my place to start it.”

oh, his face was red. he's never had anyone touch him like that before. he nodded at your remark and mumbled a little “thank you.”

people, including your friends, looked at you weirdly after finding out you decided to pair with yoru.

you and your friends were eating at a cafe for lunch. they decided to bring up the topic. “did you feel bad for, you know. . yoru?” one of them giggled. “or are you just planning to use him? you know, good idea. he knows you're a hot shot right? maybe you can—”

“yeah, i did feel bad. what's your deal? just shut up and eat.” you said while stirring your drink. it wasn't that big of a deal, actually. and why would you use him? yoru seemed like a nice guy despite your earlier impressions. he did weird you out in a way, but you didn't wanna embarrass him in front of your friends.

your drink was half finished. you wanted to order another one but you saw a familiar face outside the café. it was yoru, waiting for you outside nervously.

6pm. you were walking with yoru outside the campus to your place. on the way out, yoru was slightly annoyed on how much people were interrupting your walk. multiple people would greet you which causes you to start small talk and waste time. did you not understand how serious a research assignment was? you didn't get him at all! he wanted to complain, but he had no room to. he was nothing compared to you.

“you going to the party tomorrow?” an acquaintance of yours asked.

“i'll see. got a research to do and, well.” you gestured at yoru and giggled, hoping she would get the memo. you were kinda chained to this responsibility of finishing the project as soon as possible. yoru would probably want the project finished in a few days. he was that type of person. i mean, it was your fault for picking an academically attached loser.

after a few minutes of walking in silence, you two finally reached your place.

“place your laptop wherever.” yoru was looking around awkwardly. your place was nice for sure. . he felt a bit scared to sit down anywhere as he might ruin something and get you upset. no, no. anything but that. .

he sat on your couch and you followed suit. you were so close to him. yoru was tensing up. you two were usually seated beside each other during lectures, but this felt different. it felt. . strangely intimate. the two of you were alone, at night. anything could happen.

the two of you got to researching. it was too awkward. the silence was loud. you decided to play some music to “lighten up the mood” a bit and clear up the air.

it's been an hour, and you looked to the side. yoru was focused. he was typing quickly. his hands swiftly moved the mouse from one tab to another. while looking at his hands, your eyes locked onto the multiple golden rings on them. his hands were pretty long and veiny too.

the silence was getting to you. you decided to ask him to check your progress so far.

he flinched. it's been a while since the both of you said anything so he was quite surprised. “huh? okay.” he checked the google docs where the both of you started your draft on.

he had a. . confused expression while reading your part of the essay. the boy looked almost disappointed. he let out a sigh.

“oh.. well, it's not that bad..” he was trying so hard to be nice. to be fair, your work wasn't that bad. his standards were just high. he got back to work a bit drained as now, he had to fix your work too.

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you struggled to read his expression. why did he look so down? you did your work anyways. “what's up with it? is there something wrong?”

he cleared his throat, “your grammar in these parts are wrong, you spelt this wrong, you didn't cite your sources properly—” he continued talking for what felt like an hour. he just had so much to say, didn't he?

he was typing quickly, fixing all your errors. his fingers didn't catch a break.

it was somewhat pissing you off how much he was correcting your work when it was completely unnecessary. he could've just let you fix it, now he's stressed out. yoru ruffled his hair and let out a groan under his breath, hoping you didn't hear him.

you just wanted to help, but he's so stressed he won't even listen to your suggestions.

you, being the worst comforter there is possible, decided to tap his shoulder. “yoru, you need to calm down a bit.”

the poor boy turned to face you. his eyebrows were furrowed and he just looked so sad. you wanted to kiss him so bad, but that's not the time for that stuff. instead, you buried him in between your breasts. okay, maybe that was a worse option, but it was just an innocent hug.

yoru leaned into the hug, oblivious to the hard-on you were starting to feel against your leg. he nuzzled his cheek against the top part of your breast. it was comfy—warm and soft. it was comforting in contrast to the stress of academics he was experiencing.

“t-thank you, again.” his voice was muffled as he said that due to him being pressed up against you.

you've done this multiple times, with different boys, but why, why does it feel so different this time around? your heart fluttered and it never did for anyone before.

yoru, on the other hand, was also having the time of his life. it was showing. his cheeks were red and he refused to show his face to you. he was starting to feel his pants tighten as he grew self aware of his erection.

“how about this? i'll give you a massage so you can take a small break.” you suggested. you both felt the growing sexual tension between you two—it was getting hard to ignore.

yoru nodded. he didn't know how else to react. how was he supposed to react when a popular girl basically smothered him in her tits and now is offering him a massage? he was winning in life. this was coming from a guy with no pull at all!

as soon as you got the go signal from him, you got on your knees. your fingers were above his zipper when he stopped you and grabbed your hand. “no, no, wait! i-i'm—” he was expecting an actual massage from you, not this. “i'm not experienced when it comes to this stuff! i-i've jerked off before but, i've never done the actual thing. i'm sorry if i don't satisfy yo—” here he goes again with the endless yapping.

that was even better for you. “dont be silly, yoru. i don't care.”

you looked so, so hot from yoru's point of view. his cock was starting to hurt from how hard he was. he unzipped his pants for you in order not to be an inconvenience. this exposed his hard, pulsating cock. his cock was long and thick, and i mean thick. it left you wondering how you'll be able to fit that in your mouth at all. .

the mushroom shaped head glistened with precum, the white fluid drooling from the slit. it was twitching with every touch of your finger. even a slight budge made him shiver, how cute.

“ungh— please don't tease me..” yoru pleaded. he couldn't contain his whines and whimpers that much. you were barely even touching him, but he was so hard it made him so sensitive. he was loud—you hoped none of your neighbors were hearing his moans.

he let out a strangled moan as you tried to stuff his cock in your mouth. his hips bucked involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your throat. the sensation of your tongue swirling around the sensitive head was almost too much to bear.

yoru was gripping the couch as he fought the urge to control your movements. he was scared he'd hurt you if he got a hold of your hair, but oh, how he wanted his entire cock in your mouth. his other hand shakily tried to cover his mouth. “fuck.. please. please please—” poor boy was scared of being “rough.”

he felt you gag on his cock which just made his hips buck once again. he was trying his best to control himself, really. yoru held your hair as gently as he could as he tried pulling his cock out of your mouth to see if you were okay. he thought you were genuinely struggling.

“y-you don't need to force yourself to take it all.” he tried to reach out to you but you kept going. your hands started stroking him. each stroke made him grow closer and closer to cumming.

as you sped up your hands and licked his tip, you felt the familiar warm liquid spilling in your throat. yoru's eyes were filling up with tears as the sensation was too much for the poor boy to handle.

“such'a good boy. my baby boy.” you kissed his tip. you weren't done with him though.

you pulled your top down enough to reveal your tits. his favorite ever.

“oh, this is..” the sight of your breasts made him grow harder. your hard nipples practically begging to be sucked made him drool. he was in a daze.

he grabbed your tits and fondled them. your right nipple was being sucked, as the other one was being played with. yoru just refused to pull away from them.

he bit down on your breast, leaving a mark. “yoru baby.. umph.” your hand pushed him deeper in between them. you felt warm liquid spilling down your thighs. he was.. cumming, again.

he was too busy being a baby as he sucked and licked on your breasts. “mmf.. mmh. they're so soft.” his voice was muffled as he moaned. “they're so warm and soft, i wish i could be here forever.” you stroked his hair.

it was about time. you got on your knees once more and this time snuggled his cock in between your tits. it was so warm, it almost felt like a pussy. it was close enough.

yoru groaned as you wrapped your soft breasts around his throbbing cock, the sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before. the warmth of your flesh enveloped him and it has him over the edge.

“unghmf! it feels so good! shit— it's so warm!” he whined. his head fell back and his eyes squeezed shut. yoru imagined it was your pussy instead, as he tried to thrust up and down your tits.

he was getting close again. it didn't take long for him to cum all over your tits.

“that was quick. .” the sticky white substance covered your tits. yoru was still trying to recover from his high, but you got on his lap. before you could do anything, he interrupted you.

“no, no. not yet! no penetration yet. . we still have work to do.” yoru buried his face in your cum covered tits. “i'll be fine with just sucking on your tits while working.” he was so red again. his horniness made him bolder than he usually was, which totally made you forget how shy he was.

“if you don't wanna fuck, that's totally fine with me.” you said.

yoru immediately protested. “no! you got it all wrong. i do wanna have sex with you— i-i wanna be inside of you but.. we have something more important to do.”

yoru felt less stressed now. tits in his mouth, a hot popular girl as his partner, and a half finished essay. what more could he ask for?

[primofate]

About boycotting Genshin Impact: Natlan skin colour issue and McDonalds.

(Read if you care about these issues and care about what I'm doing.)

If you are only here for a TLDR and want to know if I'm still writing Genshin fanfiction here's the short story: (I appreciate all the encouraging messages and all the love, but I may need to find another platform if things aren't working out here. If that day comes I will surely post over here and let you know where I've gone, but for now, though it is quite unpleasant, I do like and am used to the tumblr format. )

Long post starts here:

Decided to finally say something about this, because I feel like I've read up adequately about things.

First off, to the anon who claimed that I didn't care (who revealed their real identity in my inbox and apologized) I appreciate your bravery and also appreciate the apology. But I'm not going to lie to you, I don't really care for your presence around here, specially after what happened.

About the Natlan issue and the lack of tan/brown/dark skinned colour characters,

I understand why people are upset. I had a conversation with someone about this on tumblr, on how me, myself, I get upset when there is a lack of FEMALE main characters in games (I am mostly talking about the Persona Franchise, the main characters are always MALE, time and time again I always wait for a FEMALE MC, but am always disappointed that it hasn't happened EXCEPT of course, for P3 Portable and P2EP. Finally you had the option to play as Female, but that was it. I mean, it's 2024. WHY is there a lack of FEMALE MC in Persona? Anyhow, that is a different topic altogether.) so I can see how it could be disappointing for POC to see less or even NO characters that are POC.

That part, I totally understand.

All of your actions, boycotting, not rolling, not playing the game, being free to play, I UNDERSTAND all of that.

Now, recently there has been a big issue with Genshin Impact collaborating with McDonalds, because the chain supports Israel (but McDonalds is a franchise... and different owners have different ways of using their ownership of the chain/profit they make off it, so idk how that equals to all McDonalds support Israel. Educate me on this if I'm wrong.) People are saying that they are uninstalling the game because of it.

Again, I UNDERSTAND why you would do that.

I think what I need to address is what I am going to do.

And I'm not gunna lie to you, I don't think I'm going to stop playing the game (and I don't spend much money in game in the first place).

Does it mean that I support the bad situations they've put themselves in or the bad choices they've made? No, but of course there will be people who will say I play the game = I support their thoughts. Can it not just be simply I play the game = I enjoy the game/story?

I am being transparent and I think that's better than some of the people online who keep saying they won't play anymore but you KNOW some of them still do. Like, come on. Don't lie.

If that makes me a bad person according to you judgers out there, then so be it. Who really are you to claim I'm a bad person just because I play a game? Do you know what kinds of things I do in real life? What groups I help out and what organizations I donate to? What really do you know about what I do in real life? Maybe think about that before pointing your finger at someone online, and maybe think about what YOU are doing in real life too, instead of just being keyboard fighters, have you done anything to enhance the lives of other people?

Am I still going to write Genshin fanfiction?

Honestly if I stop doing it, it's because the interaction here on tumblr has been so toxic. LESS people commenting and interacting, I don't really mind much because I enjoy writing in general, I don't do it for you, I do it for me.

I am STILL writing, but at a slower pace because of my real life plus everything that's surrounding the game and the toxicity at the moment. I am even considering not posting on tumblr and just releasing stories like Ruthless Prince, stories that would be available through physical copy or ebooks that you have to pay for (that way I don't get nasty interactions and messages and those who really want to read my stuff can just pay and enjoy it) but as you all know, I'm not money hungry, I still post a lot of free stuff over here, but again, I'm not going to lie, there isn't much reason for me to post on tumblr anymore, specially with all the controversies and attacking going on.

I appreciate all the encouraging messages and all the love, but I may need to find another platform if things aren't working out here. If that day comes I will surely post over here and let you know where I've gone, but for now, though it is quite unpleasant, I do like and am used to the tumblr format.

The End.

[genderqueerpositivity]

I tried to write a post to celebrate being four years on testosterone yesterday. That post turned into a rambling mess of my fears for the future and fears about losing my access to gender affirming care. Which honestly makes a lot of sense given the state of things politically.

The anxiety is also due to the fact that my hysterectomy is in limbo now; my procedure should have been May 1st, but now my doctor is leaving the practice at the end of April. So now I don't know what's going to happen there, which is a little devastating after going through the whole referral and waiting and intake processes. I'm supposed to be referred to another doctor in the same practice, but it's been a month of radio silence now. Hell, I don't even know who to contact; last time I had to it ended up being a multi-day game of phone tag.

I don't know what to say other than I'm grateful and surprised to have made it so far in my hormone therapy journey. I'm incredibly lucky to have the support of beloved chosen family the entire way. And I'm so privileged to have ever accessed gender affirming care to begin with and I can't ever say enough for how much it has improved my mental health and my relationship with my own body.

I used to wonder everyday pre-T if hormone therapy was the right step for me. I thought about it all the time, constantly wondered what sort of changes I could have, and if it would help my dysphoria; I don't have to wonder anymore because I know that this is right for me.

At first I wanted to do topical HRT because I wanted that control of getting to choose this everyday; I imagined that I would reach a point where I might decide that I've transitioned "enough" and choose to stop. These days, I am happy with weekly injections. Getting to just do my shot once a week and then just live without worrying about it is amazing.

I am open to the possibility that I may still reach a point where I decide to reduce my T dose or stop entirely, but at the moment it feels very unlikely. Gender is personal and unique like that. I really hope to be able to continue and see what happens next.

It is difficult to express how transitioning to a more physically male appearance has given me greater freedom to express my gender in less binary ways, but it is true. I experience my gender as more queer and more fluid than ever.

I can't fully explain or express the pain of gender dysphoria and the joy of gender euphoria. How could I possibly get most average people without dysphoria to understand that I used to legitimately hate the sound of my own voice? That I couldn't stand having my voice recorded, because I sometimes even struggled to accept that the person I was speaking speak was actually me?

Now? I just sound like myself. I am more confident making phone calls and calling over the radios at work, I sing aloud in the car now, and occasionally I will speak to someone and get the surprise joy of being addressed as he or sir in return.

And that is just one example of many I could give.

Transitioning is as much a gift of big milestones as it is a gift of so many small and everyday moments.

On Saturday I will do my first shot since my 4 year T birthday, and I will be grateful and have no regrets.