#the return of Yaya!

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 268

Fright Knight sighs, running a clawed hand through his hair in an attempt to stop the flames from flickering into being. It had been far too long since he had taken a human-ish form. His human-ish form. Ugh. He didn’t exactly care for his human form after so long as a ghost, but needs must he supposed. 

Especially with the whole, we’re going to punch a backdoor into the literal daycare part of the Infinite Realms and be surprised when literal toddlers go exploring. 

Well, at least it got him off of guard duty for a bit, which was relieving. Not that he didn’t love the darkness, but it got boring in the shadow of his sword for literal centuries with nothing else happening. He was a warrior for Realm’s sake! Borderline an Ancient in both power and age! He wasn’t meant to stay so still for so long. 

So while ghostling wrangling wasn’t exactly in his area of expertise, he could definitely gather them back up to the Realms. And deal with the curs who had decided to attack literal babies. 

The Daycare area was already understaffed due to just how large it was, and the one in charge of this section had practically sobbed to the Council (In another world they would have been put on hold for a century in line for their concerns, and then more once a Sarcophagus was opened, but they had told the other ghosts in distress, causing others to let them go up in said line) how they were almost certain they had felt at least one core form Outside the realms thanks to the breach. 

Which had understandably put everyone at an uproar. 

So here he was slipping between shadows to do reconnaissance and take stock of if any Ghostlings had left the city. And gently scruffing those he comes across in exasperation because what are you doing, ghostling? Look at the mess, what would your caretaker say? 

[lazzincats]

Aljiba's Ablaze

🔥🏘🔥🏡

[rockhousejai]

Pink pajamas 🌸

Slight suggestive alt on Twitter so uhh yeah you’ve been warned lol

[beachyma]

YAYA???? YAYA!!!!!

HI MY LOVE!

[fables-if]

The Night of Ataegina and Betatun

A high fantasy interactive fiction story based on Spanish mythology, folklore, and paganism. Set in modern-day Spain. Most locations and all the characters are fictional, except the type of fae that will be seen during the story.

Summary:

After leaving Imeria during your eighteen birthday to chase your dreams and college education, you return to the little village in Southern Europe that saw you grow up after receiving the horrible news that Caterina, the old woman that took you in after the death of your family and your adoptive grandma (or yaya, as you call her), is terminally ill and has a few months left.

During your return, Imeria is set in motion to host an ancient festival and masquerade. It’s supposed to honor two ancient Iberian deities, one called Ataegina, ruler of the underworld, and the other one Betatun, deity of fertility. Most Imerians don’t believe in the ancient legends but those who do, like Catelina say that it’s the most dangerous night of the year because the frontier between the mortal and the magic realm is so thin anything can happen. 

Returning home under the threat of Caterina dying is already hard enough, but will you be able to adapt back into Imeria and rekindle old friendships or form new ones? Will you uncover the deep and rich history of your home and the old magic it carries? 

We shall discover it all very soon.

Features:

Customizable mc: Gender, pronouns, and physical appearance

Build friendship or romance with four characters.

Learn more about Spain's folklore and pagan traditions. Uncover your family history and your abilities.

Develop your MC's personality as you go

Two characters are gender locked but you can choose the gender identity of the other two

Your choices can't be undone and will have consequences.

Characters:

Caterina: An older woman, well into her 80s who took in the MC after most of her family died. She doesn’t seem to have a family of her own, or at least that’s what Mc believes. Caterina has a sweet disposition, always up for helping anybody. She raised MC with the stories of the folklore of their village, so she will always know how to honor the traditions of Imeria. MC doesn’t remember very well what she did for a living but she used to do fortune and tarot reading for some villagers and they usually came to her for advice and help. 

Ana: She runs The Golden Apothecary, a small store where she sells traditional remedies. Her family has run the Apothecary forever, and it’s considered a family craft. Ana has golden shoulder-length wavy hair, almond ocean-blue eyes, and a button nose. She’s no taller than 167cm, with a voluptuous body and soft features. Ana is in her late 20s to early 30s.

Personality-wise, Ana is soft-spoken, sweet, and very open-minded. She strikes to accept everyone with open arms, as long as they’re good people. Unfortunately, some individuals mistake Ana’s kindness with weakness, which is untrue. Ana is extremely smart, stubborn, and strong-minded, she’s always kind but only to those who deserve it. She can be a lot to reckon with if she deems you a bad person. Ana dreams of seeing the world but there is something tying her to Imeria.

Supernatural or not (spoiler):

Ana is a Xana, a river spirit that helps those she finds worthy by offering them pure water or gold. Some people believe that Xanas interchange human babies with fairy babies. As a river spirit, Ana can’t be apart from her river or she’ll suffer horrible consequences.  She met Caterina when Caterina was a young maiden and bathed in her river. Ana saw the purity of her soul and gifted her magic. Xanas are mythological creatures that originate from Asturias, a northern region of Spain with strong Celtic influences.

Anne, An or Antón: Anne/An/Antón works on their family farm along with some of their siblings. The Zamora’s farm supplies Imeria with its fresh produce. Everyone knows the family since they’re a happy and amicable bunch. Anne/An/Antón is pretty tall, around 185cm, they have wide shoulders, a big frame, tan skin and are chubby. The shape of their face is round, with little freckles, big green eyes, long eyelashes, and a hooked nose. They have short straight brown hair and are a bit hairy.. Their voice is deep and loud, almost booming, exactly like their laugh. Anne/An/Antón is super extroverted, knows everybody in the village, and has a sunny and sweet disposition. They are super strong, from all the physical labor but their secret hobby crocheting, they’re always making little dolls for the children of the village or making clothes. In general, they’re super well-liked and have a golden heart. Anne/An/Antón is the MC's childhood best friend and neighbor. Unfortunately, after leaving Imeria they didn’t keep in touch. Anne/An/Antón is 25 years old. 

Supernatural or not:

Anne/An/Antón is an Ome, a mountain spirit, and a giant made of rock that turns into mountains after living for many centuries. Their whole family is made of Omes graznidos. Omes Graznidos are a type of mythological creature that originates from Aragón, a northeast region of Spain surrounded by mountains.

Diego, Diana, or Dix: Diego/Diana/Dix is new in Imeria, they have been living in the little village for less than a year. Nobody knows where they came from, they remain a bit of a mystery for everyone. They set up a popular lounge called “The Velvet Moon” in the middle of the village, very exclusive and chic which clashes with the rest of the decoration of Imeria. Still, the young Imerians love the place. They’re 31 years old but look slightly older. 

Diego/Diana/Dix is of average height, standing around 174cm, they’re pretty slender, with a petite frame and olive skin. They have an angular face, with sharp features, long shaggy black hair, and clear eyes that almost seem silver-colored. Diego/Diana/Dix keep mostly to themselves and can be seen riding their motorcycle around the village. They have a limp and can be seen using a cane. As mysterious as they are, they’re pretty talkative once you get to know them, and are very protective of those they love. Diego/Diana/Dix seems to be interested in the MC, since they’re always watching them, and seem to have a secret that they don’t want to share with anybody. They are very self-reliant, have learned to survive by themselves and have a hard time trusting others, but once you have earned their trust, they’re loyal to a fault. 

Rumors say they have a criminal past and are mixed with a bad crowd, but not everything seems as it is.  

Supernatural or not (spoilers):

Diego/Diana/Dix takes the form of a giant spectral dog, with long black hair and a permanent limp, which is called dip by Spanish folklore. They’re supposed to be emissaries from the devil and they suck the blood of the livestock at night. However, not all legends tell the entire truth. 

Bingen: Bingen lives in the forests near Imeria, where he has a small cottage and a little bit of land where he has a vegetable patch. Bingen is a well-known journalist for online newspapers. He’s an ecologist, and his coverage is mostly about the natural world and ecologism. 

Bingen barely sets foot in Imeria, he is auto-sufficient but he comes down to the village to visit Ana and her apothecary, and to buy a few things he needs.

Bingen has a square jaw with high cheekbones, sharp green eyes, and long blonde messy hair, usually kept in a braid. He has a sweet face with a straight nose, and round brown eyes that resemble a little lamb. He’s the tallest of the bunch, 1’90cm, very muscled from all the exercise, and has a big frame. He loves hiking and is very in touch with nature. Bingen has a hard time socializing, preferring being around animals and plants since he understands them better. He, as intimidating as he looks, is a sweetheart and really craves human connection. Bingen is not talkative but expresses his feelings and emotions through his actions. He might have a hard time telling you he cares about you but he’ll help you install furniture or will make you soup when you’re sick. He always shows up when you need him to.

Bingen recently led a rescue of a few teens who got lost in the forest and saved them from a wolf attack, since then a lot of the villagers have respected him a lot and brought little sweet treats to his cottage. He's in between 27-33 years old.

He has struck a friendship with Ana, who frequents the forest often.   

Supernatural or not (Spoilers):

Bingen is a Basajaún a creature that inhabits the forests of The Basque Country, Navarra, and some parts of Aragón. Basajaúns are described as giant hairy men who protect the livestock, and warn shepherds of wolfs during the night. Basajaúns are seen as protectors of the forest but also creatures of great strength and kinda dangerous. 

Rami: A green weasel-like creature, with a long and flexible body, similar to a snake, and little tusks. They’re friendly and sweet and help guide the MC during their adventure. Rami’s fur has healing qualities. 

Extra:

This project is made by an absolute amateur in coding so it's going to take a long time. I have been writing since forever so I trust in my ability to create a good and entertaining story and I hope you guys stay for the ride.

The Night of Ataegina and Betatún is also going to be a surprise gift for a dear friend of mine who absolutely loves Interactive fiction and this project (if I get to finish it;_;) might be the way I ask her out since we both harbor strong feelings for each other. So let's hope she doesn't find out about the project before it's time.

[goldfades]

someone told me / there's no such thing as bad thoughts / only your actions talk | joe burrow⁹ (part 3/4)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the next morning saw her return to miles's desperate apologies and attempts at reconciliation. for weeks, miles tried to win her back with performative gestures, while joe remained a silent presence in her memory. her birthday arrived, a stark reminder of the disconnect in her relationship with miles, culminating in a disappointing night out. now, she's left navigating the familiar ache of her relationship with miles, the memory of joe's quiet solace lingering, and the unspoken questions of what could have been hanging heavy in the air.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of infidelity, emotional distress, unhealthy relationship dynamics, gaslighting (implied), alcohol consumption, potential for codependency, internal conflict, feelings of isolation.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya! it's finally out after 2 months LMAOO, but this one may be a bit heavier so be warned!!! anyways, hope y'all enjoy!

The warmth of Joe’s house envelops you the second you step inside, a stark contrast to the cold night air clinging to your skin. It smells like him—like fresh laundry, a faint trace of cologne, and something warm and familiar, like home. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed that warmth until now.

Joe doesn’t say much as he locks the door behind you, just glances at you out of the corner of his eye before motioning for you to follow him into the kitchen. The house is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls from the soft glow under the cabinets. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floor beneath your feet.

He moves with purpose, barefoot on the tile going straight for the cabinets like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“I’m making you some hot cocoa,” he says, his voice softer than usual. Not pitiful. Not patronizing. Just… gentle. Like he knows you’re barely holding yourself together and doesn’t want to push.

You blink at him. “Hot cocoa?”

Joe glances over his shoulder, catching the confusion on your face. “Yeah.” He pulls down a container of cocoa powder and sets it on the counter with a quiet thud. “It’s medicine for anything.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but you can tell it’s mostly for your sake. He’s watching you closely, probably trying to gauge just how bad it is, how deep the damage runs.

You lower yourself onto one of the stools by the island, arms wrapping around yourself. Your body still feels like it’s vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline, your heart lodged somewhere between your ribs.

Joe moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature, grabbing a saucepan, filling it with milk, setting it on the stove. His hands are steady, controlled, like he’s done this a million times. You watch the muscles in his back shift beneath his hoodie as he reaches for a whisk.

“My mom used to say that,” he says suddenly, voice even, but there’s something in the way he says mom—soft, almost reverent. “Whenever I was sick, or upset, or just having a bad day—she’d make hot cocoa. Said it could fix anything.”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your sleeves.

Joe doesn’t talk about his family much. You know bits and pieces, things you’ve picked up over time, but he never really shares like this.

Something about that makes your throat tighten.

“Did it work?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean for it to be.

Joe glances at you as he stirs the milk, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, the cocoa?”

You nod.

His smirk fades into something softer. “Yeah,” he admits, eyes flickering back to the pot. “It always helped.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just watch as he adds cocoa powder, sugar, a pinch of salt. He doesn’t use a mix. He makes it from scratch, and for some reason, that makes your chest ache.

Like this is something real. Something safe.

Joe doesn’t rush. He takes his time, whisking carefully, watching the milk thicken into something rich and dark. He’s doing this for you, you realize—not because he particularly needs hot cocoa at two in the morning, but because he’s trying to distract you. Trying to ease whatever storm is raging inside you without prying.

And for the first time since you walked out of that house, since you left Miles standing there with rage in his eyes and another woman’s perfume clinging to his skin—you feel like you can breathe.

Joe moves with the kind of quiet confidence that makes it feel like he’s done this a million times—like it’s second nature for him to take care of people, even if he doesn’t always show it. You watch as he pours the cocoa into two mismatched mugs, one of them a little chipped at the rim. He doesn’t use any fancy toppings, just a careful swirl of the spoon before he sets the mug in front of you.

“Drink,” he says, nudging it toward you. His voice is still low, calm—like he’s handling something fragile. Like you are fragile.

You wrap your hands around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your fingers are still cold from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and you only realize now that they’re trembling. Joe doesn’t say anything about it. He just leans against the counter, sipping from his own mug, watching you over the rim.

The first sip is rich and smooth, the perfect balance of bitter and sweet. It spreads warmth down your throat, settling deep in your chest.

Joe raises an eyebrow at you. “Told you. Medicine.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches your eyes. “Guess your mom knew what she was talking about.”

“She always did,” he says, his lips twitching slightly, but there’s something distant in his expression, like he’s somewhere else for a second.

You let the silence stretch between you, thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, that lets you just be without expectation. The kind of silence you haven’t had in a long, long time.

Your eyes drift around the kitchen—homey in a way you didn’t expect. There are little signs of life scattered throughout: a pile of mail on the counter, a half-empty water bottle by the sink, a jacket slung over one of the chairs. It doesn’t feel like a place that’s trying too hard to be lived in. It just is.

You swallow hard and stare into your cocoa. “I don’t know why I came here,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Joe tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering that. “Yeah, you do.”

You look up at him, throat tightening.

Joe doesn’t press. He doesn’t push you to say anything you’re not ready to. He just looks at you, steady and patient, like he’s giving you the space to figure it out for yourself.

You shake your head. “I feel pathetic.”

“You’re not.” His response is immediate, firm in a way that makes your chest ache.

You let out a breath, your grip tightening around the mug. “I don’t have anyone else,” you murmur.

Joe exhales sharply through his nose, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. His jaw tightens, his hands bracing against the counter like he’s keeping himself from saying something he shouldn’t.

Finally, he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something that makes your stomach twist.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”

Joe frowns, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You can stay here tonight.”

You hesitate. “Joe, I don’t want to—”

“I want you to.” His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. There’s no expectation in his gaze, no ulterior motive. Just quiet certainty, like he’s already made up his mind.

Something inside you unravels just a little.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

Joe doesn't even give you a chance to argue.

"You’re taking my room," he says, already moving toward the hallway, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Joe—"

He turns back, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. "Look, I just got those new mattresses in. Supposed to be top-of-the-line or whatever. You’d be doing me a favor, testing it out." His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

You stare at him, unimpressed. "Did you really just use mattress quality as an excuse to kick me into your bed?"

His lips press together like he’s holding back a laugh. "Just go, alright?"

You exhale a breath that almost, almost sounds like a laugh. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation. Maybe it’s just Joe, in the way he doesn’t make you feel like a burden, even when you know you are.

Still, you hesitate in the doorway, glancing toward the guest room. "Where are you gonna sleep?"

He shrugs. "I’ll take the guest room. It’s not a big deal."

"Joe—"

"You gonna argue with me all night or you gonna let me sleep?" He raises an eyebrow, and you realize he’s not going to budge.

Your shoulders sag, and with a quiet sigh, you step inside his room. "Fine."

He nods, satisfied, before disappearing down the hall.

The room smells like him—faint traces of cologne and something warmer, something distinctly Joe. The bed is neatly made, the nightstand bare except for a glass of water and an old book with a cracked spine. It’s… simple. Lived-in.

You sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of everything settle in your bones. The moment you’re alone, it all presses down on you again—the fight, the screaming, the smell of perfume that wasn’t yours.

You press your hands into your lap, fingers curling against the fabric of Joe’s oversized hoodie that he must’ve thrown over the chair at some point. The silence is unbearable.

And before you can even think about it, your feet are moving.

Joe looks surprised when you appear in the doorway of the guest room. He’s standing next to the bed, pulling the blanket back, but he stops when he sees your face.

You hate how small your voice sounds when you say, "I don’t wanna be alone."

Joe exhales, the fight leaving his posture instantly. He watches you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. And then he just nods. "Alright."

You shift awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest. "I feel pathetic."

"You’re not," he says without hesitation, but you shake your head.

"Joe—"

"You're not," he repeats, quieter this time, but just as firm.

There’s a long beat of silence before he steps past you, heading back toward his room. "Come on," he says over his shoulder.

You don’t question it. You just follow.

Back in his room, he grabs an extra pillow and tosses it to the floor before settling down against the hardwood.

"You don’t have to—"

"Not a big deal," he says simply, folding his arms behind his head.

You hesitate. "Isn’t the couch more comfortable?"

"Probably." He shifts slightly, getting comfortable. "But if I go out there, you’re just gonna overthink and feel bad about it."

You hate that he’s right.

You crawl under the blanket, curling into yourself. The mattress is ridiculously comfortable, but it doesn’t do much to quiet your mind. The room is dark, save for the faint glow from the streetlights outside, and for a few minutes, neither of you speak.

But Joe must hear the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still too tense.

So he starts talking.

And Joe isn’t a talker. Not like this. Not when he’s tired, when he’d probably rather just close his eyes and go to sleep. But he does it anyway.

He starts with something stupid—some half-remembered story about his rookie year, about how he tripped over his own feet in front of the entire team during practice and tried to play it off like it didn’t happen.

You let out a quiet, barely-there laugh, and it’s enough to keep him going.

So he talks about anything and everything—how he used to hate tomatoes as a kid, how he swears his mom makes the best apple pie in the world, how he used to be terrible at math.

Some of it makes you laugh. Some of it makes you hum in acknowledgment. But all of it keeps you from drowning in your own thoughts.

And that’s all he wants.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. You don’t say anything, but he hears the shift, the way your body finally relaxes.

He doesn’t stop talking just yet.

Not until he’s sure you’re asleep.

--

The morning air is sharp against your skin as you step outside, the sun barely cresting over the rooftops, casting everything in pale gold. The world feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to do something, to make a choice. But you already have—because you shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

Joe is still asleep when you leave. You make sure of it.

His house is warm, still wrapped in the quiet hum of early morning, and for a moment, you linger in the doorway of his bedroom, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful, his face relaxed, his breathing steady. It makes you feel worse.

You shouldn’t have dragged him into this.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and force yourself to move.

Your footsteps are light as you make your way to the door, slipping into your shoes as quietly as possible. The keys to your car are cold in your palm. For a second, you hesitate. You could leave a note. Something small, something that says thank you or sorry or I shouldn’t have come, but what good would that do?

Joe would understand. He always understands. And that only makes you feel smaller.

So you leave without a sound.

The drive back home is suffocating.

Your hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, your jaw locked, stomach twisting with every mile closer you get. It’s stupid. You shouldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t be scared to go back to your own home.

But when you turn onto your street and see his car still sitting in the driveway, your stomach lurches.

He’s home.

You clench your teeth and tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself you don’t have a choice.

You tell yourself to suck it up.

Your fingers tremble when you turn off the engine, and your breath is uneven as you step out, walking up to the door like you're approaching something dangerous.

Inside, the air is thick, heavy, like the remnants of last night are still clinging to the walls.

And then you see him.

Miles is on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. His head snaps up the second the door clicks shut, and the sight of him knocks the breath from your lungs.

He looks wrecked.

His hair is a mess, his face pale and hollowed, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, untouched. His hands are shaking. His eyes—bloodshot, puffy—lock onto yours like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

And then he’s moving.

Before you can react, before you can decide if you should step back, he’s on you, pulling you into his chest with a desperation that makes your ribs ache.

"Baby—" His voice cracks, his grip tightening as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. His entire body is trembling, and when he buries his face in your hair, you feel the wetness of his tears against your skin. "I love you. I love you so fucking much, I’m so sorry, I swear to God, I swear on everything, I’ll never—"

His words dissolve into a sob.

Your hands remain frozen at your sides, your entire body stiff in his embrace. He’s crushing you against him, squeezing you like he can force everything back to how it was before, like he can press your shattered pieces back together with his touch alone.

You should push him away. You should say something. But your mind is a haze of white noise, drowning in the sound of his ragged breaths, his desperate apologies.

He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, over your lips like he’s trying to memorize them. His eyes search yours, frantic and pleading. "Please don’t leave me."

And then he says something—something that makes the air shift, something that sells it again.

Something that makes the cracks in your resolve split wide open, dragging you under.

And suddenly, you’re back.

Miles guides you through the house like you’re something fragile, something delicate. His hand is firm on your lower back, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt, as if he's scared you’ll slip through his grasp if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You should stop him.

You should tell him that you don’t want this, that you don’t want to just slip back into place like nothing happened, like last night wasn’t the final crack in something that’s already been broken beyond repair.

But you can’t.

You’re exhausted.

Bone-deep, soul-crushingly exhausted.

You feel it in every step you take, every breath that drags in and out of your lungs. Your body is heavy, weighed down by everything you don’t have the energy to carry anymore.

So you let him lead you.

He doesn’t speak as he brings you to the bedroom. He just moves with purpose, like he’s following a routine he’s gone through a thousand times before. When you step inside, everything is the same—the bed is still unmade from the morning before, one of your sweaters is draped over the chair in the corner, a book sits on your nightstand, marked at the page you never got to finish.

It feels like a time capsule.

Like the past twenty-four hours haven’t happened. Like last night never happened.

You don’t resist when Miles pulls the blankets back, gesturing for you to get in. His touch is gentle when he tugs at your sleeves, silently urging you to lie down. You do. Because it’s easier. Because you can’t fight anymore.

The mattress dips beside you as he kneels down, his hand smoothing over your hair, his fingertips ghosting across your temple. His eyes are still wet, rimmed with red, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time in a long time.

"Sleep, baby," he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost pleading. "I’ve got you. You’re home. Just sleep."

Your body obeys before your mind does, sinking into the mattress, muscles loosening as the weight of everything presses down on you. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, and as you start to drift, memories seep in—soft and golden, untouched by everything that’s happened since.

--

You remember the beginning.

The way he used to look at you like you hung the stars in the sky. The way he would always keep an arm wrapped around you in public, pulling you into his side like he was proud to have you.

You remember the first time he told you he loved you.

It was raining—pouring—the kind of rain that blurred city lights into watercolor streaks on the pavement. You were running, hands linked, breathless laughter escaping your lips as you darted into the nearest store for cover. It had been a little convenience store, nothing special, but it had smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and the cashier had barely spared you both a glance as you tried to shake the rain from your clothes.

You had been shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. And then Miles had taken off his hoodie and pulled it over your head, fussing over you like you’d catch pneumonia if he didn’t.

"You’re gonna get sick," he had muttered, tugging the hood up for good measure.

And then, so casually, so naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world, he had said it.

"I love you, you know."

You had frozen, staring at him through damp lashes, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Miles had just smiled, like he wasn’t even scared of what you might say back, like he was sure about you. "I do. I love you."

You remember how safe that moment felt.

How sure you had felt.

The memory shifts.

A different moment, a different version of him.

You remember movie nights. The way he always let you pick the film, even if he had no interest in it, even if it was something he would rather not watch. You remember curling up against him on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

You remember the little things.

The way he used to send you good morning texts every day without fail. The way he’d bring you coffee exactly the way you liked it, just because. The way he’d pull you onto his lap when you were stressed, rubbing slow circles into your back, pressing soft kisses against your hairline until your breathing evened out.

You remember the way he used to be.

The way you used to be.

And it hurts.

God, it hurts.

Because you miss it. Because part of you still aches for that version of him.

For the version of you that loved him without hesitation. Without fear.

But the thing about memories is that they aren’t real. They’re echoes. Shadows. Things that used to exist but don’t anymore.

And yet, as sleep finally drags you under, you find yourself clinging to them anyway.

--

For the next two weeks, Miles does everything right.

He wakes up early to make you breakfast, even though he was never a morning person before. He leaves little notes for you on the fridge, things like "Hope you have a good day, baby," or "Miss you already." When he's home, he makes a point to sit next to you, to touch you—his hand on your knee, his fingers brushing your wrist, his arm draped over your shoulders like it’s second nature.

He kisses you more.

Long, lingering kisses before he heads out to practice, soft pecks on your forehead when he comes back, murmured "I love yous" in between. It should feel good. It should make you feel wanted.

But it all feels performative.

Like he’s reading from a script.

Like he’s trying to convince you that things are different now, that he’s different, that the way he broke you down piece by piece never actually happened. And maybe he even believes it. Maybe, in his head, this is redemption.

But you feel the disconnect.

You feel it in the way he never actually acknowledges what happened. The way he sweeps it all under the rug, like if he just loves you enough now, he won’t have to answer for the past. He won’t have to sit with it.

And maybe you’re guilty of the same thing.

Because you let it happen. You let him kiss you, you let him hold you, you let him say all the right things. And some nights, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself close your eyes and pretend that it’s real. That the past few months were just a bad dream, and this—this—is how it’s supposed to be.

But then reality sets in. And the reality is that you’re not sure if you even recognize him anymore.

And Miles is happy.

Not just with you—with everything. The Bengals are having their best season in years. They’re winning games, their chemistry is clicking, and every sports analyst is saying the same thing: they have a real shot at the playoffs this year.

And Miles is thriving in it.

Football has always been his world. His purpose. It’s where he shines the brightest, where he feels the most himself. And when they win, when the entire stadium erupts into cheers, when his name is flashing across the big screen—he’s invincible. Untouchable.

And you’re watching it happen in real-time.

You see how his mood is tied to the team’s success. After a win, he’s on top of the world. He’s all smiles, buzzing with energy, high off the adrenaline of it all. He comes home with that glow, and he kisses you like he’s weightless, like he has everything he’s ever wanted.

But when he loses—if he loses—he’s a different man.

His words are short. His temper is sharp.

He never takes it out on you, not physically, but you feel it. The way he pulls away. The way his patience runs thin. The way you suddenly don’t exist when he’s pissed off, when he’s lost in his own head.

You know where you stand.

When things are good, you are good. When things are bad, you don’t matter.

You realize what would happen if you did leave him. And the idea terrifies you.

Not because you don’t think you could survive without him—of course you could. You’ve done hard things before. You’ve been on your own before. But because the thought of stepping into a life without him, without the rhythm and routine of him, feels like stepping into nothingness.

With Miles, at least you know what to expect.

You know how the mornings will go—he’ll hit snooze at least twice before finally rolling out of bed, rubbing his hands over his face as he mumbles something about hating life until he’s had his coffee. You know that if he has an off day, he’ll spend it on the couch, watching game tape with a notebook in his lap, barely looking up when you pass by. You know that he needs his routines, that he gets grumpy when things don’t go exactly the way he planned.

You know that when he’s happy, when the season is good and his stats are better, he’ll be the man you fell in love with. The one who kisses you just because, who plays with your fingers when he’s lying next to you, who talks about the future like it’s something bright and promising, something meant for both of you.

And you know that when things are bad—when he loses, when the pressure gets to him, when the weight of being Miles fucking Johnson feels too heavy—he’ll pull away. He’ll get sharp around the edges. He’ll make you feel like you’re grasping at nothing, like the man you love is there, but just barely, like he’s slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you hold on.

But at least you know.

At least it’s predictable. At least it’s something.

Because what happens when you leave? Where do you go?

Do you pack a bag and find a new apartment, a new city, a new life? Do you wake up one day in a bed that isn’t yours, in a space that doesn’t feel like home, wondering if you made the biggest mistake of your life?

Do you regret it?

Do you sit in the quiet, in the loneliness, and realize that even with all the bad, at least with Miles, you were something to someone? At least with him, there was always someone waiting for you at the end of the day, even if they didn’t always see you.

And then there’s the fear—the real fear.

That maybe you’re not as strong as you think.

That maybe the reason you keep going back isn’t just because you love him, but because you don’t know how to function without him.

Because who are you if you’re not his?

Who are you if you’re not the one he comes home to, if you’re not the one in the stands, if you’re not the person he’s always tethered to, even when he hurts you?

That kind of love—it becomes you. It weaves itself into your identity, wraps itself around your heart so tightly that even if you wanted to pull away, it would take pieces of you with it.

And maybe you’re scared you won’t survive that.

Maybe you’re scared that if you leave, you’ll be left standing in the wreckage of it all, trying to put yourself back together, only to realize you don’t even know where to start.

So you stay.

Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer.

Because being with him—even when it hurts—feels less terrifying than being without him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

--

Joe hasn’t reached out.

Not once. Not since that night.

Not since he opened his front door at two in the morning and saw you standing there, drenched in moonlight and heartbreak, looking like you had nowhere else to go.

Not since you left before he even got the chance to say goodbye.

He should have called you. He should have at least checked in. But he didn’t.

Ja’Marr told him not to. Told him it wasn’t a good idea, that it would only make things worse, that you needed to figure it out on your own. That if Joe pushed, if he inserted himself where he didn’t belong, it wouldn’t help you—it would only complicate things even more.

And Joe hates that Ja’Marr was right.

But he still resents it.

He resents Miles more.

Every time he sees him on the field, every time he watches him celebrate another win like his life is perfect, Joe’s hands clench into fists. He thinks about you. He thinks about the way you showed up at his house that night, the way your voice shook when you asked if you could come inside.

And now, you’re back with him.

Like it never happened. Like Joe imagined the whole thing. And it makes him wonder—did he?

Did he just see what he wanted to see? Did he misread everything? Was he just projecting his own feelings onto you, searching for something that was never actually there?

Or are you just too far gone to see it yourself?

He doesn’t know. And that might be the worst part.

--

Miles told you he had something planned for your birthday three days in advance, which already felt like a red flag. Not because you wanted anything extravagant—you didn’t. You just wanted to feel thought of. Considered. Seen.

You had hinted a few times, gently, the way someone tests the temperature of water before stepping in. A casual mention of that new Italian place that opened downtown, the one with the wine bar and soft lighting. You brought it up once while scrolling your phone beside him on the couch. You even sent him the link the next day, just in case he didn’t catch it the first time.

He left you on read.

When he finally told you he had a surprise planned, your stomach sank in a way you didn’t fully understand until later. You knew what his surprises usually entailed—something loud, public, performative. Something that had nothing to do with you.

Still, you smiled and nodded and told him you couldn’t wait.

The night of your birthday, you took your time getting ready. Not because you were excited, but because you were delaying. You slipped into a black dress that made you feel like yourself—simple, flattering, elegant. Something with sleeves, because the February air was still sharp. You did your makeup with care, even though a quiet part of you wondered if it was worth the effort.

When you walked into the living room, Miles didn’t even look up from his phone.

“You ready?” he asked, keys already in hand, like he’d been waiting on you.

You blinked. “Yeah. Where are we going?”

He smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

You followed him out the door, biting back the instinct to ask if you needed a reservation. You already knew the answer.

When he pulled up to the bar, you didn’t even recognize the place at first. It was tucked between a pawn shop and a gas station, with flickering neon signs in the window and a chalkboard outside that read: “Karaoke Night!!! $2 shots!!!”

Your stomach dropped.

Miles parked, grinning like he’d just brought you to the Eiffel Tower. “Figured this would be fun. Laid back. Chill, y’know? Everybody's gonna be there.”

You hesitated. “Everybody?”

“Yeah, Tee and Ja’Marr said they’re pulling up. DJ might come too.”

You stared at the building. You didn’t like this place. You didn’t like the sticky floors or the blaring speakers or the way the bathrooms never had soap. You didn’t like how you always had to shout to be heard, how the girls at the bar always looked you up and down like you were wearing the wrong thing. It wasn’t a birthday spot. Not for you.

But Miles looked proud. Pleased with himself. Like he genuinely thought he did something special.

So you swallowed it down. Again.

Inside, the bar was already full. Loud music throbbed through the walls, and the smell of tequila and beer clung to the air like a second skin. A few heads turned when you walked in—probably because of the dress—but no one said anything.

Miles ordered a round of shots for the table without asking you what you wanted. He handed you one with a wink, already on his second before you could even lift it.

“To my future wife,” he said, loudly enough that people turned. “The realest one in the room!”

You gave him a hollow smile and threw back the liquor. It burned. Everything burned.

An hour passed. Then another. You sat in the corner booth as the guys talked football and girls flirted near the bar. Miles barely looked your way unless it was to slide his hand around your waist or kiss your cheek when people were watching. You felt like a prop. A doll. Something he posed beside to make himself look better.

Someone passed you a microphone at one point, encouraging you to sing. You laughed it off, shaking your head. You didn’t want to perform. Not tonight. Not like that.

“Aw, come on,” Miles said, draping an arm over your shoulder. “Don’t be shy.”

You forced another smile. “I’m good.”

He shrugged, already distracted by his phone.

The cake never came. There was no toast, no candles, no “Happy Birthday” song. At some point, someone bought a cupcake from the bar and stuck a cocktail straw in it. You took a picture with it to be polite, but you didn’t post it. You didn’t want to remember this night.

At the two-hour mark, your head started to ache. The lights were too bright, the music too loud, and every laugh from across the bar made your nerves flinch. You were tired. Not just physically—but emotionally. Spiritually. Soul-tired.

You glanced at Miles, who was laughing with Ja’Marr about something, a drink in hand, his attention miles away from you. The ring on your finger suddenly felt heavier than usual.

And all you could think was: this is it. This is what it always is.

You’d given him so many chances. So many quiet pleas for softness. For attention that wasn’t for show. For love that wasn’t filtered through his ego.

But here you were again. At a bar you hated. In a dress you picked for a night he didn’t plan for you. Watching your own birthday play out like someone else’s life.

The next time he turned to you, you didn’t smile.

You just looked at him.

And he looked back, confused, like he couldn’t quite understand what you were trying to say.

Because you hadn’t said anything. But you knew he heard it anyway.

The bar had already numbed you by the time Joe walked in.

You were sitting at the edge of the booth, half-listening to Ja’Marr talk about a new car he was thinking of getting, your elbow propped against the sticky table, head resting on your hand. Your drink—something too sweet with barely any bite—had gone watery in front of you. Miles was off laughing near the pool table again, talking loud enough to dominate whatever conversation he was in. You were pretending not to notice.

The room smelled like beer and cheap cologne and sweat. Your makeup felt heavy now. You weren’t even sure what time it was anymore—just that it was still your birthday and you wanted it to be over.

And then—

The door opened. Cold air spilled in from the outside. You heard it first, the creak of it swinging, the hush of a few heads turning. But you didn’t look up until you felt it. That shift.

That quiet tension in your chest—like a string pulling taut beneath your ribs.

Joe.

He was wearing a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a pair of jeans that weren’t trying to be anything. No fanfare. No announcement. But his presence still bent the room somehow. People noticed him. Not because he wanted them to, but because he just had that gravity.

And when his eyes found yours?

It was like the rest of the bar faded out for a second.

You sat up straighter without even realizing it, brushing your hair behind your ear like it would make any difference, like the last few hours hadn’t already melted your mascara at the corners. You blinked, and for the first time all night—maybe the first time in weeks—you smiled without forcing it.

Not wide. Not loud.

Just that quiet, blooming kind of smile that starts in the eyes.

Joe walked over without hesitating. He didn’t wave from across the bar like everyone else did. He came straight to you. That part of you he always saw. The real you. The tired, aching, soft-lipped version that didn’t have to perform.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Rough from the cold maybe, or from not saying much at all before now.

“Hey,” you breathed.

And Miles saw it.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him watching. Jaw tight. Beer in hand. The way his brow lifted in that passive-aggressive kind of way, like he was pretending not to care—but he always cared. Especially when it came to Joe.

But Joe didn’t even look at him. He just reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed you a small, wrapped box. Clean paper. Neat folds. Tied with black twine. Simple but thoughtful. So unlike the world you’d been living in.

You blinked down at it, your fingers brushing his as you took it.

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to.”

You stared at the wrapping for a second too long before untying it gently, carefully peeling the paper back like it might matter. Inside was a hardcover copy of a book you’d once talked about—offhandedly—months ago. One you said you always meant to read, but never got around to.

You felt your throat tighten.

Your fingers ghosted over the cover like it was glass. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Joe just shrugged. “Saw it in a shop. Thought of you.”

You wanted to cry. Not because of the book. Not even because of Joe. But because of the contrast—how stark it felt. How the simplest thing could undo all the pretending you’d been doing for hours. For weeks. For months, maybe even years.

Miles was suddenly back beside you, sliding into the booth with a loud scoff. “You’re getting books for your birthday now?” he said, laughing like it was a joke. “You’re such a nerd.”

You laughed too. Or at least made the sound. But your hand stayed on the book, and you didn’t let go of it.

After that, the night shifted.

It didn’t fix itself—it never did. But something in the air changed. Miles tried harder. Put his arm around you more, ordered another round of drinks, made a toast you didn’t ask for. You went along with it. You always did.

But you kept catching Joe’s eyes across the room. When you tilted your glass back. When you danced a little in place. When you let yourself laugh—not the hollow kind, but the real kind that cracked through once you had enough liquor in your blood to stop caring.

He smiled at you once.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t heavy with expectation.

It just looked like he was happy to see you happy—even if only for a moment.

By the end of the night, your heels were in your hand and your cheeks were flushed and the jukebox was playing something familiar and loud and stupid. The kind of song you scream through, not sing.

You turned to Miles, tugging on his sleeve with a grin. “Come do karaoke with me.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “Nah,” he said, brushing you off. “I don’t do that shit.”

You paused. Still holding his arm. Still swaying a little from the tequila.

“But it’s my birthday.”

“Exactly,” he said, standing to talk to Ja’Marr instead. “Go do it.”

You blinked. Let go.

And then—quietly, from behind you—you heard, “I will.”

You turned.

Joe stood there, beer in hand, head tilted slightly. Tired eyes. Crooked smile.

“I’ll do karaoke with you.”

And you smiled. For real. Just you and him, and nothing else for that small second.

The karaoke machine was glitchy, half the lights on the board blown out and buzzing like a dying bug, but you didn’t care. The mic in your hand smelled faintly of beer and lipstick, and your voice shook as you stood beside Joe, who was reading the list of available songs like he was scanning a football playbook. His brows were furrowed, but his lips were curled—he was already smiling and didn’t even realize it.

You leaned into his side, tipsy and emboldened. “What if we do No Tears Left to Cry?”

He raised a brow. “Ariana?”

“You told me you saw her in concert once,” you reminded him, nudging him with your elbow. “Don’t think I forgot.”

His laugh broke through—soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that memory to live in your head. But it did. He’d told you months ago during a boring party, confessing that Ja’Marr had dragged him to the show and that he actually ended up loving it. Said her live vocals were insane.

You remembered how his face had gone a little pink admitting it, like he was waiting for you to tease him. You didn’t. You told him it made you like him more.

And now, he looked at you, shaking his head slightly, defeated in the best way. “Alright,” he said. “But only if you promise to carry the high notes.”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him up onto the little makeshift stage, giddy. The mic cords were tangled, the screen was cracked, and there were about thirty drunk people watching—but for some reason, it all felt like it mattered. Like this was a moment.

Miles was slouched at the back of the room, arms crossed, a bottle of something brown in front of him. He watched with a flat expression. Stone still. Ja’Marr leaned toward him to say something, but he didn’t react.

You didn’t notice.

Or—you did. But you didn’t care.

Because Joe was standing beside you with the mic in his hand, head bowed slightly as the opening notes started to play. You saw the way he tapped his foot off-beat, like he was trying to anticipate the rhythm. The track played low at first, and your voice took the lead. A little shaky. But you kept going.

And then—

Joe joined in.

He started quiet, a little hesitant. But with each word, he leaned into it more. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and it was loud. When the chorus hit, he threw his head back and let it rip.

“I’m pickin’ it up, pickin’ it up, lovin’, I’m livin’, I’m pickin’ it up—”

You screamed into your mic, doubling over laughing. “YOU SOUND SO GOOD.”

The whole bar burst into cheers. Someone banged their beer on the table in rhythm, and someone else stood on a chair. The place was alive with it. Alive with you two.

Joe danced—danced. Like, full-body, arms-in-the-air, didn’t-care-who-was-watching danced. You followed, twirling under his arm at one point, practically glowing. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest ached from laughing. You were singing into each other’s faces like kids on a sleepover. Like you weren’t pretending anymore.

When the song ended, people clapped. Not just polite claps—real applause. Whistling. Shouting. Even the bartender hit the little bell on the counter.

You looked at Joe and laughed breathlessly, hands on your knees. “You were amazing.”

His eyes were already on you.

And not in a teasing way. Not the way Miles usually looked at you after karaoke, like he was waiting for you to embarrass yourself so he could make it a joke later. No—Joe was looking at you like you’d just stepped into the sun.

Warm. Bright. Unreal.

The kind of look that made your breath hitch.

You didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t want to say anything, really. You wanted to live in that look. You wanted the world to stay small and golden like this. Just the two of you, tangled in warmth and laughter and bad pop music.

But of course—

“Might wanna tone it down,” came Miles’ voice, sliding between you like a blade wrapped in velvet. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even sound mad. Just loud enough to make sure you heard him. “You’re not single yet.”

You blinked.

The spell broke.

Joe stepped back almost instantly. His hand, which had hovered near your waist, dropped to his side. He cleared his throat. Smiled politely.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

The warmth still bloomed in your chest, but now it was twisting into something sharp. Embarrassment. Guilt. Rage. You weren’t even sure. You just knew you didn’t want to be here anymore.

“Relax,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

Miles only raised a brow. “I am relaxed.”

But the way he looked at you after—like you were property on loan—made your stomach twist. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. The message was clear. You were his. And any version of you that shone brighter when Joe was around? That was a problem.

Joe stepped down from the stage. Said thanks to someone who complimented his performance. He didn’t look back at you.

You stayed there, under the harsh bar lights, skin still flushed from adrenaline and liquor. The room felt too loud now. Too bright. You clutched the mic loosely in your hand, heart pounding like it didn’t know which direction to run.

And for a second, just a second, you realized something.

You had felt alive up there. With Joe.

And now? You just felt small again.

The air outside the bar is thick with humidity, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. Your heels clack unevenly on the sticky pavement as you trail a half-step behind Miles, trying to reason with him as you descend the back stairs toward the parking lot. Music and laughter still spill out from the cracked door behind you, a cruel contrast to the tension between you—stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

"This was supposed to be my night," you say, your voice still breathless from karaoke and liquor, but sharpening with frustration. "And I didn’t even get to choose it. You planned everything around what you like—"

“Oh my God, again with this?” Miles spins around, now walking backward, his eyes wide with anger. “You’re mad about a bar? You’re seriously starting shit over a venue?”

“No, I’m mad because you didn’t even ask! You never ask!” Your voice cracks, both from emotion and from the sting of bourbon still sitting in your throat. “You picked a place I hate, didn’t even let me talk about what I wanted—"

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry I didn’t let you hold a candlelight vigil for your own birthday.”

You stop short.

That one slices deep. Too sharp. Too low. It lands right in the soft spot beneath your ribs, where all the things you’ve swallowed live.

Your mouth opens to respond—you’re not even sure what you were going to say—but you don’t get the chance.

“Hey!” Joe’s voice cuts through the night air like a cold wind, steady and sudden. He steps out of the bar behind you, bounding down the stairs two at a time, his eyes flicking between you and Miles as he instantly gauges the situation. “Chill the hell out, man. Don’t talk to her like that.”

Miles turns toward him, neck taut, cheeks flushed, lips curling into a sneer. “You think I give a shit what you think, Joey?”

Joe steps closer, calm but firm. “I think you should lower your voice.”

“I think you should mind your own fucking business.”

Joe doesn’t flinch, even as Miles squares his shoulders. “You’re making a scene.”

“Oh, I’m making a scene?” Miles barks out a bitter laugh, arms flung wide like a performer onstage. “You show up late, make her all gooey-eyed with your little gift and karaoke, and now you’re out here playing knight in fucking shining armor?”

“I’m out here because I care about her,” Joe says, voice still calm, but colder now. “Something you clearly forgot how to do.”

And that—that—is what snaps it.

Miles lunges forward. Just half a step, but it’s enough. Your body locks into panic mode. You react without thinking, stepping between them, your palms pressed hard against Miles’ chest, eyes wide.

“Stop it!” you cry out, breath catching. “Miles, stop. Yell at me. Not him—me. This is my fault, right? This is about me.”

But he doesn’t look at you.

“You think you’re better than me?” he growls, staring Joe down. “Is that what this is? You think because you’ve got a better stat sheet and a fucking GQ spread you’re more of a man?”

Joe shakes his head slowly, jaw tight. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“You’ve been sniffing around my girl like I don’t fucking see it. Like I haven’t seen it since last year.”

“I’m not your fucking girl,” you snap, but Miles is too far gone to hear it.

“You always wanted her, didn’t you?” he spits. “Back at camp, on those long-ass travel weekends? Is that when you started jerking off to the idea of her crying to you instead of me?”

Joe takes a step forward then—not with his fists, but with something sharper. His voice, low and steady, cuts cleaner than any punch could.

“Get out of my face.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Miles shouts, jabbing a finger into Joe’s chest. “You’d love it if I just walked away so you could swoop in and pretend you’ve been waiting in the wings this whole time.”

“Stop it!” you scream again, your voice raw now, throat tight and burning. “This isn’t about him! It’s about us! It’s always about us—why can’t you focus on me?”

But he’s not listening.

His eyes are locked on Joe, his mouth still moving, spewing venom and insecurity and whatever fear he’s been bottling for months. Joe looks like he’s holding back every instinct to swing. You can see it in the way his fists clench, in the twitch of his jaw. He’s trying so hard to stay still.

And you—

You’re still standing in the middle of it.

Trying to be loud enough to pull their attention back. Trying to be brave enough to shatter the rhythm of male pride unraveling in front of you like a fuse. Your hands are shaking. Your chest rises and falls like you’ve just run a marathon.

Still, neither of them really looks at you.

Not really.

Until Miles snaps.

“You want to keep babysitting her, Burrow?” he snarls, shoving past Joe. “Fine. I’m done.”

Then he grabs your wrist.

Tight. Too tight.

“You’re coming with me.”

You stumble forward, your heel catching on the concrete. “Miles—”

He doesn’t let go.

Joe yells something, but you can’t hear it over the rush in your ears. The world narrows to the pain blooming in your wrist and the hot flush of embarrassment crawling up your throat.

“Miles, let go!” you cry, trying to twist free.

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

And that’s it.

That’s when it all fractures.

This isn’t love. This isn’t safety. This is control. Possession. The sick, festering thing that’s been growing between you for months, finally showing its teeth.

And you—

You feel like you’re underwater.

Joe’s voice echoes somewhere behind you. Footsteps. A second hand grabbing Miles’ arm.

More shouting.

Chaos.

But you don’t speak anymore.

You don’t even cry.

Not when he gripped your wrist so tight it made your bracelet bite into your skin. Not when he yanked open the car door and shoved you inside—not hard enough to bruise, but rough enough to feel it in your ribs. The kind of push that knocked the air from your lungs more from shock than force. The kind that wasn’t just physical—it was loud. It said: Sit down. Shut up. You're mine.

And maybe that’s what broke you.

You barely registered the bark of tires on gravel or the jarring slam of the passenger door closing. What you did register—what you’ll probably remember forever—was Joe. The flash of him, like lightning. The sound of his voice cracking through the humid night air like a whip.

“The fuck is wrong with you?! Don't push her like that!”

You blinked. Your heart didn’t even get a chance to keep up before the driver’s side door swung back open and suddenly Joe was on him. It wasn’t just a shove. Joe’s fist connected with Miles’ mouth like it had been waiting. Like it was made for that one moment. Miles stumbled back, caught off guard more by the audacity than the punch itself.

And then you screamed. Not because you were scared—God, maybe you should’ve been—but because you were done.

“Joe! Are you serious right now?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp and panicked, slicing through the chaos as you climbed out of the car. You were shaking—like trembling head to toe kind of shaking—but you didn’t stop. You rushed toward them, and Joe was already grabbing Miles again, ready to go for round two like he hadn’t thought this through at all.

“Stop it! Both of you, what the fuck is this?!”

But they didn’t stop. Joe was riled up, breathing hard, jaw clenched. He kept yelling about how you weren’t some object, how Miles needed to learn how to treat a woman, and you wanted to scream back that this wasn’t his place. That he couldn’t just step in now and swing punches like that fixed anything.

So you did.

“Joe! You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like some knight in shining fucking armor! This isn’t yours to fix!”

He froze like you’d hit him. His chest was rising and falling, fists still balled, but his eyes snapped to yours like he was finally hearing you for the first time all night.

And Miles. Oh, Miles. Blood on his lip, fury in his eyes, spitting venom at the both of you like it wasn’t his fault any of this happened.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?” Miles growled, advancing again, even though Joe wasn’t touching him anymore. “You think she wants you? You think she’s gonna run off into the sunset with your sorry ass?”

You flinched. Your head was spinning.

And then—like divine timing—the bar doors banged open.

Ja’Marr was the first to spot you. Then Tee. They froze for half a second as they took in the scene: you, standing between two men like some twisted love triangle come to life. Joe with blood on his knuckles. Miles swaying slightly with rage, and you… looking like you’d just seen the inside of your own heart.

“What the fuck is this?” Tee laughed, half in disbelief, stepping out into the parking lot.

“Is this for real?” he added, eyes wide like the absurdity of it all was just too much.

Ja’Marr wasn’t laughing. Not even a little.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he muttered, storming forward, slipping between them before another punch could be thrown. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”

Joe immediately took a step back, breathing hard. He ran a hand over his face like he was trying to wake up from something. Miles didn’t move.

“This is embarrassing,” Ja’Marr continued, voice low but furious, addressing all three of you. “What is this? A romcom? You think this is cute? You think this is normal?! We are grown-ass adults acting like high schoolers in a CW pilot.”

Tee, still amused, just shook his head and leaned against the car, muttering something about how he wished he had popcorn.

“No, but seriously,” Ja’Marr said, turning on Joe now. “You? Swinging? That’s your solution? And you?”—his eyes shot to Miles—“I know you're not completely innocent in this, Joe wouldn't have thrown a punch unless you said something crazy.”

You stood there, shaking, the summer air suddenly feeling like a cold shower. You couldn’t tell if the heat on your skin was from embarrassment or leftover adrenaline. Maybe both. But you were silent. You weren’t sure what words even fit anymore.

You looked at Joe. His jaw was set, but there was shame in his eyes now, soft and real and a little bit broken. He was breathing hard through his nose, blood drying on his hand.

Miles was pacing in a small, angry circle like a lion still ready to pounce, too proud to admit anything but too shaken to keep pretending this was nothing.

And Ja’Marr kept going.

“This ain’t a movie,” he muttered. “You don’t get to fight over her like she’s a prize. This is real life. This is your job. Your team. Your reputation.”

You hated that word. Reputation. Like it mattered more than the raw wound splitting your chest in two. Like all this wasn’t happening inside your life. Not just some image to protect.

“I don’t care what’s going on between y’all,” Ja’Marr said finally, tone clipped. “But you better figure it out without turning the parking lot of a dive bar into a fuckin’ WWE ring.”

Silence followed. Tee blew out a low whistle and nudged Miles with his elbow.

“You good, man?” he asked, a little too light-hearted for the situation.

Miles didn’t answer. Just wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand and glanced sideways at you, like somehow you were to blame for all of this. Like your silence was a betrayal.

But you didn’t look away.

You were still shaking. But you didn’t cry. Not even now. Because the whole thing had gone so far past pain it just felt… stupid. Like a play with the curtain ripped open.

And the worst part?

You still didn’t know who you were supposed to be mad at.

The man who shoved you? The one who punched for you? Or yourself—for letting it get this far.

The Uber headlights cut through the parking lot a minute later, and none of you said a word.

Not even goodbye.

--

The silence in the car stretches so long it feels like it could snap.

The hum of the engine is the only thing holding the moment together, this low, constant buzz that fills the air between you and Miles like static. Outside, the city is still buzzing with leftover noise from your ruined birthday, but it feels muffled—like you’re watching it from behind glass. Red lights pass over his face in flashes, like a warning you can’t read fast enough. Your hands are folded in your lap, tight and trembling.

Miles hasn't said a single word since he shoved you into the passenger seat.

Your jaw aches from how hard you're clenching it. You don't even realize your nails are digging half-moons into the skin of your palm until the pain spikes and forces your hand open.

You try to focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

But it doesn’t help.

Because the second your breath evens out even a little, it happens again.

The memory.

Joe’s voice. His tone, firm but not unkind—“Don’t raise your voice at her.”

The blur of motion. Miles turning to him with that same simmering rage he always thinks he's good at hiding. And then Joe’s fist, so fast and clean and sudden. The crack of it against Miles' mouth—God, you can still hear the sound of it, sharp and guttural, like it knocked the oxygen out of him.

And then chaos. You, screaming. Joe, yelling back. Miles lunging forward again. And somewhere in all of it—Ja’Marr. Tee. The absurdity of the night swallowing itself whole.

And now here you are. In the car. Sitting in silence next to the man who’s supposed to love you.

You glance over at him. His grip on the wheel is so tight his knuckles are white. His jaw is still clenched, and you can see the faint outline of a bruise already blooming under the stubble along his cheekbone and his mouth. You don’t feel bad.

You’re not even sure if that makes you a bad person. You just know you don’t feel anything for him in this moment. Nothing except a mounting, spiraling dread. And exhaustion. A kind of bone-deep tiredness you didn’t even know was possible.

Because the worst part is that you’re not even surprised. You’re not shocked that he threw you into the car. You’re not shocked that he screamed at you in public. You’re not shocked that he made the whole thing about Joe. You’re just tired. Tired of being in rooms where the air is so thick you can’t breathe. Tired of loving someone who only seems to love the version of you that makes him feel good.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You look out the window. It’s raining now—soft, quiet. The kind of rain that makes you want to pull over and just sit for a while. Be still. But Miles doesn’t slow down. He just drives, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping it together.

Your thoughts won’t stop circling.

You keep seeing Joe’s eyes—right after the punch, before everything spiraled. The look in them. Like he couldn’t believe it either. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment. You hadn’t even had time to register it then, but now it plays in your head over and over. The way his eyes softened when they met yours. The way his voice cracked, just slightly, when he tried to apologize before Miles barked at him to fuck off.

And you—you didn’t say anything back. You didn’t defend him. You didn’t even say thank you. You just climbed into the car like a coward. Let Miles drive you away like you were his to own.

You swallow hard. Your eyes burn.

You feel sick.

You’re not even sure what hurts more—how low you feel right now, or how used to it you’ve become.

The car slows as you turn onto your street. That familiar ache curls in your chest, a kind of silent mourning for all the versions of yourself you’ve had to bury just to survive this relationship.

You used to be someone with opinions. Preferences. A spine.

Now you’re the girl who lets her boyfriend pick the bar, the music, the mood. You’re the girl who shrinks herself just enough to fit inside his shadow. You’re the girl who smiles when he’s charming and stays quiet when he’s cruel, and you don’t even know when it started.

You just know that somewhere along the way, you stopped recognizing yourself.

The car jerks to a stop in the driveway. Neither of you move.

For a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

Then he grabs the keys, shoves open the door, and slams it behind him.

You stay seated.

It’s pathetic, how much you don’t want to go inside. How badly you want to disappear.

Your fingers hover over the door handle. You count to ten. You make yourself move.

The rain has picked up now. It hits your skin like pins, cold and sharp, and it wakes something up in you. You shiver as you cross the driveway and follow him into the house.

The door swings shut behind you and then—

The box flies past your head and lands at your feet with a thud.

The gift. The same one he pretended to give you with care. Now thrown like it’s trash.

Your chest tightens. You look up.

And he’s already yelling.

“You let it happen,” Miles spits. “You stood there and let him touch you. Let him act like you were his. You wanted it.”

You stare at him. Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You think I don’t see it?” he says, voice rising. “The way you look at him? Like you’re just dying for him to say something? Like you want him to rescue you from your terrible boyfriend, right?”

He’s pacing now, rage boiling. “You love it, don’t you? The attention. The drama. All of it.”

You still haven’t spoken.

Because something in you is crumbling. Quietly. Completely.

And the thing is—you don’t even want to fix it this time.

You want it to fall apart. You want it to burn.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know what this is. And more than that—you know what it isn’t.

It’s not love.

It’s not care.

It’s not what you want. Not anymore.

“You love the attention,” he says again, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to carve it into you. “You fucking love it. That’s the real problem.”

You blink at him, and for a second the whole room blurs. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, swelling into your throat, choking out any words that might’ve come before. But you still don’t say anything.

Miles keeps going.

“You think I didn’t see it? You were smiling at him. Laughing like some drunk little groupie while he made a goddamn fool out of me. You think that’s cute?”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your breath catching in a way that makes you feel stupid. Fragile. Small.

“And then you stood there like a goddamn victim,” he spits, “like you didn’t just stand by and let him fucking swing at me—on your birthday. At your party. And you wonder why I didn’t want to be there in the first place.”

You swallow. Hard.

It feels like he’s getting louder, like the room is shrinking with every word.

“I planned that night for you. I did. And still, still, you manage to turn it into some pathetic sob story for Joe fucking Cool to swoop in and save you. Jesus Christ. You don’t even know how obvious you are.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels raw, dry like sand. You realize your hands are shaking.

And that’s when it hits you.

The tears start falling before you can stop them. Quiet at first, then faster. You’re not sobbing—not yet—but the heat in your chest is rising fast, seeping up into your face, your scalp, until it feels like your skin might split open from the pressure of holding it all in.

You cover your mouth with your hand and stare at the floor.

And Miles sees it. He sees the tears.

But he doesn’t soften.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.

He scoffs—actually scoffs—and throws his hands up.

“Oh, great,” he mutters. “Now you’re crying? Perfect. Right on cue.”

Your breath hitches, and something inside you stutters. Not just your heart. Something deeper.

You look up at him, and it’s like you don’t even know who you’re seeing anymore.

His face is red, flushed with rage, hair wild from pacing, his chest still heaving like he’s gearing up for more. And for the first time, it doesn’t scare you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way it should.

It just exhausts you.

Because he sees you crying, and he doesn’t care. He sees you hurting, and it only makes him angrier.

And that… That’s the moment something in you breaks.

But not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in the way it always used to.

It breaks quietly, like glass cracking beneath snow. So soft no one notices it at first. Not even you.

You just feel it—this deep, bone-deep stillness. A silence blooming inside your chest.

Miles is still yelling, still pacing, but the words are starting to fade into static.

You take a step back. Then another.

You reach up, and your fingers graze the delicate silver band on your left hand—the one he gave you months ago, before things weren't so bad, before the screaming became routine. Your thumb runs over the huge gemstone. You remember the way he’d slipped it on so carefully, the way he’d kissed your hand after and said, “Now everyone will know you’re mine.”

It had sounded okay then. Like fate, almost. Now it sounds like a fucking warning.

You slide it off.

Your fingers are trembling, but you keep your grip steady. You walk over to the coffee table, ignoring the shards of glass from a picture frame he must’ve knocked over earlier. Your bare feet crunch softly over it, but you don’t even wince.

And without a word, you place the ring on the table.

It makes the softest sound as it lands—tick—like punctuation. Like an ending.

Miles pauses mid-sentence.

His eyes lock on the ring.

For a full second, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Then?

He snaps.

“What the fuck is this?!” he roars, storming toward the table. “You think this is some kind of power move? You think you get to walk away from me like that?”

You say nothing.

You turn around.

You start walking toward the bedroom.

And that’s when he completely unravels.

He sweeps everything off the table with one arm, sends a stack of books flying, the glass of water shattering against the wall. You flinch but keep walking.

“You don’t get to just leave!” he screams after you, voice cracking. “You don’t get to play the fucking victim when you caused this!”

You reach the closet. Grab the overnight bag. Start shoving things inside. Whatever you can reach—your charger, a hoodie, your toothbrush. You’re not thinking in complete thoughts anymore. Just get out. Just move. Just breathe.

Behind you, Miles is still ranting. Still breaking things. A lamp crashes. The sound makes you jump, your heartbeat hammering now, not from fear but adrenaline. You zip the bag and sling it over your shoulder.

You feel lightheaded. Like your body hasn’t caught up to the moment yet.

You step into the doorway of the bedroom.

Miles is standing in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, hair a mess, veins visible in his neck. His eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. He looks like a stranger.

He opens his mouth to say something else—another dig, another insult—but then he sees your bag.

And for the first time tonight, he freezes.

You don’t wait for him to stop you.

You just say, calmly, with the quiet you fought so hard to reclaim:

“I’m done.”

His mouth moves, like he wants to argue. But no sound comes out.

You turn around. Walk to the door.

And behind you, he screams your name. Like a curse. Like a prayer.

You don’t turn back.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[p-seduonym]

The Little Light That Got Lost (Part Thirteen)

A/N: I'm back! And I will probably be slowing down on updates compared to before my break. I've been busy and can't update as frequently as I'd like but I'm not going to just drop the series.

Taglist: @cheust, @i-simp-for-women, @goodsoup19, @143637-hrrm, @delias-stuff, @12nitled, @cutenessbun, @rinkydinkythinky, @trashlanternfish360, @bunbunbread, @daddysfangirls-dc, @justannie18, @moon0goddess, @blackhood1229

Part One

Part Two

Part 2.5

Interlude

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

FILE NAME: CaseyTape_TDNotes_v2.txt AUTHOR: T. Drake ATTACHED TO: Audio Cassette “me + her” SECURITY LEVEL: BatNet Internal – Tier 3

[Begin recording – faint click, soft tape hiss] CASEY (whispering): Are you listening? I brought a tape for you. This one’s just for us, okay?

[Soft rustle—fabric shifting. A faint, rhythmic creaking. Rocking chair? Bedframe?]

CASEY (softly): What is it? It’s a machine. For remembering. It’s just you and me now. Mister John left a while ago.

[Silence. The occasional fabric shift. Then Casey begins humming—slow, hypnotic, almost familiar.]

CASEY: I was quiet today. Like you taught me. I folded my hands at lunch. I didn’t talk, even when they kicked my chair. You said good kids get remembered. …I want to be remembered too.

[Another pause. Casey hums again—same lullaby pattern noted in Hoffman’s logs. Words still indistinct.]

CASEY (closer to the mic): I’m sorry I told Mister John about you. I know you don’t like him. But… he saw you. No one saw you before.

[A small sniff. Emotion restrained.]

CASEY: He said you’re old magic. Said you’ve been here longer than the house. Longer than Daddy. But I already knew that.

[The lullaby returns—low and unbroken.]

CASEY:They don’t like you, Yaya. Mister John, says you’re hurting. Alfred says I shouldn’t talk to you.

[Distortion. Something creaks—heavier now, deeper. Not mechanical.]

CASEY (sharp whisper): Did you hear that? …I think someone’s coming.

[Movement. The mic muffles—likely hidden beneath blanket or pillow.]

CASEY (muffled): I have to hide you, Mister Tape. Stay quiet, okay?

[Several seconds pass. Then—knock. Door opens.]

DICK (muffled): Casey? You there?

CASEY: Yes.

DICK: Hey, kiddo. How you doing?

CASEY (uncertain): I’m okay.

[Soft footsteps. Chair creaks.]

DICK: Mind if I sit? (Beat) I, uh… I brought you that book. The one with the moon and the rabbits? You used to love that one. Was gonna give it to you for your birthday but I—

CASEY (quietly): —Was busy?

DICK (softly): (Sighs) Yeah. Sorry, kiddo.

[Pause. Casey hums quietly, almost like background static.]

DICK: So, hey, what’re you working on? Looks like you’re drawing?

CASEY: Yeah.

DICK: What are you drawing?

CASEY (after a beat): It’s not done.

DICK: Can I see?

[Paper rustles.]

CASEY (flat): No.

DICK (gentle): That’s okay. You can show me later if you want. (Beat) You know, Damian likes to draw too. You ever wanna—

CASEY (quickly): No.

DICK: No?

CASEY: I don’t wanna draw with him. (softer) He’s mean.

DICK: (Sighs) C’mon, Case. I know he’s a little prickly, but I think he’d like you if—

CASEY: He won’t. He said so.

DICK: Did he?

CASEY: I tried to borrow his paints. He got mad.

DICK: Casey, you know you have to ask when—

CASEY: I did. He still got mad.

[Pause. Paper shifts again.]

DICK: …Okay. We don’t have to talk about it now. Maybe another day.

[Silence. A faint tapping—like nails on wood.]

DICK: Tim said you’ve been having trouble sleeping. I used to have nightmares too, when I was little. Sometimes I still do.

CASEY: Do yours talk back?

[Beat. DICK doesn’t respond immediately.]

DICK (soft): No. Mine were just shadows. But if yours talk… maybe they’re not dreams.

[Bed creaks softly as Casey shifts.]

CASEY: She says you're sorry.

DICK: …Is she right?

CASEY: You left. You were gone a long time. She says you only came back cause I’m not being good anymore. Cause I’m acting weird.

DICK (a little broken): That’s not true.

CASEY (calm, flat): She said you’d say that.

[Long silence. The hum of the recorder fills the space. Casey hums again, the same lullaby. DICK doesn’t speak.]

DICK (quiet, like a promise): I’m here now. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m staying.

[Rocking sound resumes—slow, rhythmic.]

CASEY (barely audible): Okay.

[Silence. A flicker of distortion.]

DICK: We can read that book later. Right before bed, okay?

[Recording cuts out.]

PERSONAL LISTENING NOTES – T.D. Cleaned Tape Playback: #3 Transcript Match: Confirmed Audio irregularities: Still present — see below GENERAL OBSERVATIONS: Casey is consciously addressing someone. It’s whispered. Intentional. This isn’t just a child talking to themselves—it’s closer to ritual. Calling the recorder a “machine for remembering” feels almost ceremonial. This isn’t about storytelling. It’s preservation. Witnessing. Their behavior follows a logic Yaya taught them: “Good kids get remembered.” Which implies something darker: What happens to the ones who aren’t? ENTITY REFERENCES: Constantine confirmed he could see her. First external corroboration. If he saw something—spectral, arcane, or otherwise—he hasn’t shared it with me. “You’ve been here longer than the house.” Matches what we’ve uncovered. She predates the Wayne estate. Possibly colonial era. Possibly older. AUDIO ANOMALIES (FLAGGED): ~5:37: Sub-bass creak—heavy, organic. Doesn’t align with Dick’s movement. Same anomaly from Tape 2. ~7:50: Vocal anomaly layered under lullaby. Female. Breathless. Not Casey. Spectral filtering isolates a second voice. Running spectro-analysis again. DICK’S INTERVENTION – NOTES: He’s trying. Genuinely. You can hear how much he wants to reach them. But Casey is guarded. Not shy—protective. Refuses to share the drawing. Not out of embarrassment, but secrecy. They’re keeping something from him. Maybe from all of us. Paint incident with Damian: Minor in scale. But Casey felt it deeply. They interpreted it as proof they’re not wanted. Not good. They’re internalizing guilt as the price of love. Exactly what Yaya wants. MOST DISTURBING EXCHANGE: DICK: “Sometimes, I still do.” CASEY: “Do yours talk back?” Not metaphor. Not imagination. Casey is describing a presence. Something with will. With voice. And then: “She says you only came back because I’m not being good.” Yaya is rewriting abandonment as punishment. She’s not just haunting Casey. She’s parenting them. T.D. PERSONAL NOTE: I don’t know how to stop this. It’s not inside them—it’s shaping them. And it knows we’re listening. —TD

A/N: It'll get better before it gets worse. That's all I can say without spoiling anything too much.

[writtenapoiogy]

stretch; miguel diaz

pairing: miguel diaz x f!reader

summary: "hi how are you!!!? i’ve been thinking about this a lot, but reader being the only person to take care of miguel after his surgery / incident and it just creates so much attraction; since she’s always touching etc 😵���💫😵‍💫 just pure smut"

word count: 1.4k

warnings: nsfw, 18+, smut, MINORS DNI, dry humping, unprotected sex, underage sex, penetrative sex, slight choking, dirty talkish, and porn with plotist again

a/n: i had a very busy weekend but i really wanted to get this out i hope everyone enjoys!!

When you found out Miguel got into a fight at school and then was in the hospital in a coma, when you were out of town, your heart shattered.

You had your mom get you a flight back to California, as soon as possible.

You didn’t know if he was gonna wake up. You don’t even know how he survived a fall like that.

It had now been about two weeks since the surgery and Miguel was still in the wheelchair. You came by every day to cheer him up. You loved putting a smile on his face.

Plus the two of you haven't really been able to be intimate. His mom and Yaya were out running some errands. You had offered to go for them but Miguel's mom insisted you stay with him while they were gone. She said she loved the way you brought a smile onto his face, especially right now.

You took your spare key out of your purse and opened the door.

“Hey, migs.” You said, walking into his room.

“Hi, baby,” he smiled up at you.

You showed up with a bag of his favorite snacks from the corner store.

You sat the bag of food down on his desk, “Okay before we get to the rewards. Ready to do some stretches?”

“I’d like to stretch something out..” he muttered under his breath, low enough that you couldn’t hear him.

“What was that?” You said before placing a kiss on his lips.

“Nothin,” he mumbled against your lips, right before deepening the kiss a little. He felt his dick harden a little.

You, unreluctantly, placed your hand on the back of his neck, kissing him back before pulling away.

“C’mon,” he reached for your waist.

You backed up swiftly and smiled at him. “We’ll make out later. First, stretches.” You smiled at him.

You went out into the living room to grab a pillow off the couch. When you returned to his room you stuffed the pillows behind his back so that he was sitting up.

You lifted up his left leg and sat down in front of his right leg. You placed your right hand on his ankle, your left moved to his upper thigh, lightly moving his basketball shorts down to his upper thigh.

He inhaled a sharp breath as he felt your hand inch very close to his mid region.

“You ready?” You asked.

Miguel nodded at you with his bottom lip between his mouth. He loved and missed your touch so much. He felt himself fully harden when he glanced down and saw your hand that close to his dick. He knew that if he didn’t keep his mouth shut he might've let out a moan.

You pushed your right hand that was holding his ankle towards his lower stomach. The action made the hand that was already extremely close to his dick graze it and you inhaled lightly feeling the hardness.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Please.”

“Miguel…”

“Y/N, Please. It’s been so long. I wanna feel you around me any way I can. Please.” Miguel practically whined.

You put his leg down and crawled into his lap, placing your knees around his hips. His clothed cock rubbed against your heat as you sat down in his lap. Miguel’s hands shot up to your ass to guide your grinding when you leaned down to lay a searing hot kiss upon his lips.

Miguel moaned when you moved your lips down to his neck, “Fuck, yes.”

You started to moan into his ear as you kept grinding your hips against his. Miguel’s hands stayed on your ass helping you move your hips with his.

He wanted to come so bad and you knew he didn’t want to in his own pants. 

He wanted you. 

He needed you. 

He needed to come inside you. More than he needed air. More than he cared about being able to walk again. All that clouded his thoughts was you. And especially right now, all he could think about was feeling your hot wet heat squeezing him as he released his hot seed into your pussy. Deep inside of you.

Staying deep inside you until he was sure he was spent. He wanted you to have all of his come. Not wanting to waste a drop.

You stopped moving your hips and practically had to rip his hands off your ass. You quickly removed your pants and underwear and pushed his just below his ass. 

As much as you loved being against him. Skin to Skin. You needed him to be inside of you right that moment. And you needed to feel him come inside of you

You swiftly grabbed his cock and put it at your entrance and started to slowly sit down on him.

Miguel moaned your name when you slid just right past his head. “Mmmm, babe. It’s like you read my fucking mind.”

All you could manage to get out was a low whine, making him smirk. Since it had been so long it was feeling like the first time you two had sex. And it was almost too much for you to handle.

You sucked in a sharp breath when you were completely sitting on his cock. You felt like he was in your stomach. You placed your hand on your stomach like you had a baby in there. Miguel bit his lip then grabbed your ass even harder, eliciting a moan from you. He started to lift you up slowly, slamming you back down onto his cock. You couldn't help but let out a loud moan.

“M-Mi-Miguel, oh fuck!” You gasped. You may have been on top but he was still in control. He was making your mind go dizzy. You had to drop your hands onto his chest to bind yourself.

Miguel kept letting out groans, hearing your pussy squelch around him. He was so close to coming so fucking close. He started to bring you up and down at a faster pace. Saying a slew of curse words in Spanish.

“Y/N, I want you to come for me. Do you wanna come for me?” Miguel spoke in between his grunts. 

You tried to get out the words to respond to him but your words came out in babbles as you reached the tip of your climax you were so close and-

“Did you fucking hear me?” He growled as he took one hand from your hips and wrapped it against your neck.

You’ve never felt your climax hit you so hard and so fast. Your eyesight went spotty from how hard you shut your eyes. You love it so so sooo fucking much when he’s assertive. 

You couldn’t help yourself but moan out his name over and over again as you felt yourself get wetter as you milked his hot. Begging him to come not using so many words.

“Si, esa es mi chica.” He smiled at you and then you felt his dick twitch inside of you. He removed his hand from around your neck and put it back on your hip. Miguel quickly moved you no more than an inch up before slamming you right back down on his cock. He came while moaning. You will never get over how good it feels when he comes inside of you. Claiming you.

Miguel's climax made you come again

You clenched your pussy around him making sure you got every last drop of his seed. You bent down and gave him a slow kiss as you cut your breath.

“I love you so much handsome.”

“I love you most, mi amor.”

You lifted yourself off of him with a wince, having gotten used to him inside of you again. You went on to clean the both of you up.

You climbed back into the bed and then laid on his chest. You loved his afterglow after you two finished. You loved staring at his face and taking in every single one of his features as if you were outlining a picture of him on a piece of paper. He was so goddamn beautiful and you couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

You didn't realize you were dozing off til you woke up about an hour later and you continued to examine his face like you had been doing before you fell asleep. You could do this for the rest of your life.

[fuji-sen]

the 'evil imposter' just wants to be a baker!

Prologue: The Foodie turned Imposter?!

Part 4.5 special! : adventures of a pyro slime

[ part 4 ] || [ masterlist ] || [ part 5 ]

divider is made by @/saradika-graphics

The pyro slime stared at you worriedly, it wanted to comfort you but alas, even if you weren't in a body of water it must not. For even touching you would leave you with more pain. Perhaps it had been better if he was born from a different element.

Their eyes squint into something akin to a glare, if only those stupid humans didn't hurt you! or got to you first! they were fake non-believers! they didn't know a real prophecy from a fake one even if it burned them to crisp!

Focusing on the task at hand, the slime watched as something purple crackled from your skin, and its eyes widened, electro! that would be easy to cure. It jumped, but you did not notice as you slowly fell into a pit of hurt, wallowing in pity. Okay then, it jumped away and disappeared in search of a few items.

It's eyes lit up finding a purple crystal, or rather an electro crystal, So, since it had no arms or claymore, it did the first thing that popped into his mind. Crash into it, which worked after a couple of headbutts thanks to the elemental reaction 'overload' which was very neat!

Anyways, after acquiring the electro crystals and swallowing it for safe keeping (which left a weird tingling sensation in its mouth) it then went off to find some butterflies.

Finding one was easy as butterflies were not scared of a slime's presence, they were however quite flammable. The slime stared down at the numerous burnt and dead butterflies that littered the destroyed path. .

damn.

Hearing footsteps it went to its ignited state to appear menacing only to relax upon finding some hilichurls exploring the area. So without any fear, or young slime protagonist approached the hilichurls who stared at it curiously.

"olah, kucha celi beru si?" (hello, little fire what are you doing?)

The hilichurls stared at the pyro slime that spat out a few pieces of electro crystals and then stared at the many charred butterfly wings. "sama! sama!" (samachurl) The pyro slime tried to convey in its own slime voice, which sounded like a person trying to speak under water with a dry throat.

"dala?" (what?)

"creator! help! uhhh" the pyro slime tried to remember the hilichurlian language, its eyes brightening up at remembering a few important words.

"Tomo Unu!" (Help God!)

The hilichurls flinched, straightening up in a way the slime was reminded of those rigid knights. "Unu?!" (God)

"Yaya ika!" (Humans bad/Enemy!) the slime told them "Unu Mosi gusha*" (God sad).

The hilichurls then understood and from what they gathered, the slime needed the help of a sama so one of them left to return to their camp and soon enough an anemo samachurl had come. It crouched down, staring at the pieces of electro crystals and the burnt butterflies and deduced what the slime had needed.

An Insulation Potion.

OMAKE

"Upa!" The samachurl yelled and commanded pointing at the distant butterflies. And with a battle cry the hilichurls ran towards the flying insects and begun jumping high with their arms flailing in an attemt to catch them "Upa!"

One hilichurl fell face first on the hard ground and another laughed at it, his hands were closed as he had successfully caught a butterfly "Ye kucha!"

The hilichurl that had fallen had stood up and proceeded to kick the other one, due to the pain the other hilichurl clutched his knees and accidentally released the butterfly it caught.

". . nye. ."

*Mosi Gusha means "eat vegetables" but is also used as an expression of sadness. I wonder if Hilichurls don't like vegetables since they associate it with sadness or something negative.

taglist: @fantasyhopperhea @rhoswen-drake @cchiiwinkle

Also please comment what to name our little pyro slime buddy! They're gonna be one of our many best friends and companions in the story.

[allmyworth]

More headcanons! (Because Boboiboy Tumblr is looking a little too dry..)

Hello again, I return because I am starved for content, but why not throw out some while I'm at it? !Kokotaim gang edition!

>They like hanging out at the TAPOPS-U a lot because they are teenagers and once you give a teenager a space where only they have access to- You should've seen it coming, honestly.. >Yaya is fully aware that her biscuits could kill a whale but refuses to accept that fact and admit that her friends are right. She will force them down someone's throat and take that gamble of whether or not they end up in the ER. Or die. Either or-- She is willing.

>Gopal may not be book smart, but he is street smart. His grades may not be A's, but underestimate him for a second and the next thing you know-- You fell right into his genius trap and left gaping. The gang usually looks to Gopal for a plan-- As absurd as some of his plans may be-- They actually seem to succeed to work better than what was originally planned! >Boboiboy gets emotional very easily. Like, easily. He has a soft heart. Show him a sad film and he'll be the first to tear up. Boboiboy used to be very ashamed of the fact that he couldn't control his emotions and fit into society's definition of a 'man' and used to be quite heavily defensive, sassy, and sarcastic because if he wasn't-- He'd cry. But! He's learned that he is safe around his friends. They would not judge him if they spotted him with red rimmed eyes, just a silent understanding and the kind act of trying to cheer him up. He is still very much sarcastic and sassy-- But it isn't to hide anymore. >Fang came to the horrifying realization that he views Gopal and Boboiboy as his older brothers and Yaya and Ying as his younger sisters after the fight with Kaizo. Did he tell them? No. Is he still going to drift off to the sounds of their voices only? Yes. Is he still going to feel a gaping hole in his chest whenever he goes out on missions with just his brother? Yes. Is he going to dream about them once he eventually out lives them? Yes. Is he going to desperately try and keep their memories alive despite it being more and more futile as he ages? Also yes. Don't try to corner him on this-- He will summon a shadow squirrel to crawl into your pants. Don't test him.

>Ying has learned to shut down whenever something pisses her off. She doesn't really want to do this, but she'd rather shut down than lash out and hurt someone again. She hated being pissed off and misdirecting her anger onto her friends instead. Now? She stays quiet, silently brooding and distancing herself. Her friends reassure her that it's okay, that she's still growing up, that she'll learn to control it-- But she doesn't want to hear it. She'd rather isolate herself than make Boboiboy cry again, or make the rest of the gang uncomfortable, or make Yaya upset, or be the reason why laughter wasn't permitted whenever she was around and brooding. Ying knows, Ying understands, Ying learns, and this is the best she can do. Even if she yearns for Yaya to come into the room and just sit with her, just hold her, just let her breathe, to breathe with her.

Those are the headcanons I'll write so far and maybe next time I'll write up some more! These are just headcanons and if you don't agree with them-- That's completely fine! Everyone is entitled to their own opinion! These are just what I like to imagine in my little hellscape I call; my brain.

[phoniexrose02]

Heat

Miguel Diaz x Black! Reader

Smutt~

"baby you sure you Feeling alright?" Miguel ask in a Quiet Whisper, You'd been Feeling him up all Day.

Whatever your boyfriend had Going on Was making you hot. After being in the hospital for a Bit, he'd finally seemed to be Recovering Well an Even Gained a Few Pounds to show it.

"Mm'Fine..."

The Boy Had you in Heat~

He'd smash his Heavy Body into you When Cuddled, and his Strength was Godsent, He'd Pick you up with Every Hug an effortlessly pulled you into his Lap Whenever you Found yourself Seated.

It didn't Help that you two were Recently Sexual active, he Made you Feel like a Goddess While you Learned EachOther's Body's.

You Sat in his Living room Feeling him up threw his Pants, While he tried to study on the Homework Ahead. He'd of course Taken Note as he'd found himself Struggling to focus."My Ma is Leaving for work Soon Amor, you'll get what you want~" he whispered to You Nibbling and Sucking at your Ear."But for now let's try to get this Done, Ok?" You Nodded an He Kisses you Cheek before returning to the Homework.

You Couldn't Keep still tho...you couldn't stop yourself from Looking at his Handsome Face. You'd thought about Teasing him again Thirty Minutes later only for his Mother to rush out into the living room in her Scrubs Separating you once again.

"Your Yaya's at her Bookclub an Dinners in the Oven Miggy"

"K, te quiero mamá!" Carmen Kissed at her Son's Cheek as you Waved Goodbye." And I want Fénix Home By 9!" She Yelled on Her way out Making the two of you Laugh.

Followed by Awkward Silence as you Both Came to the realization."Do you...Wanna Eat Dinner First??" Miguel asked Shyly as you started Rubbing at his thigh. "I don't wanna Wait any Longer~" you Whimper out to him, Wrapping your Arms around his Neck your Nails Gently Glazing against him, he Shivered but Quickly Wrapped his Arms around your waist pulling you Close."Straight to the Room Than?" you Nodded, Shifting onto his Lap."Take me There?~" you Pouted out grinding again his tent. You Yelp Out When your Suddenly off the Couch.

"I Gotchu Babe~" Miguel Smiled he could tell you Went Gaga for his Muscles, He felt at Ease Whenever you touched him, Loved on him. He walked to his Room While you Gripped him Tightly, you Bite your lip when he finally climbed you both into Bed Placing you against his Pillows."Your so Strong Migs~" he Smirked pulling you into a Kiss.

" I'm all Yours Amor~"

At this Point you two were furiously making out an Tearing off each others Clothes."Damn Baby~" Miguel Moaned out as he Pulled your Panties from your Soaking Cunt."You in Heat or Something Chica?" He Giggled out Before Tossing them somewhere in the Room, he Ran his Fingers Threw your Seeping Pussy while you Grab for his Hard Dick an Began Playing an Jerking at his Tip, He Hummed as he thrust into your Hand letting his Fingers Playing with your Clit. Miguel Groaned out Quietly as he started a Harder Thrust into your Hand, you Pulled him Closer with a Small Whimper of your own.

"Come on Miguel, let me Hear you~" you pleaded an he'd let his noises Slip out more as she Jerked faster, he played along slowly circling around you hole before shoving two fingers into your Heated Mound."Fuck baby you so Hot you Want me that Bad?~" he Struggled out thrusting his fingers in with Ease. You Nodded Pulling away from him in pleasure, Laying Back into his Pillows, you Rolled your Hips into his Fingers as he leaned down lightly biting an Sucked on one of your nipples while Pinching the Other, You Yelped with the Sudden add Pleasure arching your Back off of the Mattress in Pure Bliss.

" Fuck Miguel! I'm Wet enough, I want your Dick~" he pulled his Fingers from you Before Shoving them into his Mouth, He Moaned at your Taste Before pulling them from his Mouth with a Smirk." So Horny Mi Fénix~" he Hopped up from his Bed retrieving a Condom from on of his Bottom Draws, an Slipped the Latex before pulling your legs to the Edge of the Bed.

You Wrapped your legs around his Middle already familiar with the Position until he pulls them over his Shoulders instead." I wanna bury myself in your Heat Amor, Let me fill you up Good~" he Guided his Dick into your Warmth with a satisfied Groan, his Dick being Squeezed the deeper he slips in. Your Moans fill his Ears as he Worked himself In Thrust by Thrust, he Hugged you Thighs Close to his Chest as he Worked a Good Rhythm into you."

"Fuck! Your Melting me Amor!~" his Dick filled you Perfectly, his Beautiful tip Rubbing your Deepest Depths. You Gripped the Sheets For Dear Life as he pulled you In with Every Thrust Screaming to the High Heavens as he Molded himself into you,

You Mewled as he Fucked you Harder his Groans Getting Louder as he Chases his High."Ruin me Miguel~" you Begged for him an he Squeezed your legs letting his Fingers sink Deeper Thighs as he Fucked feral, Probably the Hardest he Ever Fucked you.

"Oh Fuck! I'm Cumming Papi! Don't Stop! Don't Stop!~" Your reach you Breaking point Pretty Quickly but you Weren't Expecting your Juices to Cover Both your Stomachs, Miguel didn't Have much Time to be Shocked as his Thrust Grew Sloppy, moving with no Rhythm as your Pussy Sucking him in with Every Thrust, He shoved himself as Deep as he Could Fit an Came with a Beautiful Moan."Ugh! God you have the Best Pussy I've Ever Felt!~" He panted Resting his hands on your stomach."I'm the only Pussy you've ever Felt" you Said Sheepishly Drawing his Attention Back to you, he Pulled you legs from his Shoulders. "Hush...don't think I didn't Hear you Earlier~" Miguel wiggled his Eyebrows Rubbing up your Hips.

"It..it just Felt Right! At the Time..."

"Try an Remember that Excuse Next Time Papi's Makin' you Squirt~"

More Cobra Kai 🐍

[yayasvalveplay]

YAYA BOO I ACTUALLY DREW SOMETHING TODAY IM BEATING THE ARTBLOCK DEMON

Unfortunately 😔 im actually lowkey very disappointed that the subject of such is THIS DUMB FUCKING CRACKBABY

That's fucking right, I DREW A RODIMUS/STRIKA/(probably lugnut too) BABY, THE CRACKSHIP LIST GROWS LETS GO

The basics l got for my girl, is that her name Ignitia, and that she's a sassy little lady, emphasis on little because from the looks of it, Lugnut or Strika's CNA didn't DO SHIT in making her like BRO she looks like a copy of Rodimus.

But that's what she WANTS for you to think of her. A delicate little lady with a taste for pretty jewelry.

Somehow, I ended up with her having the ability to basically mass shift into a giant. With the ability to size shift, Ignitia goes from a small frame femme to a massive warframe bodybuilder. Ignitia is actually very proud of this ability; she really loves her giant form to where she gets lowkey self-conscious over her smaller form at times because she feels weak. Despite that both forms have their pros/cons—

Large Form: Obviously strong and powerful; but she isn't as fast since all her energy is being used up for her large form.

Tiny form: her other ability involving fire is much more precise and effective.

I genuinely cannot believe that this girl is beating the artblock demons away 🫠 I literally only drew her to fuck around at first like a what if because I wasn't considering putting her in aus like DW or AW BUT NOW SHE WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE YAYA HELP 😭 💀

Mion. Mion I love her, and I'm going to steal her for DW and AW and any other au that has this crack ship. ALSO So i can draw her later.

DW

This Shit became long.

Because HMM. Imagine her being such a tiny baby. Maybe a bit of a chub. But Rodimus is so fucking scared he fucked up somehow. That he didn't give birth correctly or He hurt her while giving birth BECAUSE!

While carrying her he almost looked like a balloon with how big his belly got. But once Emergancy kicked in she mas shifted into her smaller form. Easier birth? Maybe? But all it did was scare Rodimus more and he refused Strika and Lugnut to look at her ashamed of what he had made.

The two chock it up to protective carrier protocols and thus don't try anything, for 3 weeks. Until Lord Megatron had a ball and they must introduce her to their lord like they had done with their other kids. Rodimus just gets pail, sickly pail, almost like he's dying and of course they take notice almost immediately. They know he's taking care of her, mostly never leaving the room unless it is to get fuel himself or to bath. They know she is still alive thanks to their sire bond with the bitty.

"Rodimus what's wrong?"

"You-you can't show her to Megatron. You just can't?"

"And why not? We have shown our other bitties to his lordship and he has adored them all."

"Not this one, Please not this one."

"Lugnut dear. Go and get Ignitia"

"NO!" Rodimus tried to lung to get back to the door but he is pinned by Strika as Lugnut goes into the room to collect her. Rodimus is sobbing now, on the floor curled in on himself as he just can't take it, he's broken, They will see how broken he is and how that messed with their bitty.

Lugnut comes out with this small frame, chirping tiredly. This if the first time she's felt one of her Sir's close by in a long while, and she's happy, snuggling into his hold.

"please don't- Please do not harm her." He says quietly making the Conjunx's look down at him.

"Why would we harm our bitty?"

"Because she wasn meant to be big, we all saw it on the scans. She is meant to be a war frame. But she- She."

"She is an Outlier. Like you."

"Wh-what?"

"Do you really think we would of allowed you to stay cooped up for weeks with her If we didn't already know. We saw her, got her checked out before returning her to you, upon which you awoken. You had thought you had only been gone for a few moments. But you were passed out for 2 Joors."

"Why. . . Why did you allow me to do that?"

"Being a new Carrier is hard. We all thought you would of needed space to comes to term of her birth. Clearly we should of intervened sooner."

"So, you are not mad?"

"Of course we are not."

AW

Rodimus is just looking at their tiny bitty so small, magnetizing to his chassis. Strika sits near him, rubbing a cooled cloth over his face. As much as he would of preferred a hospital, He was grateful that They had medics as neighbors who could do an at home birth.

"She's so small. But yet she gave me so much trouble in my forge. What gives bitty?"

Strika chuckles, moving to kiss his helm. "She is perfect. A wonderful creation between us too."

"Ya. She is a cutie patootie,, Wait wasn't she suppose to be a war frame though?" He looks over at Ratchet, the old medic grunts. "Outlier Abilities. It isn't uncommon for bitties to unlock them young. And in this case use them while still inside the forge. It must of triggered the moment you went into emergancy."

"So you are saying She has the ability to change her appearance?"

"Yes."

"That is. So sick!"

[grandpa-swamp]

Ooooo please tell more about Ivaryn! I really dig the idea of a mute Dragonborn, can they only speak through Shouts?

YAYA of course! so my idea with Irvaryn was they’re actually a natural born Tongue (much like some of the Greybeards you meet in Skyrim), so from birth they’ve had a natural inclination for the dragon language. but as such they cannot speak in anything but Dovahzul- and being born in Morrowind and initially having no contact with Nordic and thusly Dragon culture, neither them nor their family had any inclination of this. so, they’ve went without speaking all their life, communicating through sign language and writing.

eventually they were guided to Skyrim by an ashlander wise woman they met on the mainland of Morrowind, who told them that the truth behind their disposition would lie there. So Irvaryn made the journey first to Solstheim, then to Windhelm.

their arrival in Skyrim isn’t the typical “woke up in a carriage with the Stormcloaks and nearly executed,’ in fact I even play with mods that let you have alternate starts to the game for this lol. so they didn’t immediately come into contact with dragons or any of that- in fact they even got into the Dark Brotherhood prior to the return of Alduin.

but then ofc the dragons started coming back and they eventually learn their true nature as Dragonborn! but even with learning the dragon tongue and and finally finding their voice, they have to resume partial muteness. they come to learn that their voice is insanely powerful and even when not concentrated into a shout just speaking can cause crazy destruction.

[bookwor-mmm]

updated version of Blanche’s ref. sheet yaya

(a much more detailed version of this was originally for the contest over on Discord, but I wasn’t able to finish it in time because of finals and such so this is more for my own reference now lol)

additional stuff about him after the cut

(motives)

• After a tragedy within his warren, with little clue as to who committed such a terrible act, he was framed. To avoid further punishment, he fled, escaping to another planet by stowing away on a cargo ship.

• He intends to return to his planet and clear his name. As of right now, he needs money for supplies- and a ship. However, he’s experienced a couple [a lot of] setbacks and battles with the thought of settling on Springrock and never returning home.

(how he operates)

• Works closely with Wildfire, Rafayel, and Lazaro. (Wildfire steps into the leadership role within their team) (wf and raf belong to @solzticesoulz :3)

• Highly values his work as a prosthetics/augments engineer and always insists on improving.

• His brain is ever so slightly augmented after a serious injury he got in his 20s.

• He usually only spends time with those he figures are ‘worth the time’, which people often interpret as him being cold and egotistical. Which isn’t entirely true, he’s caring in his own way, he just considers how he spends his time to be incredibly important. He’s always in a rush, and is afraid of wasting his time or being unproductive due to feeling like he has very little time in general.

• ^Incredibly paranoid due to visions and nightmares he had as a child. He still gets them, but not as much.

(sillier facts)

• he can turn into an actual rabbit .. originally he wasn’t supposed to be able to do that but my friends pitched the idea and i got attached LOL— he doesn’t really do it a lot though (he’s embarrassed)

• veggie enjoyer- he COULD technically eat meat, but his warren only ever ate plants, fruits, vegetables, seeds, etc. so he’s not used to eating it and probably can’t handle it

• quality time/gift giving are his love language

• happily engaged :} (to Wyvern, belonging to @creatortools)

[sovenderegn]

Unfinished doodle for my au yaya but wanted to yap about it a little

Both bodies are technically Vincent just ones Johnny now and the other is a synthetic.

Basically the au is like.... It starts as a normal temperance base, except a few details like instead Johnny keeps the necklace he still leaves.....sorta lays low does whatever for the next 10-15 years (havent decided), While in the meantime Rivera (my v, i just use his last name for distinction since i still call him vincent) has been working from beyond the black wall to return. He didnt want to merge with alt because disagreements and just general dislike for her. so he splits off does his own thing. eventually contacts a runner he knew in the past who had helped him when he was forced to have some cyberware and work for saka (whole thing in itself) he has her help him gather people...random people who dont matter specifically to help him in this facility he found in the middle of nowhere. so during this 10-15 years hes been working on making a synthetic body for himself and also making sure he can actually properly transfer into it. eventually succeeds in making it but the transfer itself has a few issue so he ends up with incomplete code. volatile, angry and glitchy..... he cannot escape the malfunctions lol. He ends up killing the people who he got to help him, steals their clothes n stuff. so hes running around in this fresh new body of his, not exactly in the best state, while remnant bits of his code are in the blackwall still. Some of his memories are now also incorrect or missing entirely. More importantly the one where he gave johnny his body. He leaves the facility....encounters johnny and immediately goes to attack him because....1. freaked out that this person looks like him just older... and 2. just generally volatile. Johnny eventually manages to escape this encounter atleast but they end up running into eachother again its a near repeat of the first time but johnny does eventually get him to calm down before he ends up getting killed by this man. So johnny is now having to baby sit (i say this jokingly) a synthetic version of the man he knew but hes now.....very very off. not himself so on. they do eventually end up back in nc at Riveras request and the situation with kerry and rivera is better but not....great cause rivera did choose to not say anything before dissapearing (he thinks not saying goodbye means he doesnt have to let go) so kerry isnt to happy with him but cant do much about it cause with how rivera is the smallest thing can set him off...

[goldfades]

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒, 𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍' / 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐌𝐒 ─ QH⁴³

TRACK 7 ─── FRESH OUT THE SLAMMER

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | he was always the first person she calls when she's broken up with her boyfriend. will this be like every other time, or something new?

─ word count | 2.2k

─ warnings | NSFW! smut with lots of plot, so much fucking angst (it's ttpd what do we expect?), mentions of cheating and manipulative (ex) bf, breaking-up, lots of cheating (on reader + kinda quinn/reader but depends on how you look at it), nothing else pretty much

─ ev's notes | yaya! another part!!! WOOO, but this one's an angsty one (but hey, at least this time it has SMUT WOOHOO)

THE FALLING OUT was bound to happen. You knew that at the end of the day, it was just simply fate. You weren't sure what the last straw was, all you knew was that you knew it was inevitable ─ it was supposed to happen that way.

You didn't even know where you were going until you got there. It was a habit, the moment you broke up with your boyfriend, you found yourself on Quinn's doorstep. Your mind was racing and somehow empty at the same time as you raised your fist to knock on his door. The familiar wooden door loomed before you as your hand hovered in mid-air, trembling with uncertainty.

Your hand trembled as you raised it to knock, the thud echoing through the silent night. Seconds stretched into eternity as you waited, the tension thickening with each passing moment. Then, as if on cue, the door swung open, revealing Quinn's disheveled appearance.

His gaze met yours and you offered no explanation, no justification for your sudden appearance on his doorstep. Instead, you simply stood there, searching for solace in the depths of his brown eyes.

Quinn's expression softened, a silent understanding passing between you. Without a word, he stepped aside, a silent invitation for you to enter his home once more.

You entered the familiar home. It's changed since the last time you'd been there, almost six months ago ─ the last time you and your boyfriend had taken a break, which funnily only had lasted a week, but you somehow still had time to see Quinn again.

You sat on his couch comfortably as a silent sigh left your plump lips. Quinn's gaze lingered on your form, a mixture of familiarity and longing evident in his eyes.

Quinn moved to join you on the couch, his presence a comforting in uncertainty that threatened to engulf you. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders.

"You want coffee?" Quinn's voice was rough and low as he spoke. Even though it was well after midnight, he still offered coffee ─ he was a caffeine fein but you didn't mind the bit. He always said the best therapy was warm drinks.

You nodded gratefully in response to Quinn's offer, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. As he rose from the couch, you watched him move with quiet admiration. There was a grace to his movements, a quiet confidence that spoke volumes without the need for words. It was moments like these that reminded you why you had been drawn to him in the first place, why his presence felt like a lifeline in the midst of uncertainty.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed as Quinn returned with two steaming mugs of coffee cradled in his hands. He settled back beside you, offering you gray Canucks mug with a small, knowing smile. You accepted it with a word of thanks, the warmth of the cup seeping into your fingertips.

Together, you sat in companionable silence, the only sound the quiet hum of the night outside and the occasional sip of coffee shared between you. You could feel Quinn's gaze on you after a few minutes and eventually, he spoke up.

"Are you done with him? For good?" Quinn's voice was gentle, yet tinged with a hint of envy. You could sense the weight of his question hanging in the air, the longing for reassurance mirrored in his eyes.

The honest answer was: you didn't know. You never knew, especially not with your boyfriend ─ no, ex boyfriend. You wanted to be done, you wanted to be out of the relationship that truly felt like a prison. But there was always that nagging doubt, that fear of the unknown that held you back from fully committing to moving on.

You struggled to find the words to explain the conflicting emotions that churned within you, torn between the want for freedom and the comfort of familiarity.

"I... I'm trying," you admitted, your voice shaky. "But you know how it is... it's complicated."

Quinn wanted to be angry, wanted to shout out at you and tell you that it would be okay. That he was there for you ─ that you never needed that cheating asshole you call a boyfriend. But he just couldn't, you looked broken already.

So he did what he knew how to do best, touch you. Gently, Quinn reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. Without another word, Quinn pulled you closer, enveloping you in the warmth of his embrace.

He pulled your chin up, for your eyes to meet his. He didn't say anything else, he just leaned in and planted a needy kiss on your red lips.

──

"I don't understand what the hell you mean," Nick's voice was bitter as he averted his gaze from your face. Your gaze was pleading ─ all you wanted was for him to have a shred of empathy, for him to understand you.

Before you could say another word, he threw his fork on the plate causing a loud noise to echo through your apartment. You flinched, the tears that were building in your eyes finally rolling down your cheeks.

"God, I can't even eat in peace anymore." Nick's voice was quiet but any less bitter. He finally met your eyes and you didn't see any empathy anymore, only anger.

You let out a shaky breath, squeezing your fists. "All I asked was for you to was for you to listen, to hear me out, to try to understand where I'm coming from."

"Understand, what exactly?" Nick scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain as he cut you off. "Understand your excuses? Your lies? Your betrayal? I'm tired of it, I'm tired of being the one who always has to bend over backwards to accommodate your feelings."

"My betrayal?" You responded, your hurt turning into anger. "My damn betrayal?! Me? You were the one who cheated on me, while we were together."

"What about Quinn, you think I don't know?" Nick glared at you with pure anger.

"What about Quinn?" You answered with the same tone, your voice tinged with defiance as you met Nick's glare.

"You think I don't know what's been going on between you two?" Nick shot back, his voice rising with each word. "I've seen the way you look at him, the way you act around him."

"I've never slept with him while we were together, Nick. Do you think I'm sick, like you? You've fucked every girl in Vancouver, you think I don't know?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your words.

The accusations hurled between you were like daggers, each one piercing through the fragile facade of your relationship, leaving behind a trail of devastation in its wake.

Nick's expression darkened at your retort. "Don't you dare turn this around on me," he spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "You're the one who's been lying to me, sneaking around behind my back."

You let out a bitter laugh and now it was your turn to throw the fork in the plate. You stood up from the seat, your heart racing with anger.

Standing up from your seat, you faced Nick with a fire burning in your eyes. "You accuse me of lying? Of sneaking around? Look in the damn mirror, Nick. You're the one who's been cheating, not me."

"You're the one who's been living a lie, Nick. Pretending to be something you're not, while sneaking around behind my back."

The words spilled from your lips in a torrent of pent-up emotion, each accusation a barb aimed squarely at the heart of the matter. You refused to back down, refusing to allow Nick to blame you for your relationship problems.

"I'm done." You grabbed your coat and purse, practically running out of the home. You pulled out your phone, shakily sending a text message.

i need you can i call you? please

He responded within a couple minutes and by then, you were almost at his house.

of course i'm home

──

In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of Quinn's lips pressing against yours, a desperate plea for you. As your lips met his, the weight of the world fell away, replaced by the intoxicating rush of desire that surged between you.

You let him take control, his hands roaming your body. He pushed you down softly, letting you fall back on the couch as he got on top of you. You were breathless as he pulled back from you, his lips pressing soft kisses on your neck.

He pulled your legs up so that you were straddling his waist, while your hands pulled on his ruffled-up hair. You let out soft whimpers as you let him kiss you and take care of you ─ the way Nick never did. His touch was soft, tender and sweet. Every touch was meaningful and filled with care and neediness.

He hadn't felt your touch in months and he was so needy, so desperate but he was still careful and soft. The way you liked, the way he knew Nick never treated you. "God, you're beautiful."

He mumbled softly against your neck, soft praises leaving his chapped lips. Quinn pulled off your shorts carefully, throwing them on the ground before he pulled off his sweatpants.

Wordlessly, you both stripped until you were both naked. He held you close to his chest as he let out a desperate groan, your arms around his shoulders to keep close as possible. He needed you so bad and you wanted to feel him inside of you, to feel him as close as physically possible.

He didn't waste any time, he pulled out his hardened member as slowly pushed into your already soaking hole. He held you close as he bottomed you out, your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as a moan fell from your lips. God, how much he missed that sound.

He waited as you adjusted to his length before he began thrusting in and out of you, his movements became more desperate. His hands gripped your hips as he fucked into you, making his own desperate grunts.

You felt so full and you swore this was exactly where you wanted to be, always and forever. All thoughts of your problems were dissipated the moments his lips touched yours and it felt like now you were floating, you and Quinn in your own world. Lost in the warmth of Quinn, you surrendered yourself to the blissful oblivion of the present moment; you felt weightless, untethered from the burdens that had weighed you down.

As the world faded into the background, you allowed yourself to be consumed by the overwhelming tide of emotion that surged between you and Quinn.

And as quick as it started, you felt yourself come close. "Fuck, Quinn. I'm so close," you whined as Quinn grunted in response. He pulled your legs further up, pulling them on to his shoulders so he could you feel even deeper.

The new angle made the knot in your stomach snap unexpectedly, a guttural moan coming out of your mouth as your head fell back. You cried out, tears slipping from your eyes from the pure bliss you felt.

A few more deep thrusts and Quinn's seed was spilling into you, he fell onto your chest quickly. Both of you caught your breaths, your minds empty except for each other.

As you lay entwined in Quinn's embrace, a sense of calm washed over you and in that intimidate moment, you felt the fear of unknown slowly dissipate as you felt Quinn's arm held you close.

With each beat of your heart, the truth became painfully clear: Quinn was the only person who truly understood you, who accepted you for who you were, flaws and all. In his arms, you felt seen, heard, and loved in a way that no one else could ever compare to.

"I don't wanna lose you, never again." Your voice was hoarse and full of emotion. "Quinn, look at me."

As you spoke, your voice trembled with the weight of your emotions, raw and unfiltered. With a gentle touch of his chin, you urged Quinn to meet your gaze, your heart laid bare before him, vulnerable yet overflowing with love. In that moment, there was no room for doubt or hesitation, only the overwhelming need to express the depth of your love for him.

Quinn's gaze met yours, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and understanding. "I don't want to lose you either," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper yet filled with a fierce determination. "You mean everything to me."

There was a vulnerability in his words, a raw honesty that came from the depths of his heart. And as you looked into his eyes, you knew without a doubt that he loved you.

With a trembling hand, you reached out to brush away the tears that glistened in Quinn's eyes, your touch a silent promise of the love that burned brightly within your heart.

"I'm here," you murmured softly, your voice a whispered vow of commitment. "I'm not going anywhere."

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