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sunsetmade · 2 days ago

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When the Storm Came

Bsf!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: A viscous thunderstorm hits the OBX and the only person Rafe is thinking about is his best friend, who has the biggest fear of them.

Rain came fast in the Outer Banks.

One second it was calm—humid, gray-skied, the kind of heaviness in the air that warned you something was coming. The next, the sky cracked wide open and the storm fell in sheets. Loud and unapologetic.

I flinched, pressing my head against my blanket-covered knees as another boom shook the walls. My hands flew to my ears instinctively, trying to block it out. The thunder rolled again, louder this time, and I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on my breathing. But it was no use. The storm was getting worse.

Rain pounded harder against the windows, each drop sounding like a warning. My breath hitched with every crack of thunder, matching its rhythm in a way that made my chest feel tighter. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the movie playing in front of me, hoping it would drown it out.

It didn’t.

The voices from the screen felt distant, muffled by the storm outside and the fear twisting in my stomach.

These were the moments I realized just how much I took the sunny days for granted—those slow, golden afternoons with Rafe. The way the light hit his eyes, the warmth of his voice, the ease that came with just being near him.

Rafe.

Even just the thought of him made my chest feel a little lighter, like I could breathe again. A small smile tugged at my lips as my eyes drifted to my phone, sitting untouched at the edge of the bed.

I reached for it quickly, curling back into myself as another low rumble shook the house. One arm remained tightly pressed over my ear, the other fumbled to unlock the screen.

His name was the first one on my messages. Of course it was.

Our last conversation from less than an hour ago still sat there—light teasing, a joke about the ridiculous smoothie he’d made earlier. So casual, so normal.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

I wanted to hear his voice. Just for a second. He always knew how to calm me down, like his words could wrap around me and make everything feel safe again.

But I hesitated.

He’s probably busy, I told myself. He has better things to do than deal with this. With me. With my stupid storm anxiety.

The thunder cracked again, louder this time. My finger flinched, still hovering. Just thinking about him helped. But I couldn’t help but wonder… if he knew how much I needed him, would he still pick up?

A sudden boom—sharper, louder than all the ones before—ripped through the air and shattered my train of thought.

I let out a small yelp and, without thinking, flung my phone across the bed. My body curled in tighter as I yanked the blanket over my head, desperate for some kind of shelter, some kind of buffer between me and the storm screaming outside.

It was silly, I knew that. A blanket couldn’t protect me from thunder. But in that moment, it felt like all I had.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The sky had been gray all day, but it wasn’t until the thunder started that Rafe really noticed.

He’d been pacing around his room, half-listening to whatever song was playing on his speaker, when the first low rumble shook through the house. He paused, mid-step. Looked out the window.

Rain was coming down hard now—fast, steady, and angry.

His stomach dropped.

Shit.

He didn’t even have to think. The moment the second, louder crack of thunder hit, he was already pulling his phone from his pocket.

Her contact was right there—top of the list, like it always was. He’d just texted her earlier. Dumb stuff. Nothing serious. But now he was staring at her name, thumb hesitating over the screen like it might bite him.

Another roll of thunder.

He could practically see her in his mind—knees pulled to her chest, blanket over her head, hands clamped over her ears.

She hated storms.

He remembered the first time he learned that. They were thirteen. A hurricane had been rolling in, and they’d taken shelter at Tannyhill with the rest of the Kooks. She’d sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, face pale.

She hadn’t even told him. He’d just… seen it. The way her hands shook. How she flinched at every crack of thunder. The way her voice was so quiet when she finally whispered, “I hate this.”

She’d always been that way—gentle, soft-spoken. Sweet in a way that made the world feel quieter when she was around. Rafe had never really been quiet. He wasn’t sure he knew how. But with her? He could breathe.

He pressed call. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

His jaw clenched.

She always answered. Always.

Without thinking, he grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair, yanked it over his head, and headed for the front door.

She’d kill him for driving in this weather. But the thought of her sitting there alone, scared, with no one to talk her down—it made something hot and unbearable rise in his chest.

He didn’t even bother grabbing an umbrella. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He just drove.

Because that’s what he always did. He showed up for her.

And this time would be no different.

By the time he pulled up to her house, the rain was coming down in full sheets, wind shaking the branches overhead. Her car was in the driveway. Good.

He sprinted to her front door, knocking hard.

No answer.

He knocked again, then pressed his forehead to the door and called out, “It’s me.”

Seconds later, it creaked open.

There she was.

Oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes wide and red-rimmed. Her hair was pulled back, a few strands sticking to her forehead from humidity, and she looked so small that it made something in Rafe’s chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

She nodded, but barely.

“I didn’t know it was gonna storm this bad,” she said, words wobbling like she was trying not to cry. “I didn’t wanna bother you, I know you were—”

“You’re never bothering me.” His tone came out sharp, a little too urgent. He exhaled, took a step inside. “I saw the clouds and just—I had to check on you.”

She stepped back to let him in, closing the door behind him. The storm outside roared.

“Lights flickered a couple times,” she murmured. “I thought they were gonna go out.”

Another crack of thunder. She winced.

Without thinking, Rafe pulled her into a hug.

She stiffened, just for a second, and then melted against him.

“I hate this,” she whispered into his chest.

“I know,” he said, one hand coming up to the back of her head. “I remember.”

His heart was beating too fast. She felt warm against him. Fragile.

“You always remember,” she said after a moment.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. “’Cause you’re my best friend.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and for a second, he wondered if she was about to say something. Something he wasn’t ready for—or maybe had been waiting years to hear.

But instead, she whispered, “Can you stay until it’s over?”

He smiled gently. “I was planning on it.”

They had settled into the living room, the low flicker of the TV casting a gentle glow over them. The storm outside had only grown louder, thunder cracking like a whip in the sky, rain slamming against the windows in relentless sheets.

She was curled up on the couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket, but it was Rafe’s presence—his warmth—that made her feel grounded. He sat right beside her, their sides pressed together, his thigh solid and steady against hers. She didn’t shy away. In fact, she leaned in—shoulder brushing his, her head resting lightly on his bicep.

Every time the thunder roared, she flinched just a little, and every time, his hand found a new place to soothe. First, it rested on her knee, his thumb drawing slow circles. Then it slid up, fingers tracing her arm gently, until it settled against the curve of her waist, warm and grounding. Later, he wrapped his arm fully around her shoulders, pulling her closer, letting her sink into him like he was the safest place in the world.

And to her—he was.

It was quiet for a while. Just the rain, the occasional rumble in the sky, and the soft sound of her breathing, which was finally starting to slow. She hadn’t fallen asleep, but she was nestled into his side now, the blanket half-forgotten in her lap. Her hand rested on his chest, just over his heart, fingers gently fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, her voice a little hushed and hoarse from earlier tears.

Rafe smiled softly, his chin dipping to rest on top of her head. “That’s what happens when you run through a downpour like a maniac.”

She let out a small laugh against his chest. It was muffled, but he felt it. She tilted her head to look up at him, cheek still pressed to his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come over.”

His eyes met hers—stormy like the sky outside, but softer, vulnerable in a way she rarely got to see. “Yeah, I did.”

She blinked, not looking away. “Why?”

Rafe’s jaw flexed like he was trying to keep something in. He looked away for a moment, toward the rain racing down the windows, then back to her.

“Because you’re my girl,” he said simply. “Storm or not.”

Her breath caught, just slightly, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.

He kept going, quieter now. “And because the thought of you sitting here, scared, without me—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sit still.”

She reached up then, brushing his damp hair back from his face, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. Her touch was soft, but it was full of things she hadn’t said out loud yet.

“You’re kind of stuck with me, you know,” he added, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

She smiled back, small and real. “I know.”

Her hand slipped down from his face, trailing along his jaw before resting back against his chest, over his heart. His hand slid down to her waist again, pulling her in even closer, and neither of them said anything for a long moment.

The thunder rolled again, but this time, she didn’t flinch.

“Hey,” she said softly, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response, already watching her.

“I like being stuck with you.”

And somewhere between the steady rhythm of the rain and the warmth of his arms around her, the line between best friends began to quietly blur—shifting into something softer, something more.

#outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx x reader #rafe cameron #rafe angst #rafe obx #rafe fluff #rafe x you #bsf!rafe

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diyasgarden · 2 days ago

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Insecurity

Art is insecure. Insecure in the way that it doesn't even have to be said, people around him can feel it. It lingers in the way his eyes narrow randomly, or his jaw ticks. The way he goes a little too silent sometimes and how at times his actions seem a bit too desperate. It's more prominent when he was younger, not necessarily having the foresight to try concealing these things back then, but as he becomes better at hiding them with age he never is able to fully push it away. At the core of it all, he just doesn't feel like he is good enough, and when you latch onto such a basic fear everything can sprout insecurity. If you try to talk about it with him, in any regard, you're just met with dismissive jokes or a snide remark. Not even done with an air of defense, but rather just pushing away the thought all together. If you bring up a conversation about what exactly has him feeling insecure (without even mentioning the feeling at all) then he can get snappy, taking an offensive approach to push you away from the topic all together. If you were feeling insecure, he would be able to tell. He'd pick it up instantly, but would only address it based on how serious he thought the problem was. Again, never the one to properly tackle an issue when need be.

Tashi isn't that insecure. The lack of it doesn't come form this idea that she is better than others or just the best (although she may as well feel so), but rather the fact that she doesn't view her faults or failures as detriments to herself. She knows when she can be wrong or when she falls short, and either views it as room to grow or just something she can't do much about. Although, with the latter it leads to sense of restlessness that bothers her. That is the insecurity she feels. It's a rare feeling, only coming up in relation to things and people she cares about. She won't ever outright admit it, but you can sense it with the way her words become a little more sharper. A defensive reaction in the face of the emotion. There isn't much for you to do so when she feels that way, just having to let her work it out herself (which she always does with a little bit of space). If you were feeling insecure around Tashi, especially for a reason connected to her, she wouldn't understand it. She'd make a joke about it, never in bad faith. She's just teasing, she never wants you to feel insecure with her.

Patrick appears the most confident, almost to a fault, but it's often overcompensation for the things which make him feel insecure. It's a combination of feeling like he's falling behind and also just think you'd leave him. There isn't much you can do to make him feel better about this. It's a lingering fear that doesn't really show up at specific moments, but you can sense every once in a while underlying his actions and words. Subtle in the way that demands attention, yet remains ignored. You know he would deny it if you asked, and there is no way he'd broach the subject without being pushed to that point. If you were feeling insecure, he would hate it. Not in the way that he is annoyed or upset, but because he just doesn't want you to feel that way. He also doesn't know how exactly to help you, which just makes him feel worse.

#i feel like i may have fucked up with art here...oh well #ATP one word headcanons #challengers #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi duncan #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson x reader #tashi duncan x reader

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01zfan · 12 hours ago

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in chair

anton x reader | 8.5k words

rewatched juno recently (the best movie of all time by the way) and i thought of anton. he is so paulie bleaker coded. this is mainlyyyy inspired by the beginning scene of the movie but the dynamic i tried to write here is supposed to be like them heh

also in my head the album pinkerton by weezer plays in the background during all of this.

contains: loss of virginity, sneaking around

There was some sort of binding vow that kept the recliner safe.

Even if it made no sense, to Anton and to you it felt like doing it on the recliner was better than doing it anywhere else. As though Anton’s dad was all the way in South Korea unknowingly keeping his irresponsible son honest. The terrible conversation they had about safe sex in his home studio lingered in the air and seeped into the recliner through the cracks in the vinyl covering.

Neither of you had a condom but that was okay because the recliner itself was one big condom, keeping you both safe from whatever absolutely couldn’t happen.

No matter how Anton felt about you, he was convinced that nothing would ever come of it. Not only was he a responsible and dutiful son, he promised his dad he wouldn’t do reckless things to save his mom the trouble. He would also never do anything because the mere thought of holding hands made his palms sweaty. He didn’t even really know how to have sex, much less with someone he’s friends with and has been dating-but-not-really-dating for the last year. You once described the relationship as something that had to do with close proximity and your shared taste in nerd-rock bands everyone else thought were shitty. Even if he did share that kiss with you in Park Wonbin's sweaty basement for no reason and you two did hold hands, you weren't together. You two were open and honest but you got defensive once when Anton brought up anything regarding your relationship. So because of that, the thought of having to speak or touch you even if he wanted to, and you never had any complaints when he did, made Anton’s mind overflow with all that could go wrong.

But he was in the chair. This was better than laying missionary on the bed, or being on the floor. This was different than whatever you were going to do when you finally got the courage to take off your underwear and close the difference between you and him.

You stood in front of Anton, watching him in just his boxers and a white shirt. His hoodie was taken off and thrown onto his small bed, his sweats were bunched at his feet. This scene had to be degrading, him with his pants down and staring at you waiting for what you were going to do next. You were wearing more clothes than him. You told yourself you couldn’t take off your layered shirts for his sake, not because the thought of being completely naked felt embarrassing. Anton was with you through your terrible nu-metal phase and even humored you and listened to the mixtape you burned for him. There was nothing worse than that but still, you stayed in your bra with your undershirt, the long sleeve, and the short sleeve band tee on top. Anton was still your bestfriend, and he could take back that he wanted to do this at any moment.

There was also the fear that his mother and brother could come back. You two had lost track of time because you started awkwardly kissing immediately once you heard the front door close. Anton eventually found the strength to pull you onto his lap after sitting criss cross to accommodate you. Once you were there and your hands were on his shoulders bringing him closer, the seconds started turning into minutes, minutes turned into hours, so forth. You forgot when you even started and looking at the time was useless.

All of this was ironic, because Anton’s mom had recently become wary of leaving you two alone. She had developed the habit of trying to snoop on your conversations while talking to his dad over the phone. She would stand in the kitchen, holding the phone close to her face while standing on her tiptoes to see over the upstairs banister into Anton’s room.

“Is he taking a liking to it?” Anton’s dad asked it over the phone when she described the scene to him. He was elated with the idea of the recliner going in his sons room. He saw it as some sort of compensation for missing more formative years in his life. He was happy imagining his son sitting in his old recliner, rocking back and forth on the creaky springs maybe even thinking about him. “He always favored that chair.”

“It’s hideous,” Anton’s mom whispered it into the receiver, recalling the sight of it in Anton’s room. “Even in Anton’s mess of a room.”

The brown fraying recliner did not match Anton’s shining gold trophies and medals that hung on his wall. It didn’t match his old race car bed frame he couldn’t bring himself to replace. The way the recliner sat made Anton’s cluttered room an even tighter fit, and the growth spurt he had last summer made it so he had to bend his legs if he wanted to sit on the floor.

The reclining chair from his father’s studio was replaced with leather imported from overseas. The shipment came from Italy and stood on sturdy wooden rings with a detached ottoman. The new recliner was minimalist and smelled like a new car. The old one was clunky, the lever was sentient, and the vinyl started peeling off years ago. Anton’s brother said it was disgusting and his father said himself that he was due for an upgrade.

Anton tried to remain indifferent to the old chair but when his mother asked for help to put it on the curb he found himself suddenly advocating for it to stay in the house. There was no reason for it to be downstairs in the studio where the new sofa was, and his mother would be damned putting it in the living room where anyone could see it. By the end of the day Anton was clearing out a place for the recliner in his room. Junyoung made that face of disgust and their mother tilted her head to the side.

He already had a beanbag he rarely used and a million other things that cluttered his room. Anton’s mother told her son this gently, but he had already set his mind to it. He “cleared” a space—pushed a pile of unfolded laundry and stuffed animals from one side of his room to the other—just to make a brand new home for the disgusting sofa. Junyoung and him carried the heavy recliner up the stairs, bumping into the banister as his mom watched and told them to be careful.

“He has a better use for it than I do.” Anton’s father said over the phone. Anton’s mom shook her head remembering her son’s promise of cleaning up his room. She also remembers that it felt like the entire family was in the room if she counted the chair. “Does he like it?”

“He likes sitting in it to do homework.” Anton’s mom from the kitchen peered up the stairs. From where she was she should be able to see directly into Anton’s room. She readjusted herself on her tiptoes, becoming more and more distracted as she tried to see what was going on. “But the one who’s really taken a liking to it is his friend.”

Before her husband could say your name back to her in a titled voice Anton’s mom put her hand over the receiver of the phone and projected her voice.

“Kids.” She spoke sweetly, including an endearing term for everyone to seem inconspicuous. She pretended like she was talking to Junyoung through his closed door. She waited for a moment, until she could hear the sound of Anton calling back to her. “Are you guys hungry?” She asked.

“No. You just made us lunch.” Anton spoke barely above a normal talking volume back.

Sound unfortunately carried easily even through half-shut doors. Anton’s mom had no reason to tell him to open the door all the way so she could snoop to her hearts content. Still though, she tried standing on her tiptoes again, desperately trying to see what was going on upstairs in her son’s room without prying.

“Lunch was really good by the way.” You said, even gentler than Anton’s.

“I can bring you guys up some snacks if you’d like?” She said back.

“Mom, we’re okay, really.” Anton’s voice told her that he knew what she was trying to do. She went back to the balls of her feet, trying to remember who was on the other side of the line.

“You don’t have to bring us anything, you already made us lunch.” Your sweet voice followed afterwards, a cute pitch that neither of her sons had.

“Okay.” She let go of the receiver, trying to get one last look into Anton’s room. When she only saw the tip of his head she finally gave up, letting go of the receiver and bringing the phone back to her face. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you Mom.”

“You bother them too much.” Her husband was amused on the other end of the line, even if his voice came out tired through the speaker. About seven thousand miles and fourteen hours separated them. “But do you think he’ll finally get furniture that matches?” He added.

His mother wasn’t completely against the idea of the recliner in Anton’s room. When her son looked back and for approval she nodded, and her approval made Junyoung follow suit. She liked the recliner because she hoped it would make Anton realize how juvenile the rest of his room was. The ill-fitted race car bed was from when he was a preteen and he’s amassed a collection of stuffed animals since he was a baby. The accolades from swimming was the most mature thing in her son’s room, even if there was a trophy from his little league days. Maybe the aged recliner would make Anton get things that accommodated his age. He could keep the gundam figurines because robots and guns are normal for kids his age, but not the colorful squishmallows.

When his mother followed up the steps she had to breathe in before telling Anton that he needed to declutter his space. She said it to the stuffed animals spilling out from the hammock fastened to the wall and the barely closed doors of his closet she didn’t dare to open. She looked at the gundam figurines lining what was supposed to be his school desk and unfolded laundry resting at the foot of his bed.

The recliner could also be a stand-in for his father. She figured that in some weird way the recliner filled the void while he made music overseas. Next time she’d reprimand her son she already envisioned casting a glance towards the chair, like her husband was there backing her up.

“Your mom definitely thinks we’re doing something we’re not supposed to.” You spoke while looking at your homework, settling deeper into the bean bag. Anton looked up from his notebook settled in between his bent legs. “She wants to come up here so bad.”

“What do you think she thinks we’re doing?”

Anton asked the question just to pull you from your assignment. He knew the answer already, he picked up the desperation in his mother’s voice and the way she gently reminded Anton to keep the door open before you came over. He liked acting clueless because you always shot him the look that asked if he was stupid and deadpanned the answer.

“She thinks we’re like,” Before the words could roll off your tongue you pause. It’s covered by the quiet mix coming through Anton’s CD player, but the way you avert your eyes and start picking at the corner of your paper makes it obvious. Anton looks back to his assignment too, trying to help you cover up the pause in your words. “kissing or something.” You finish.

Truthfully, what his parents think you two do when you’re left unsupervised is much worse than kissing. So much worse that Anton was sat down by his parents to have a terribly awkward safe sex talk. He didn’t know what he was doing in his dad’s home office or why they started the conversation with how you two met.

Anton already knew that you became friends when you were freshmen, pushed to the outskirts of your grade’s caste. Your shared niche taste in media brought you two close together at the cost of any chance at being popular. He already knew that his only other opportunity to make friends was through forced proximity of his teammates on the swim team, and you still had your friend from childhood. She was the complete opposite of you—and she made fun of Anton any chance she got—but she was nice. She was the only popular kid that actually seemed to engage with people from other cliques.

But Anton already knew that it was you and him against the world. He didn’t know why his mother implemented a rule that the door had to be open when you two are in his room. Anton was confused by all this because one day his parents viewed you as his one and only friend and the next day you were viewed as a girl that he could possibly be romantically involved with.

The way his parents acted around you made Anton look at you differently. He came to the conclusion that you were still the same, you still wore your baggy clothes and cursed almost every sentence and listened to the same music you always have. Anton had to tell his parents that you were still the same girl—and you were still only friends—even if you were seemingly getting prettier by the day. He had the moment of clarity when you two were in this exact position, where you were looking up at him asking what the answer was to a question on science homework. He came to the conclusion that him seeing you in a different light was based on technicality. Even if there was that girl on his swim team that asked him to the formal it made sense that you would be the subject of Anton’s dreams because you were always together.

But maybe it was the chair. Both of you assumed that Anton’s mom realized how ridiculous she was being, and that there was nothing her responsible son and his unassuming friend would do. She was also trying really hard to get you both to come with her to the store, but once you both lamented how responsible you were trying to be studying for an exam she left you be. She wrangled Junyoung instead to be her companion on the trip grocery store run, said a prayer, and then left.

With just you, Anton, and the CD playing in his room it was quiet. You mentioned the kissing or something to hide the fact it was all you ever thought about. Being left alone with him was harder these days. After your garage band was dissolved because Eunseok was visiting his grandparents for the rest of the month there was an extremely different air surrounding you two. Being partners for class projects was one thing, being alone in his room in an empty house was another.

There was no segue into you two kissing. One moment you were asking about that girl on Anton’s swim team and he was asking you about the boy from your English class. You told him that he was just a boy and Anton said she was just a girl. There was a stare that lasted too long and you holding your pencil so hard in your hand you thought it would break. When the silence became too much you reached forward, planting a kiss on the corner of Anton’s mouth. He hesitated, then he reciprocated, trig homework still bunched in his lap.

The kisses started off slow and awkward, neither of you knowing exactly what to do with all of eachother. The very act of crawling into Anton’s lap was humiliating for some reason, the sound of the notebooks and assignments being pushed to the side was embarrassing. Anton’s perpetually dry lips pressing to yours was slow, the overwhelming anticipation made first contact just feel like a regular touch. Anton was too nervous to ask you if you wanted to stop, and that was good because you were too embarrassed to tell him to do it again. Anton just silently stretched his legs fully until they pressed into the beanbag and he pulled you fully onto him, basically cradling you.

Lack of communication made you two just slip through the motions. You both just continued pressing your lips against eachothers while your faces heated up from embarrassment until contact started feeling like something more. You think it changed when Anton tilted his head slightly to one side and wet his lips. When he went back in after that it made you tilt your head to the other side, and then it felt like something was actually happening. Anton’s hand that kept you still on his lap went to your head when it was obvious you weren’t going anywhere. You felt his hands grip the back of your neck.

The hesitation from Anton to go into your hair made you gain your bearings long enough to finally create some distance. Anton’s hands left your body completely the second you moved, and you stood up immediately. You were dizzy from moving too quick and the view of Anton from above. His lips already looked different, plump from constant contact and wet from your shared spit. His tongue was peaking out before he let it go back into his mouth. His hands were pressed into the ground on either side of his body, and he looked so cramped in the small space between his bed and the wall. You looked from him to the recliner, trying to calm your racing heart. Each time you looked back to Anton he was already looking up at you, eyes wide and not moving an inch.

You two should’ve definitely talk about whatever was happening. Silence has served the both of you well up to this point. Anton started moving slowly backwards until he could sit in the recliner. It rocked back from his weight when he reached for his sweater, and Anton kept his fingers there. He didn’t move fully until he saw you kick off your slippers and reach for the button on your cargo pants.

Anton’s mom was currently shopping, Junyoung went with her because you and Anton needed to focus on studying for the Trigonometry exam in two days. Instead you two were engaged in a silent standoff, one staring at the other while you tried to figure out what to do next.

Anton moved first. When his room got too dark from the evening he reached to his bedside table quickly, pulling the string on his Yoshitomo Nara table lamp to light the area. Your bare thighs were suddenly illuminated, your body casting a shadow on the wall behind you. Your cargo pants were bunched behind you, leaving you in your stripped crew socks and your baggy shirts that left too much to the imagination. When Anton turned on the light he realized he could be seen clearly too. He hoped he looked good sitting on the recliner in front of you. Like a boyish Adam Yauch or another rockstar you were always talking to him about.

You moved second. You don’t count the tremor that wracked through your body but you counted your hands finally leaving your sides to reach for your waist instead. You looked from Anton’s face to his hands, you watched them clench as you tried willing yourself to loosen up. You were supposed to be calmer than Anton was. You were supposed to be breaking through the tension with a joke at Anton’s expense and he was supposed to laugh to lighten the mood. But both of you were silent, trying to suppress the clues that you simultaneously panicking.

You let out a deep breath, and another shake that was hidden underneath your layers of shirts. Your hands went to the waistband of your underwear, fingers going underneath the wrap around the elastic waistband. You’ve done this a million times, the setting and the audience were different but the motions were the same. You repeated that to herself over and over as you pulled your panties down, until you had to bend over to get them the rest of the way.

When you came back up Anton’s hands were no longer balled up on top of his thighs. They were gripping the armrest now, and he was getting that leg bounce you always teased him for. You didn’t say anything this time because you watched him try to stop it. He wiped his hands on his legs until he reached his knee. He grasped around the joint and held tight until his knuckles became white.

You had a handful of your underwear with cherries on it, still not taking a step towards him. That table lamp was expensive but it was never very bright. You thought about what Anton could see, if his eyes kept on darting down to her your because he didn’t like what he was seeing or because he couldn’t see it at all.

You stepped forward and Anton leaned back into his seat. You took another step and he leaned forward. The third step left him awkwardly between the two positions, and his leg started bouncing again. You did feel bad, like you were playing with him without meaning to. You and Anton had built up a rapport centered around you lightly bullying him and him taking it. You couldn’t remember the last time you two were in complete silence like this, or when you two were so sincere and so lost. But this was cruel for you too, because up until twenty minutes ago you thought that Anton wasn’t interested in you at all. Now you’re walking towards him thinking about how this could ruin your friendship forever, or if he became your friend solely at the prospect of getting in your pants. You knew the situation was unlikely because Anton was your friend when you didn’t want to be kind to yourself, but the more you think about it the more it makes sense why there’s so much hesitation.

You’re in front of the recliner now. Anton pulled his legs together until his knees touched, making his large body small so you could have the most space possible. It was a kind gesture, but you were too busy being completely silent to acknowledge it. Anton looked between your legs up to your face, leaning back so much the chair tilted back with him. You casted a shadow on his face, but you could still make up the way he was looking at you through it. He offered his hands on the armrest of the recliner, giving you a place of stability if you wanted to take it further. Anton only looked at your chest in passing, not pressing further even if all you focused on was the center of his white shirt. He leaned forward to take the shirt off too, tossing it in the same place his sweatshirt was.

Anton let out the smallest tremor. You looked at his silver necklace first, too afraid to look at his toned stomach. You could only get the courage to look at his broad chest, the way he looked against the back of the recliner. You had your hands on his shoulders when he pulled you onto his lap but looking at them now doesn’t make sense. You had seen the pictures of him with his shirt off, you’ve been to his swim meets before. Seeing him like this with no one else there was different. You couldn’t believe that this was the same guy who was lanky and bumping into everything the first time you met. This was a social outcast like you, someone who stayed in swim and orchestra because he wouldn’t have friends any other way. The same one who burned CD’s of nerd rock bands and idolized his father too much.

When Anton’s hand that was on the armrest went palms up you quickly put your underwear there. He was surprised, taking his attention away from your face to his hand. His hand went rigid underneath the fabric and Anton was still staring at it, he didn’t move until your hands went to his shoulders for leverage. Like he couldn’t touch you with the hand holding your panties his other went to you, stabilizing you as you straddled his lap on the creaky recliner.

For a moment it’s just you and Anton like that. Chest to chest, you hovering above his lap. Your eye level with him for what feels like the first time in your life, and the least amount of clothes separates the two of you. Even if you have on an undershirt, a long sleeve, and a band tee on it feels like your bare against Anton’s chest. Your hands stay on his shoulder and his arm stays on the lowest part of your waist that’s covered by clothes. His other hand closes around your underwear.

“I like that band.”

Anton said it still looking into your eyes. You looked down like you didn’t know what shirt you were wearing. You and Anton actually went to the show together, you both forgot earplugs so you spent a portion of the opening act stuffing toilet paper into eachothers ears.

You should've reminded him of that moment like he would've forgotten what you looked like looking up at him with worrying vocalizing concerns about toilet paper becoming permanently stuck in your ear. But instead you played with the chipping leather on the seat and nodded your head.

“I like them too.” You respond.

Another chance to talk about what’s happening dissolves in the air as you two settle into another bout of silence. Anton brings your underwear into your line of sight, a silent offering that for a split second you think is rejection. When you take it back you try to get off of him, but instantly both of his hands are on your waist keeping you in place.

He experiments, letting his hands slide further and further down until his hands are on your bare skin underneath all your shirts. Your skin is flaming and his hands feel like ice, you stiffen and Anton gets a better grip on you. You’re in the palm of his hands and your underwear is wedged between his shoulder blade and your hand. He keeps eye contact with you and applies the lightest force downwards. You give in immediately, and you feel the area you couldn’t bring yourself to look at before. Anton’s bulge is hard against your bare cunt, your combined heat overwhelms you. Already you can feel sweat lining your body underneath your shirts, and you can feel embarrassing wetness seep from you onto his boxers.

There’s barely anything separating the two of you. All Anton would have to do is pull down his waistband or reach into the fly of his boxers and pull himself out. Maybe he shouldn’t. You always imagined you’d lose your virginity in college when you'd miraculously become hot enough to bang, or when you got married and someone was contractually obligated to find you sexy. Everyone else in your grade seemed to be doing this but you and Anton prided yourselves on being different. You didn’t not imagine losing it to him, he was the first real boy that you ever thought about kissing when he got really handsome over the summer two years ago. But this seemed wrong, like you were doing this wrong. Even if it felt so good that your combined slick and his precum made the thin layer of his boxers wet, this felt wrong. Feeling the ridge of Anton’s dick shouldn’t feel so nice, and you shouldn’t want more. The anticipation shouldn’t feel so nice that nothing feels like it will be enough.

Even if you’ve convinced yourself that this is all wrong, you still drag your hips forward in the smallest motion. Suddenly the creaking from the recliner while you two were trying to find a comfortable position stops. The silence is so loud, it somehow overpowers the music playing in Anton’s room. His hands freeze on your waist, your blunt nails dig into his shoulder. You look down at where you two almost are so close to meeting. You can see the discoloration on his boxers, and if you really focus you can see yourself glistening. When you glance up quickly Anton is looking down too, even if his hands on your hip are still unmoving. He doesn’t look up from your hips, and then you grind against him again.

The third time you drag your hips on his is when the first sound leaves his lips. A quiet moan, a quick sound that’s almost muffled by his closed lips. You focus on Anton’s neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. His hands dig a little more into your waist, and you drag your hips again. Without looking at Anton you move forward slowly, until your chin is resting in the crook of his neck. You have enough leverage now to apply more pressure, dragging your bare cunt on his clothed dick.

His hand left your hip when you let your first sound slip out. He went to pressing his hand to your lower back, then as though he was waiting for you first more sounds of his own started slipping out. You stayed focused on his Adam’s apple, the way it moves in his throat with each sound. You’re driven by watching it move, you purposefully drag your hips rougher against his, just to see the movement.

“Oh my God.” Anton’s hand creeps up under your shirt until you can feel his large hand pressed between your shoulder. “That feels so good.”

Anton’s voice is barely above a whisper. He does better than you, because you’re still completely silent, only nodding as you drag your hips on his again.

Beyond Anton’s comment that floated around in his cluttered room, you two went back to being silent. Just pitiful noises swapped between the two of you, trying to be silent while also seeing what the other liked. Anton gripped you a little tighter when you whimpered and your lips would press against his neck, and you liked feeling his moans ring through his chest.

“Should I—“ Anton moved, trying to offer something that got stuck in his throat “Do you want me to—”

The gesture towards your exposed bottom half made you shake your head on instinct. When you tried to pause his hand over your shirt kept you moving, tiny swivels against him. You were making a mess on his boxers, grinding on him like a dog in heat. You never heard about this being so embarrassing. You know it’s painfully obvious you’ve never been touched this way before.

“I hear it helps.” Anton’s fingers dig into your shirt when you pause again. “And I’ll try to make it feel good for you.”

Anton’s hand is already drifting down when you nod your head. He leaves your waist and settles between your legs, cramming his long fingers through the space where your hips meet. Both of you let out a sigh at the same time, even when it’s just his inexperienced hand bumping into your clit. You still coat his fingers and he repeats the same awkward motion.

“You’re so wet.” Anton whispers.

You say sorry even though you've never apologized for anything in your life. You sound so sincere it makes Anton shake his head.

"Don't apologize." He says quickly, repeating the motion.

He lifts his head from the recliner to look down, watching his fingers disappear as you continue your tiny grinds. He experiments with you. He scissors his fingers against your folds, he pushes a finger between them and glides down. He is operating off terrible guesswork and the sounds you make, when you try to stifle something by biting your lip or shaking your head slightly.

You know Anton wants you to tell him what to do. At some point his gaze moved to the side of your face, intense and burning while he continued doing something with his fingers. You were figuring it out too, what you liked. Bossing Anton around was easier in different circumstances, but now he was beginning to pout when nothing he was doing was working. When you hear a whimper bubbling in his throat you take a chance, leaving your crumpled panties draped over his shoulder to drop your hand down.

You press two fingers to your clit and look at Anton’s chest, trying to find that place in your room on top of your bed where you did this the most.

“Like this.”

You say it quietly, soft motions that make you bump and grind on his hand. He keeps his hand still for you, and you continue grinding on the side of his hand. The slick sound replaces the silence in the room, only interrupted by the sound of your bodies moving on top of the fraying cushion.

Anton watches you for a moment, nodding like he’s the one touching your clit. You have to give him some credit, because he’s takes the leap to reach his hand from your waist to replace your fingers with his.

You don’t know how to deal with the fact that Anton is bringing you pleasure like this. There’s something that creeps on you, burning on your cheeks as you start huffing into Anton’s neck. He tries his best to make it feel good for you, and he does it well. He’s attentive, learns too fast and continues to go when your hands would’ve started cramping.

“Ton.” You whimper.

“Am I doing it right?” He asks.

You grind on Anton’s hand and the other works your clit. You’ve never felt the extent of stimulation like this, grinding on something desperately while having another thing on your clit. There’s also never been someone but yourself doing this for you.

The more you pathetically grind on Anton’s hand the hotter your cheeks feel, and then you feel sweat lining your body underneath your shirts.

You know something else is going to happen when Anton gets quiet again. He’s too nervous to ask what to do next and you’re too busy chasing after something to tell him. But you feel his hand go to your ass to lift you, and his hand that was on your clit goes further and further down until he presses into your entrance.

Your fingers take him in too fast. You sigh into his neck, and your hands move to press into Anton’s chest. Your underwear is caught between your hand and his body, the wrinkled fabric against him.

You start grinding against his fingers inside of you. With your chest heaving you pull away from Anton’s neck, trying your best to hide how scared you are to look up at him. You find comfort in the fact that his cheeks are flushed and tinted red too, and that sweat is making hair stick to his forehead. You find enough courage to look at Anton directly, and you chase after that feeling you were trying to suppress.

Anton is pressed into the recliner watching you bounce on his fingers. He keeps his fingers the same for you, not daring to move an inch while he watches you. His chest is heaving watching you. How far gone Anton is could be bizarre, but you’ve been in similarly gone thinking about him in this situation. His fingers feel just as good as you thought they would, and he’s so insistent on getting you somewhere he’s silent, not saying a word so he can focus completely on you.

“I can handle it.” You say it quickly. The first time you feel Anton’s fingers move inside of you is when your words register. Now it’s you reaching for Anton’s dick, an unsteady hand sticking right through the fly in his boxers. When you feel him heavy and sticky in your hands you pulse around his fingers “Let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” Anton asks the question purely on technicality. Both of you have already made it this far, not thinking about the consequences. You don’t even know what you’re sure of, besides the fact that Anton is twitching in your hand and a sigh racks through his entire body when you pull him out through his boxers.

There’s only hesitation when you felt Antons’ tip prod your entrance. You held onto his shoulders tight, keeping yourself suspended above him. The music stopped at some point, leaving you two with the creaky wood and springs in the recliner and your tense breathing.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Anton says it like you haven’t spent almost everyday after school at his house for the past three years. His hand is still holding the base of his dick, his bicep flexing with each moment. You sink just a little deeper. His fingers couldn’t compare to this, because you’ve already felt yourself seize up again and Anton is letting out a tense breath at how tight you already feel. “But if you want me to stop, just say so.”

“I want to keep going.” You say it, but you still are in the same place above his dick. Feeling his tip makes you lightheaded, and having him wait for you to move makes you want to crumble into him again. You can feel Anton let out a choked gasp when you sink a little further. You’ve made it past his tip, swollen and twitching inside of you when you retreat back to his neck. “Help me the rest of the way.”

You feel his head nod against yours, and then you feel his hand leave between your two bodies to wrap around your waist instead. He readjusts his grip on you, and you can feel your soft skin peaking through the space in his fingers. Anton has felt your frame underneath your layers of clothes, you feel tiny compared to him. You feel weak too, because Anton starts pulling you down slowly on top of him.

“Try to relax.” Anton croaks into your ear when you seize around him. “You’re too tight.”

Selfishly, you start making loud noises in Anton’s ear to try and relieve some of the pressure. He lets out a strained sound back to you, slowly working you down the rest of the way. He’s too big, the stretching from his large fingers did nothing to stretch you out. He’s a tight fit, and you’re getting tighter the more you think about how there’s somehow more of him to go.

Just before you curse into his ear, you feel yourself sitting on his lap. Anton is fully inside of you. Your hands are pressed to his chest and you feel like your body is melding into the recliner. Anton’s hands on your waist twitch and grasp at you. When you seize around him Anton pitches forward head hung low. You can see him scrunch his face, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration. You get used to him fast. From the very beginning you wanted more, and when your nails dig into his shoulder you finally get enough leverage to lift yourself on his lap.

Anton pulls in a deep breath fast and holds it. You do all the work, going up as high and you can before you can drop again. You repeat the motion, waiting for Anton to bring up his hanging head or to make a sound. He seems so helpless, almost shaking his head as his hands on your hips gets more desperate. You want to pull his head up manually so he has to look at you, but you can’t bring yourself to say a word. You grind on him when you sink fully down, feeling him writhe in your gut. You start hanging your head too, unable to find the strength to lift yourself up again.

Despite begging inwardly for Anton to lift your head, when he finally finds the strength to do it, you press your cheek to his. Physically touching is the contact you need, and not being able to see his face keeps you from burning up. The contact was what Anton needed to, because when your flushed cheeks smushed together he let moans slip from his parted lips louder. You were whimpering against his cheek, looking out the window behind the recliner to his yard.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Anton whispered it directly in your ear, fanning the side of your face with his quick breath. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling your clothed body against his bare chest. Your hands move to the back to the recliner and it tips backwards from the added weight. “I’ve—I’ve thought about this for so long.” He adds.

Over the top of the recliner you could see the backyard. During that summer before Anton’s dad cleared out the garage your band used to play there. You never would’ve thought that being in the backyard would lead you hear. The recliner creaks when Anton’s hand move underneath your ass, lifting you up slightly to bring you down.

“I’ve thought about this too.” You say it even quieter than Anton did, nodding your head against his. His skin is so soft against yours, you keep moving your head just to feel his skin catch on yours. You start working with his strength to lift yourself on your knees.

The rhythm you and Anton build up is messy. The inclination of knowing music is out the window, the two of you lack pattern chasing after something. Anton can’t figure out if he wants to hold you tight by your waist or keep a tight grip on your ass. You can’t will away the burn working in your thighs, and you can’t work with the small space you have on the recliner. The chair tilts back and forth, screaming from the extra weight.

The louder you and Anton get the louder the recliner gets too. When you curse and say tell Anton that you’re close the chair is almost louder than you.

“I think I’m close too.” Anton’s hand works up your back, ending with his large hand over the back of your neck. He squeezes and your body reacts by squeezing him tight. You make Anton’s next moan come out strained, his sentence is cut off when he experimentally squeezes the back of your neck again. “Does that feel good?”

You know his question comes from a genuine place of worry. He’s had a reputation of being so gentle with you it was unbearable at times. You wore baggy clothes and hung out with the boys in an effort of becoming one of them. Everyone seemed to know that except for Anton, always treating you like you were liable to break. Even when you know he wants to continue chasing after that feeling and bring you down on his dick faster he’s gentle, letting you set the pace and just helping you when your legs fail. He clenches the back of your neck a third time, and it feels like his concerns become dirty talk. You want him to ask you if he’s too big for you in that same worried tone, or too ask you if you’re sure you’re close.

“Feels good Anton.” The chair continues to creak underneath you too. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on one thing. He’s unknowingly overstimulating, despite the fact that he’s quiet and gentle with you. You’re filling in the gaps, letting your imagination run beyond you two and this recliner. You think about your shared time together as friends, like the moment at the rock show when Anton’s hand gripped you the same way they do now. Like he doesn’t want to let go of you, like you’re his and he’s yours. “I’m really close.”

“Can I look at you?”

Anton asks the question in between the recliner creaking and him bringing you back down on his twitching dick. He offers you the chance to ignore him, but you’re slowly nodding your head against his again.

With the gentle grip on the back of your neck Anton brings your face away from his. The split second you summon your remaining courage, following his gentle pull. You’re face to face with Anton. The recliner seems to get a little quieter, both of your hips falter when you make eye contact. Anton’s pupils are blown wide, his lips are parted and swollen. You see his tongue peak out, running over that place he always touches with his fingers. His hair falls in front of his face, bangs almost covering his eyes completely. You push his bangs out of the way quickly, both of your hands still cradling his face. You run your thumb over his cheek for a moment and Anton’s hand kneads your skin.

The second time you go in to kiss Anton is different from the first. Instead of closing your eyes and lurching forward it’s deliberate. You keep your eyes open until Anton closes his, squeezing his cheeks a little harder when you finally feel his lips press to yours.

Anton’s hand on the back of your neck moves to your face. You’re tilting your head and then he’s tilting it for you. You can hear your lips moving against eachother, then the feeling of his tongue poking your bottom lip. You open your mouth slow, and then it’s Anton’s tongue pressing flat against yours. You curve your tongue and mix spit, overextending the gap in your mouth to get a better taste.

The action is messy, Your spit is smeared along the perimeter of Anton’s mouth when you start riding him again. It’s a simple motion, that’s closer to grinding than actually fucking yourself. But it’s enough to get Anton to hold your face still and separate your lips from his. Anton brings your head together until your foreheads touch. He’s breathing heavily as you continue grinding against his lap, just repeating the small motion. You can feel Anton’s body bumping into your clit, and you hear his breathing turn into his chest heaving.

You don’t stop grinding, you open your eyes and see Anton looking through half-lidded eyes right back at you. You whimper and continue grinding, and one of his hand’s leaves your face to hold your ass. He speeds up your hips, and you hear the terrible creak in the recliner. You’re sure something will give out any minute, and right before the chair can rock all the way back Anton freezes underneath you. His words are caught in his throat, you think you hear him curse for the first time in your life before he leans his entire body against the back of the recliner. You continue riding him, and both of you become louder than the recliner. You’re cursing back at Anton, digging your nails into his skin and balling up your underwear in the palm of your hand.

“Baby.” Anton moans, pathetic and loud. He projects towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut. His grip on your waist is bruising, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Your moans turn into loud grunts, and your grinds turn into flicks against his skin. “Too much. Too much.” He whines.

You nod your head quickly, flicking your hips three times before you finally feel relief. You let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your whole body starts to collapse. You heave out each breath, your chest shaking. You have to breathe in deep to center yourself, and you seize around him each time you try to ground yourself. Anton is shaking his head against the back of the recliner. With each breath you get closer and closer to Anton, until your chest is pressing against his and his arms wrap around you to pull you in for a hug.

When you move again Anton hisses right in your ear. You playfully grind against him again, and Anton weakly lifts you up until his dick slides out of you. He’s still half hard, landing against his stomach with a wet slap. He lets you lay back down on him, and you shiver when your bare cunt rests on his dick.

You’re laying against Anton’s chest for awhile. You can hear his heart rate finally start to slow down. His hand creeps underneath your layer of shirts, rubbing his hand on your bare back. Like it’s the most intimate thing you’ve done in the past hour he’s awkward, only continuing the massaging motion when you sigh contently against him.

Your shared sweat starts mixing with Anton’s welding you both to the peeling vinyl. You already feel disgusting against underneath your shirts, and the cold sweat from Anton that seeps through to you.

“Your mom will be back soon.” You murmur.

You feel warmth seep out of you and you shiver again. You hum against his chest, feeling your eyelids get heavy.

Anton’s mom came through the door with Junyoung behind her. He had a handful of grocery bags, walking past her to go to the kitchen. She was busy standing on her tiptoes, and the moment she saw the closed door to Anton’s room her heart dropped. Junyoung was already going back outside to get the groceries when she said out loud she was going to get Anton.

Up the stairs she was contemplating on what to do Should she stomp up the stairs a little louder to give you two fair warning? Should she sneak up and try to catch you two in the act? Junyoung came back inside with more bags in his hands. He complained about wanting help before going back out, whispering under his breath that he was leaving the heavy stuff for Anton.

His mom cleared the stairs and walked across the landing to her sons door. She held her head to the door first, trying to pick up on anything. At the sound of the recliner creaking loudly she knocked and opened the door in one go, preparing for the worst.

When she opened the door she found Anton in the recliner, in his white shirt and sweatpants. He was alone in the room, looking up from his assignment to his mother standing in the doorframe. Anton stopped rocking in the chair, the loud creaking coming to an end. She scanned the room quickly, trying to remember the reason why she came up here.

“She had to go home before it got to dark.” Anton said, answering her question.

“I’m making dinner, I would’ve given her a ride home.”

Anton shrugs, clutching something in his hand. She sees that his pencil is on his bedside table. She really shouldn’t press the issue any further. She already stormed into her son’s room expecting to catch him in the act. She’s guilty, she lets go of the doorknob and almost turns around without saying another word. She sees Junyoung come inside again, more bags of food clutched in his hand.

“Can you help your brother with the groceries?” She trades the order for a suggestion, trying to compensate for the intrusion in her room. Anton nods and shifts in the recliner, causing it to creak. He looks back down to his paper. “Whenever you finish what you’re working on.” She adds quickly.

“No it’s okay, I was done anyways. I’ll be down in a little bit.” Anton says and gets up from his chair. She leaves the room completely, her husband saying she needs to leave her son alone playing in her mind again and again.

When his mom leaves the room he turns around to face towards the chair. He looks out the chair behind the window, looking at his backyard to where you climbed your bike to pedal back home. He insisted that you stay, but you seemed really adamant on leaving saying you had to be home at a certain time. When Anton hears his mom make her way down the stairs he looks down to his clenched fist. He really wanted you to stay, and the only thing that convinced him he didn’t do something wrong was your parting gif. Anton opens up his hand to see your crumpled pair of underwear expand in his palm. He sighs and clutches it again before opening the top drawer of his bedside table and putting it inside. He closes the drawer and sighs again, turning off his lamp to help with the groceries.

#01zfan: anton #anton smut #riize smut

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lifeisbutadream444 · 1 day ago

Text

The Last Night (Original Version)

Aaron Pierre x Reader

A/N: This is the original version of The Last Night. After working on this for weeks I decided to start from scratch and wrote the version I published yesterday. I decided I might as well finish this version too. Let me know what version you prefer. Enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut

Summary: After the series finale wraps, she thinks she’s saying goodbye to four years of tension, restraint, and the co-star she was never supposed to love.

The wrap party was everything it was supposed to be, loud, nostalgic. The kind of celebration where laughter echoes and everyone pretends they aren’t grieving something they’ll never get back.

You stood near the back of the venue, sipping Moet that had long since gone flat, pretending to laugh at a joke someone from production told. You couldn’t even remember what he said, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes anyway. Not tonight.

Four years. That show had been your entire life for four years. And now, just like that, it was over.

Worse than that? It meant no more long shoot days with Aaron. No more early call times where he brought you coffee and teased you until you smiled. No more inside jokes whispered between takes. No more lingering glances in the makeup trailer when he thought you weren’t looking. No more pretending you didn’t feel what you’ve been trying to swallow down since day one.

It was easier to laugh it all off. To act like you never noticed the subtle touches, the way he always found a reason to sit too close, the way he remembered your Starbucks order better than you did. Easier to pretend you were just friends. Close friends. Best friends. Because if you didn’t, you’d have to face the terrifying truth: Aaron made you feel too much.

And you couldn't afford heartbreak.

Not when this show was your first real acting job. Not when you were finally being offered opportunities to work with actors and directors you've always admired. You couldn’t afford to be messy. Not publicly. Not with someone like him. Your name trending beside his would be career-ending, or worse—life-consuming. You had seen what his fans did to the girls they thought he was dating. You weren’t ready for that kind of bloodbath.

So you kept your distance.

But tonight, distance felt like a knife in your chest.

You glanced across the room, and there he was, laughing with one of the directors, drink in hand, that easy smile stretching across his face. The smile that always found a way to cut through your worst moods.

You hadn't spoken to him tonight. But every time you looked at him, your heart squeezed like it knew the truth before you could admit it to yourself.

You were going to miss him. Every part of him.

“Hey,” Lauren nudged your side, breaking your trance. “You okay?”

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from Aaron. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lauren looked like she wanted to press further, but thankfully someone called her name and she was pulled away into another conversation.

You took the chance to slip toward the back exit. Maybe if you left quietly, you wouldn’t have to deal with goodbyes. You weren’t sure you could get through one without your voice cracking.

But just as your hand reached for the door, you heard his voice behind you.

“You were really gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

You closed your eyes for a split second, cursed under your breath, and turned.

Aaron stood there, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, one brow raised like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His gaze was steady, but his eyes, those fucking blue-green eyes, held something else tonight. Something softer.

“I figured you were busy,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Too busy for you?” He stepped closer. “Come on, don’t do that.”

You forced a smile, even as your chest tightened. “Congratulations, by the way. Everyone’s been talking about how brilliant your last scene was.”

Aaron tilted his head. “You’re really gonna stand there and give me the PR version of goodbye?”

Your smile faltered.

He took another step, closing the space between you. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for just a moment longer than necessary.

“You gonna miss me?” he asked, low and unassuming, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You looked away, blinked rapidly. Your vision started to blur.

Shit.

Aaron leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper now. “Hey… are you crying?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled through his nose, like something had just clicked for him. Like maybe—for the first time—he really saw it. That you cared. That you always had.

He didn't press, didn't tease you like he usually did. Instead, he leaned in just a little closer, his breath brushing against your temple.

“You wanna get out of here?” he murmured. “Not like that. Just… come back to mine. For a little while. Don’t go home sad, yeah?”

You hesitated.

You should have said no.

But instead, you nodded once.

“Okay.”

And just like that, something between you shifted.

You didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know if this was the beginning of something or the inevitable unraveling of a years-long friendship.

But you followed him out into the night anyway.

Aaron’s house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made your skin hum with awareness.

You’d been here before. Once. Maybe twice. But never alone. Never with your heart in your throat and your body still trembling from the pool of emotions you’d barely managed to hide at the wrap party. Never with the weight of goodbye thick in the air between you.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there in his entryway, wrapped in the dim gold light spilling from the living room. Everything smelled like him, clean linen, a hint of whatever cologne lingered on his skin. It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

It was dangerous.

He walked past you to his kitchen, silent, calm, and poured two drinks. You didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Your body was buzzing, pulse erratic. You needed to leave. You should’ve never come here. But you didn’t move when he handed you the glass.

“Relax,” he murmured, taking a sip of his own. “You’re acting like I brought you here to eat you alive.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and your throat went dry.

Because the way he was looking at you, eyes smoldering under heavy lashes, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips.

You scoffed, trying to push the heat down. “I’m fine.”

You looked away, sipping your drink to steady yourself. But it did nothing to settle the nerves, or the ache you hated admitting was there.

He wasn’t trying to do anything.

That was the problem.

He didn’t have to.

And he knew it.

“Come get in the pool,” he said, like it was nothing. “It’s warm. You’ll like it.”

You blinked. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

Aaron turned back toward you, one brow lifted like the answer was obvious.

“I’ll find you something,” he said. “Or you can wear nothing. I’m not picky.”

Your heart flipped. You knew he was joking. Kind of.

But the look he gave you lingered.

Not a dare.

Not a question.

You hated how easily he could undo you with a single look.

Still, you followed.

The water was warm, just like he said. It wrapped around your skin like silk, soothing and overwhelming all at once. But being with him—like this—was anything but soothing.

He was leaning against the edge of the pool, arms spread wide, watching you, like always.

You floated near the center, trying to pretend like you didn’t feel the way his gaze traced every inch of your body. You felt naked under his stare, even with the tank top he had given you to swim in.

“Why were avoiding me tonight?”

Your throat tightened.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the surface of the water. “I wasn't”

He pushed off the wall, slow and silent, cutting through the water like it parted just for him.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he said, voice low and dark. “How you avoid being alone with me whenever we’re not working?”

You backed up, your shoulders brushing tile. Nowhere to go.

His hands landed on the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching you.

Your stomach flipped.

He was too close. Too warm. Too much.

You hated that your body betrayed you before your mouth could speak.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmured, even though you absolutely did.

He smiled. Slow. Cruel.

“Yes, you do.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze.

Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped below the water, brushing your thigh. Not by accident.

“I’ve let you lie to yourself for years,” he murmured. “I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought maybe… one day, you’d stop.”

You swallowed hard.

But you said nothing.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And maybe… tonight… he finally had proof. You’d almost cried earlier. Over him. He saw it. You knew he did.

“Are you scared I’ll fuck it up?” he asked, tone too soft now. “Or are you scared I won’t?”

Your breath caught.

“You must be drunk,” you whispered, even though you knew he wasn’t.

His fingers dragged higher, slow under the water, skating along your thigh, your hipbone, stopping just shy of where you ached.

“I think you want me,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “And I think you’ve spent four fucking years pretending you don’t.”

Your knees went weak. You thanked God for the lack of gravity in the water.

But still, you stayed quiet.

Because saying it out loud would make it real. And once it was real, it could break you.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips grazing your neck now.

You didn’t.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning into yours. Waiting. Testing.

And still—you said nothing.

That was all he needed.

Aaron surged forward and kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth crashed against yours like he was punishing you for every moment you made him wait. His hand fisted in your shirt under the water, dragging you flush against his chest, your legs lifting instinctively to wrap around him like muscle memory.

You moaned into him before you could stop it, and he groaned back like it fed him.

It was the kind of kiss that left no room for lies.

You wanted him.

You loved him.

And it terrified you.

You pulled away suddenly, breath ragged. “We can’t.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed. “What?”

You shook your head, already backing away toward the steps. “I should go.”

You grabbed your towel from the chair, wrapping it tightly around yourself like a shield.

You were already halfway across the deck when you heard it—the shift in the water. Then the unmistakable sound of him climbing out after you. Not rushed. Not panicked.

You turned around, pulse hammering. He was still dripping wet, his swim trunks low on his hips, chest rising and falling with every breath.

“You’re really gonna do it, huh?” he asked, voice quiet but tight. “Walk away. Pretend none of this happened.”

He let out a soft laugh, one that held no humor.

“You’re exhausting,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really are.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No, really,” he said, stepping closer. “I watched you fall apart in front of me less than an hour ago. You practically cried over the thought of not seeing me again. But now you’re gonna leave and pretend that all of this was nothing.”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t say it was nothing.”

“Well you’re definitely acting like it,” he snapped.

He stepped closer, water still dripping from his body, his voice rough with restraint.

“Can you let go of your pride for two fucking seconds and admit what’s been obvious since year one?”

You shook your head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” he fired back. “Tell me why you’d rather keep pretending we’re just friends.”

Your silence said more than your words ever could.

Aaron exhaled a bitter breath, then looked at you—really looked. His voice dropped.

“Fine. If that’s what you want,” he said. “Then go. Walk out. We’ll send each other happy birthday texts once a year and make awkward small talk at events.”

You didn’t move.

His eyes narrowed.

You felt your pride clawing at your throat.

But your heart? It was already unraveling.

Your voice cracked. “You don’t understand. If we take it there, and something happens… if I lose you…”

“You already are,” he said, softer now. “You’re losing me right now.”

“I waited,” he said, softer now. “Four fucking years. Do you know what it’s like to want someone that long and still try to play it cool?”

You looked away, eyes stinging.

“I gave you space,” he continued. “I didn’t push. I stayed your friend. I didn’t touch you, didn’t cross the line, because I thought that’s what you needed.”

You swallowed hard, throat aching. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he said, simply. No accusation in his voice. Just fact.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like he wasn’t trying to intimidate you — just be near you. Like it physically hurt to be that far away.

“I love you.” he said, voice steady now. He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist gently.

Your breath caught.

Aaron’s hand wrapped gently around yours, grounding you.

“I’m not saying it to pressure you,” he added. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, as something in your chest cracked open.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when you ignored it. Even when you gave me every reason to give up on you.”

His thumb rubbed over the back of your hand, slow and patient.

The silence between you swelled — not empty, not awkward.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice breaking. “And I've spent every day talking myself out of it.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You swallowed. “You know how brutal this industry is. One wrong rumor, one bad headline, and it’s over before it even starts.”

Aaron’s face softened. Just slightly. But his jaw ticked—he didn’t like hearing it.

“I’ve watched what happens to the women you're linked to,” you continued. “The obsession. The speculation. The fucking hate. It’s relentless. You brush it off like it's nothing, but I can't. I don’t want to live under a microscope, constantly defending who I am and why I'm standing next to you.”

You paused, eyes locked with his, not backing down. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what the world does to women who get too close to men like you.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then Aaron stepped in, slow but certain, until your bodies were almost touching. His hands lifted to cradle your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones—gentle, but claiming. His voice dropped low.

“You think I don’t see how hard you’ve worked?” he said, gaze unwavering. “You think I’d let some clickbait headline undo that? You think I’d let anyone touch what you’ve built?”

His eyes narrowed, intense now. “Let me be very clear. If anyone tries to come for you—press, fans, blogs, producers—I’ll handle it. You don’t have to fight them alone. You don’t have to carry any of this alone.”

You exhaled, shaky but steadying, and he caught it.

You blinked up at him. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s gonna be messy. There’ll be headlines. There’ll be moments that test both of us.”

He paused, then added, quieter—dead serious:

“But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take the heat, the questions, the bullshit. I just need you to trust me.”

You didn’t look away.

And maybe that’s why he smiled—just a little. That crooked, cocky half-grin that always drove you insane.

“You're so fucking stubborn,” he murmured.

But his tone wasn’t annoyed. It was amused. Admiring. Like he liked it — like he liked you this way. Unflinching. Complicated. Honest.

Then he stepped in and kissed your cheek.

Not your lips.

Not yet.

“I want you upstairs,” he murmured against your skin. “Now.”

Your legs went weak. The floor tilted.

“Come on.” he whispered, voice low and dark.

He didn’t wait for you to respond. He turned, grabbed your hand, and started leading you down the hall like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

Of course you did.

The second the bedroom door shut behind you, everything changed.

The air thickened.

The lights were low, but the tension was high — the kind that buzzed against your skin before he even touched you again.

He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Not for a moment.

He looked at you like he was still giving you an out. But there was no judgment in his stare — only confidence. Only heat.

Aaron kissed you like he was starving. Like four years of restraint had finally burned up and he was done pretending.

He walked you back until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. His hands were already on your hips, your waist, your ribs — gripping like he needed to ground himself in you.

“You’ve been driving me crazy for years,” he muttered into your mouth.

You gasped when he slipped his hands under your wet shirt. He didn’t rush. He didn’t ask.

He just lifted it over your head, slow and reverent, watching you the entire time.

His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “Get on the bed.”

You obeyed.

And when he climbed over you, when he leaned down and pressed a kiss just under your jaw, then lower — just above your collarbone — your body melted beneath him.

In the next breath, his hand slipped between your thighs — over your panties, not inside. Just pressure. Just enough to make your eyes flutter shut and your hips buck into him.

You groaned. “Aaron.”

You squirmed beneath him, his body caging you in, his mouth at your ear now.

“You ever touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?” he murmured, dark and velvet-smooth.

You gasped, the flush rushing to your cheeks so fast it burned.

His lips brushed your ear. “Be honest. Did you?”

“…Yes.”

He groaned, his breath catching just slightly.

Then he pulled back to look at you, his hand still teasing you through your panties, his thumb stroking in slow, maddening circles.

“You gonna let me take care of that tonight?” he asked.

You nodded, wide-eyed, hips rocking into his hand like your body was already answering for you.

“Tell me what you need.” he said, still rubbing your clit through your soaked underwear.

You were too overwhelmed with pleasure to say anything. You were burning — for him, with him — and that hunger was terrifying. The power he had over your body. Over your mind.

His eyes narrowed, his fingers stilled right as you were about to reach your peak. He stared down at you with the kind of heat that made you ache all over again.

Then, suddenly, he was gone. His body left yours completely — the heat of him, the weight, the steady hand between your legs.

You blinked in confusion as he stood at the edge of the bed, running a slow hand through his hair, like he was cooling himself down.

And then he smiled.

That smug, heart-stopping, ruin-you smile.

“You wanna act like you don’t need it that bad?” he said, voice low and calm. “Then I won’t touch you again until you say it.”

Your pulse thundered. “Say what?”

He crossed his arms. “That you want me to make you come.”

Your whole body went still.

His eyes dropped down to your legs, still parted, still waiting.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he said, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or I’m getting in that bed and going to sleep.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. Your pride flared — for half a second.

Then you exhaled, wrecked and trembling.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He raised a brow. “That’s not what I said to say.”

Your face burned. “Aaron—”

He stepped closer, slowly, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down to the edge of the bed until your hips met the mattress seam and your thighs bracketed his.

“Say it,” he whispered, hand grazing the inside of your knee.

You bit your lip.

“I want you to make me come.”

His growl was soft. Satisfied.

You barely had time to respond before he slipped your panties down in one fluid motion and lowered his mouth to your center.

You gasped — sharp and guttural — as his tongue dragged through your folds with precision, with reverence. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place like you might try to run.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

He licked you again, then again — slow, rhythmic, maddening. Your back arched, your fingers flying to his hair. He let you tug, let you guide — and then he groaned, deep and hungry, like your reaction fed him.

“Fuck,” you breathed, already trembling. “Aaron, please—”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t let up.

His tongue circled your clit, then flattened against it. His fingers gripped your thighs harder now, keeping you spread, keeping you exposed, like he wanted you to feel completely his.

You moaned his name again, louder this time, and he didn’t speak — just hummed into you in response. The vibration made your legs twitch, made your hips rise — and he pushed them back down with ease.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked.

You nodded, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

The pressure built with every flick of his tongue, every pass of his mouth. You were unraveling — slowly, beautifully — on the edge of something that had been denied for far too long.

You gasped again, eyes wide. “Aaron—”

“I know,” he breathed. “Let go.”

And when you did — when the wave broke and you cried out his name, body arched, toes curled — he didn’t stop.

He didn’t pull away.

He held you through it, mouth still working you through every shudder, every pulse, until you collapsed back into the mattress, completely undone.

You were still catching your breath when he kissed the inside of your thigh. Slow. Purposeful. Like he wasn’t done worshiping you yet.

Aaron’s hands were still on your body — one anchoring your hip, the other smoothing up your stomach in slow, calming strokes. You were trembling. Soft. Open.

He climbed up over you, every inch of his body pressed to yours now — bare chest flush against your skin, his forearm beside your head, bracing himself.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, reaching up to touch his face. “More than okay.”

He kissed you then.

It was different this time.

Slower. Deeper. Like he was sealing a promise between your mouths. Like this wasn’t just about lust anymore — it never really was.

You could feel the weight of him against your thigh now. Hard. Hot. Controlled. And when you shifted beneath him, hips brushing instinctively against his, he groaned low in his throat.

He stood at the edge of the bed and undressed without a word — sliding off his swim trunks.

When you saw him — all of him — your mouth went dry. You’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing compared to the real thing.

Aaron crawled back over you, settling between your thighs again, his weight comforting, overwhelming.

“You nervous?” he murmured, brushing your hair back again.

You nodded. “A little.”

He lowered himself just enough so his mouth hovered above yours. “Don’t be.”

Then, slowly, he reached between you — guiding himself, dragging the thick length of him through your slick folds.

You gasped at the contact. At the feel of him so close. So real.

“You sure?” he asked again.

“I’m sure.”

He watched your face the entire time as he pressed in.

Inch by inch.

Stretching you. Filling you.

You let out a soft cry, gripping his forearm as your back arched, your body adjusting, welcoming him in a way that felt both completely new and somehow inevitable.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep, forehead resting against yours.

His voice was a rasp.

“Fuck...”

Your eyes burned. You didn’t expect that part. The emotion. The weight of being seen — fully, deeply — and still wanted like this.

He started to move.

Slow.

Measured.

Devastating.

Every thrust hit deep, unrelenting, made worse by the way he kept whispering things into your skin — your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth.

“You’ve been mine for a long time.”

“Say my name again.”

“You feel so good wrapped around me, baby.”

Your fingers clawed at his back, anchoring yourself, trying to match his rhythm, but he was stronger. Steadier. Always in control.

You whimpered as he rolled his hips, hitting the perfect spot inside you again and again.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

He kissed you hard, catching the sound in your throat before it escaped.

And when your second climax started building — sharp and fast — he felt it before you said a word.

“That’s it,” he whispered, fucking you a little harder now. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him so tightly his rhythm faltered.

And that’s when he gave in.

Aaron groaned, low and guttural, as he buried himself to the hilt, stilling as he came with your name on his lips.

It was raw. Breathless. Unfiltered.

He collapsed over you, still holding you close, chest heaving against yours.

He didn’t move right away.

He just held you.

Tight. Steady. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And when he finally lifted his head, when he looked at you like you were something holy, you knew one thing for sure:

This wasn’t the end of something.

It was the beginning.

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre smut #aaron pierre x reader #aaron pierre x black reader #terry richmond fic #terry richmond smut #terry richmond x black oc

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euphoria-looney · 2 days ago

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Mushy and Nasty

"Careful the wish you make. Wishes are children. Careful the path they take. Wishes come true, not free." 'Children Will Listen' By Bernadette Peters'

So Much More Journal Entry #21 10th Journal

Divider Creds: @bernardsbendystraws and @sisterlucifergraphics

I can't stomach any more peas.

My mom used to make it appetizing, but now it's just this mushy, nasty-tasting sphere. Discu Digusting. How does anyone enjoy peas?

I don't think that's the only thing I don't like, either, as much as I adore Alfie, he needs to put the salt and pepper down and have something a little more. I would be lying if I said I wasn't trying to be ungrateful, but hey, I'm... fine with not being important enough to get attention, but at least make some good food.

I can't complain as the food here is infinitely better than the food I had to dig through the trash for, but that's expected; it was rotten and moldy. Would it be bad if I said that I wouldn't mind going back to that broken-down apartment with my mom over this? Does that make me sound spoiled? It probably does, it seems I'm so out of touch with remembering how it was back in the slums of Gotham that I'm willing to be ungrateful and spoiled and say I like to be back, knowing I would just complain if I did.

On another note, I'm despising Melody more and more as she keeps bothering me, she can't help it, she's a child, and I'm a bitter teenager with problems that could be stomached down any day, but the way she clings on to me makes everything worse. Especially with those eyes surrounding her bore onto me with something I wanted, yet in the wrong way. There I go contradicting myself.

But at least Dick was nice to me, he for once went up to talk to me, he asked how did I get Melody so attached to me. Not exactly the type of conversation I wanted, but it's better than nothing.

Not only that, but each time Delphie tells me to just call her mom will make me violently throw up before choking myself out. I just feel shivers being dispersed throughout my body when she does that, or when she tries to act motherly to me, it's not a funny, silly thing, but rather uncomfortable, and once again, her admirers seem to be peeved when she gives me more attention than most.

My friends seems to be concern for me though, I had collapsed the other day, the made sure their private doctors checked what was wrong. It was stress so nothing important, I'll be heading back to practice for my figure skating routine soon, my friends are going to bite my head off but I'd prefer that over letting my laziness take over the healthier choice of dedicating my time to something actually important.

Sincerely,

[s.name] (signature name).

Credit to @randomlyappearingartist for the request.

How are we feeling about this? 😍 because I think I'm going to choke myself out if I don't find the vibes to get back into writing.

#platonic batfam #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #batfam x neglected reader #batfam #neglected reader

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hallelujahmeatgod · 15 hours ago

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SYLUS BEING THE ULTIMATE DAD TO LUKE AND KEIRAN (Pt. 2)

Last time, I wrote about how Sylus has pretty much reached a point in his parenting journey with the twins where nothing surprises him anymore. He’s seen it all, heard it all, survived it all—so there’s really not much that can rattle him.

Except when things get too quiet.

Because let’s be real—these twins could have "Chaos" as their official last name. So silence? That’s a red flag. Something’s definitely up.

Sylus sits in his office, the usual fortress of order amid the madness, surrounded by towering stacks of paperwork. The room is calm, the soft crackle of one of his favorite vinyl records playing in the background adding a vintage kind of peace.

It’s quiet. Serene. A setting most would dream of. But not Sylus. To him, this kind of stillness is a warning sign. It’s too quiet. And that’s what unsettles him the most.

Because if his mansion had a sound template, it would go like this:

His office? A sanctuary—peaceful, still, the only noises being the scratch of his pen on paper, the faint hum of music, and the occasional chime of Mephisto’s alerts.

Outside that door, though? It’s an entirely different reality. N.O.I.S.Y. doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s always some sort of racket—sibling squabbles echoing through the halls, mechanical parts clanking against each other, and every now and then, an explosion that no one can quite explain. So yeah, when it’s quiet? Sylus knows something’s off.

"Twins!" he calls out, calm and composed—just a little test to confirm his growing suspicion.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never really has to. Over the years, he’s learned that summoning the twins like this often get more response than shouting or blowing up their phones.

Normally, within seconds, two mischievous heads would pop out from behind the double doors of his office, eyes wide with feigned innocence, like they hadn’t just caused a minor catastrophe somewhere in the house.

But this time? Nothing.

"Luke. Kieran!" he calls out again, this time with a sharper edge in his voice.

The calm has slipped just enough to show he's serious now.

He sets down the papers in his hand with deliberate care, slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose, and fixes his eyes on the double doors like a hawk about to catch movement in tall grass. His brows knit together, the crease between them deepening.

Still no answer. No heads peeking in. No nervous chuckles or rushed footsteps. Just that same, unnerving silence.

Sylus exhales slowly through his nose, a sound laced with growing apprehension.

Then, with the weight of a man who already knows how this story ends, he finally rises from his chair. Because if he doesn’t stand up right now, the next scene in this little saga is probably going to involve him storming into a den of dangerous criminals to rescue the twins—or worse, having to bail them out of jail.

Oh absolutely—if you’re thinking, “There’s no way Luke and Keiran would just get caught like that, those two could fight their way out of anything”—you’re completely right. Sylus knows it too. But you know what else he knows? That his twins are absolutely, unapologetically unhinged. Their entire brand is chaotic curiosity and bad decisions for the bit.

So honestly, Sylus wouldn’t put it past them to let themselves get arrested or kidnapped just because it sounded “interesting” that day.

One time he caught them watching some true crime doc and the conversation went something like:

Keiran, casually snacking on chips: You think the AC in cop cars or getaway vans is any good?

Luke, laser-focused on the car chase on screen: Doubt it.

Keiran: Yeah, same. Nothing like boss man’s. His cars' AC slaps.

Luke: You know what I think, though? That those cars look like they smell like feet inside. I dunno, there's just something about cop cars and getaway vans that give off that vibe.

Keiran: What about jail food, though?

Luke, pausing like this is a deeply philosophical question: …Hmm. I dunno. We’ve never been. But lowkey? Kinda curious.

Keiran: Right?? Me too.

Best believe Sylus IMMEDIATELY shuts that whole scene down. TV off. New topic. Five-star meal on the table. He even gets maintenance to upgrade their perfectly working AC units because if his boys are chasing weird experiences, then he's gonna give them luxury weird experiences right at home. They’re not ending up in jail out of curiosity—not on his watch.

#im just a sucker for papa sylus cmon now #lads #love and deepspace #lads crack #lads sylus #love and deepspace crack #love and deepspace sylus

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jude457 · 19 hours ago

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Yet Another Inho Whump Headcanon: Inho suffers from chronic migraines.

Not the kind you can shake off. The kind that burrow in behind your eyes and make it feel like your skull is splintering from the inside. The kind you hide because life won’t slow down for your pain.

It started young. Before Junho ever needed a kidney, before they even knew the full extent of how hard life was going to get. Inho learned early to swallow his pain because his stepmother already had too much on her plate—medications, bills, long shifts at the market, and a fragile kid who needed more than they could afford. Inho was now an adult barely. He didn’t want to be a burden.

Sometimes Junho would find him like that: tucked in the fetal position, drenched in sweat, barely breathing through the pounding in his skull. And baby Junho, bless him, would climb in bed and curl around him, whispering nonsense, trying to “pet the pain away.” It never worked, but Inho would pretend it did.

Inho got good at hiding it. He had to. On the police force, you don’t get to be fragile. You don’t get sick days when your paycheck is feeding three mouths and buying dialysis supplies. He never disclosed his condition—he couldn’t afford the scrutiny. So he powered through shifts half-blind, vomiting quietly in the station bathroom before heading back out to the street. There were days he drove patrol with one eye closed and his fingers white-knuckled on the wheel.

Even from his wife—God, Inho hid it from her too. Said it was stress, just too many hours, said he was fine when he came home with that tightness in his jaw, his body trembling under the blankets. She knew. Of course she did. She’d sit beside him in the dark, quietly massaging his temples, kissing his forehead, running her fingers over pressure points on his brow. She never said anything, just held him like he wasn’t cracking open inside. Inho thinks of her hands even now, sometimes. Thinks of the quiet kindness, the way she never asked for an explanation.

And then she got sick. And the Games came. And everything broke.

Inho fought through the pain the entire time. People think the hardest part of the Game is the violence. But for Inho, it was the nights. The lights, the noise, the cold. He bit into his knuckles until they bled to keep from screaming. Sometimes he’d black out and wake up unsure if it was from a migraine or from sheer exhaustion. He only won because he was used to pain. He knew how to compartmentalize. He’d been doing it his whole life.

When Inho came home and found her gone, the grief screamed louder than any migraine ever had. He howled until his throat tore, and for one small, twisted moment, he was glad the pain in his head was drowned out by the pain in his chest.

But the migraines never left. If anything, becoming the Front Man made them worse. The mask—heavy, suffocating—makes the pressure unbearable. The screens are too bright. The intercoms too loud. He lives in a world of sensory torture, and no one sees it. He’s careful. Clinical. Keeps the lights in his quarters low. Takes his pills in secret. Breeds loyalty through silence. The guards never suspect anything. The Managers know better than to ask why he sometimes retreats to his room, breathing like he’s drowning. And when the VIPs are around, he wears his mask like a wall. They don’t see the tremor in his hands. They don’t notice how often he excuses himself mid-conversation.

And then came Gihun.

Inho, as Young-il, was supposed to monitor him. Test him. Chip away at him. But one night, the mask slipped. The migraine hit like a hammer, and Inho—Young-il—couldn’t hide it fast enough. He curled up in the shadows, fingers pressed hard to his temples, shaking, trying not to cry. Trying to breathe.

And Gihun found him.

Gihun knelt beside him without asking anything. Just placed Inho’s head in his lap and began to gently rub circles into his forehead, along his brow, down the sides of his nose.

“My mom used to say this helps,” he murmured.

Inho wanted to pull away. He should have pulled away. But the pain was too much. And the touch was… kind.

So he stayed.

And in the dark, with his head cradled in the lap of a man who didn’t know who he really was, a tear slipped down Inho’s temple and into his hair.

Because Gihun was comforting Young-il. Not him.

Gihun didn’t know he was touching a monster. Didn’t know the blood on Inho’s hands. Didn’t know the mask behind the man. Inho was glad it was dark. Glad Gihun didn’t see the tear.

Because if he did… he might have pulled away.

#squid game #hwang inho #457 #hwang junho #i love making Inho suffer

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officialnostradamus · 2 days ago

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It's Time For...

My headcanon about Johanna Hezenkoss & Emmrich Volkarin's relationship. Which nobody asked for BUT that's what tumblr is for.

Now, hear me out, I am thoroughly enraptured by the collective fandom brain that says Emmrich was Down Bad, and Johanna was too busy being a Bad Bitch to care about his feelings. In at least one universe each, you're all 100% right, and I respect you for it. However, I posit an alternative and beseech you to go on this journey with me. I want to explore a woman who does not have a singular mind for a man, who carves her own way through life with a diamond-headed sickle, but who still thinks about him enough to hate him. A woman who sees obsession as a way of life and treats him as just another in a long line.

Our gentleman necromancer is the kind of man who falls in love at the drop of the hat. A man of a million heartbreaks. Emmrich has fallen in love with every person he's ever been on a date with. He has fallen in love with a woman selling flowers from a cart because she told him the species, though he already knew, and he fell in love with the man he met in the lift because their hands brushed when they reached for the lever and he had a beautiful laugh. That's simply how he is.

To someone like Johanna, that is a paltry weakness. Worthy of scorn if not outright mockery (and, let's face it, usually outright mockery). Johanna is a woman of barbed emotions, they stick in her mind as they catch upon thought and idea and they do not become action. She doesn't have time for them when she could be bringing her brilliance to life.

As students, Emmrich is in awe of her. Passionate, intelligent people are his favourite to be around and Johanna has them both in spades. She is fearless and unfettered by the law of man or magic. Daring and dauntless are also qualities Emmrich finds commendable, and on paper he should have been in love in an instant. He could have been in love. But Johanna is something else, too.

Johanna is also cruel. There are so many things that Emmrich, in the sweeping nature of his own passion, can look past. Selfishness can be self-determination. Recklessness can be bravery. Even the willingness to defy the laws and responsibilities he personally holds so dearly can be novel, an experimentation, the base of all new discovery. But cruelty is, perhaps, one of his only staunch nos.

To think of it in simple terms - Emmrich is the one to see a starving kitten and whisk them into his arms to find them food and shelter. He loves to see someone else do the same. He can understand the person who walks past. He can forgive even the person who left them there to begin with. He cannot abide the person who laughs.

Johanna laughs.

For Emmrich, this is easy enough. He does not fall in love and he needn't do so. Johanna is still a valued colleague and, somehow, he enjoys her company. Even if they don't see eye to eye, she is still all of those other qualities he gazes fondly upon and they don't have to agree to have spirited conversations and to learn from each other.

For Johanna, this is a slight. This is inexplicable. This is enough to burrow an emotion past the rest and what she feels is confusion - and that is so much worse than anything else it could be. Johanna knows that she is perfection personified and even if she doesn't want Volkarin, why doesn't he want her?

Johanna is clever, and desirable, and if she's in the mood for a lover it's easy enough to find one. She knows how to crook her finger. Sure, she's intimidating and she can just as easily send them running as keep them coming, but it works for her.

Except not with Volkarin.

Every fortnight or so she sees him doe eyed and dreamy over some fellow student - once, even a visiting Chantry Sister! - and yet he has never looked at her that way. When they stay up all hours of the night, researching their shared love of magic, studying for an exam, performing an experiment, he treats her with kindness and respect. Gross. He exclaims appropriately about her brilliance. Deserved. And he never strays from the bounds of their strange friendship. Unnerving.

Worse, still, he doesn't even seem to realize that they're rivals! Both of them sit at the top of any class they're in, trading number one back and forth in a constant dead heat. When she is number one, Volkarin congratulates her! He gasps in awe at her impressive work. He even stills his tongue in front of others when he believes she may have cheated. Later, alone, when he calls her on it he is gentle. He offers to help, tells her that he will always be willing to help. She can only laugh at him. Because that is pathetic, and condescending, and she is cruel.

It turns out that when he's hurt, his wet doe eyes aren't all that different from when he's a besotted fool.

Their relationship is always like this. They drift apart, eventually as students, but are thrust back together as members of the Mourn Watch. Johanna is never less intelligent, never less driven, and Emmrich is never less kind. He supports her when he can and challenges her when he must. He wants what's best for her, and for the Mourn Watch.

She wants the same things.

When her twisted experiments and refusal to follow the rules finally ends in her dismissal from the Mourn Watch, she is furious. Emmrich is sad. For a while, he sends her letters, and they say the same things he always has. He wants to help. He will help. He cares about her. Johanna responds to exactly one.

Volkarin,

You have always been a mewling, pitiful little creature with no backbone. Impressive, considering how easy it would have been to graft one to yourself. If you conquer one fear in your miserable life, let it be the one that forces you to keep talking when you should be quiet.

It's the one Emmrich doesn't respond to. It is short. It is cruel and their bond finally severs, a task Johanna thought impossible. He wants to help. He will help. Until he doesn't. Emmrich Volkarin never follows through on anything. Emmrich is fearful and petulant and compassionate to a fault. And he has finally had enough of her.

That's fine. They were never friends, always rivals, and he never loved her because he was too cowardly to truly see her. She knows this now and that is why she relegates Emmrich Volkarin to a footnote. Part of the past and not her glorious future. It is by nature of the beast that there is no one around to point out, no one that cares enough to notice, that she doesn't need the same footnote on every page.

**Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. I am a lunatic. I'll be on tumblr all night - actually, for the rest of ever 😘

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #emmrich volkarin #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age emmrich #johanna hezenkoss #dragon age johanna #johanna and emmrich #headcanon #do I need help?#seems possible #please tell me your headcanons #and thoughts

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bring-forth-his-sac · 2 days ago

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THE MAN FOR THE JOB - PART 2

Link to Part 1! (part 1 is all step up, this is the smutty part lmao)

Summary: Negan continues his mind games as he reminds you who’s in control. But when Negan actually starts to see you, you open up in ways you never anticipated (aka this is smut lmao)

Tags: daddy kink, coercion/manipulation, alcohol consumption, p in v penetration, vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, bare minimum aftercare, Negan’s an asshole who only wants one thing

Word Count: 8k

He watches you clutch the drink. Negan made sure not to fill it up too high, mainly because he doesn’t want to be wasting liquor on a gal who hasn’t let him pet her pussy yet. But also because he wants to gauge your sober reaction first.

Then later on, if you start playing by the rules, you can have a proper drink.

But for now Negan needs to focus on figuring out how to go about this. He’s had enough wives to know most fall into two categories. Either they want to give into hedonism, only needing a push to revel in living it large as a wife. Or, if they remain stubborn, Negan has to up the guilts to remind them of the severity of not just their situation, but of their loved ones too.

Watching you sit on the sleek couch across from him, Negan scoots forward. This is his opportunity to figure out which category you fit into and he’s not going to waste it.

“Y’know, this can be mutually beneficial,” Negan pitches “I mean, most gals your age got libidos ragin' like forest fires! Might do you some good to get out those pent up feelings”.

You stay quiet, trying not to nibble on your lip. The last thing you want is for Negan to know you’re nervous. You shake your head “No”.

“No, you don’t get a raging lady boner on the daily or no, you don’t want to fuck?”.

You hate how he talks. So casual and aloof despite everything. “I don’t want to do any of that stuff,” you clarify a little too quickly.

Negan raises an eyebrow, taking in your choice of words. “None of that stuff, huh?” He repeats thoughtfully. With a long sigh, he leans back and takes a gulp of his drink. “Just thought I’d give you the option… must’ve been hard to get some dick action when you were travelling with your dad”.

You don’t reply.

It’s not that you don’t mind talking about sex. You’ve never skydived either but you can hold a conversation about it. The problem is talking about it with him. If he gets any suspicions that you’re a virgin, Negan will have a field day.

“I mean, it must’ve been hard. You got all these hormones and shit just buildin' up inside ya, some willing guys no doubt but ya also got Daddy watching over you and probably making sure nobody touches his little princess” he continues, talking without a care in the world.

You hold back a scoff. As if your father, who so easily gave you to the Saviors, would care if you had sex. Things could have been much worse for you. Your father didn’t know what kind of men Negan and his Saviors were. The only reason things have worked out so well for you is… well, is thanks to Negan.

Negan keeps digging, trying to find something that’ll give him some sort of a reaction. “So, did you have boy problems or just never find the right dick?” He prods.

You don’t know what annoys you more. The constant questions or the slow realization that Negan has done more to keep you safe than your own father.

“That’s none of your business” you retort, wanting this conversation over.

Negan is quick to snap back, his tone fringing on being sharp “Everything is my business”.

You huff, not bothering to hide your frustration. That only makes Negan grin. “Oh yeah, this is what I like to see” he nods his head approvingly, much to your confusion.

Negan revels in your baffled expression before clarifying “I’m starting to see little glimmers of that potty mouth gal who read her father to shit in front of everybody”.

Your father has always said you have a way with words. Always have been able to put your foot in your mouth and talk when it’s best to keep silent. Maybe that’s why you’re finally heeding his various warnings now and trying to stay quiet.

You shrug.

“When I saw her, that lady that was cursing out her father and trying to kick and slap my men silly,” he shifts in his couch, manspreading like there’s no tomorrow “Woo! Now that lady made my balls throb! I don’t think my pants tightened that much in years— and that’s saying something when I got a handful of wives!”.

Negan stands, downing the rest of his drink in one. You tense as he sets his glass on the table and moves around to sit beside you.

One of Negan’s arms rest along the back of the couch. You ignore it and sip your drink. Negan watches with a chuckle, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. You’re a tough one, that’s for sure. But that just makes the chase even better.

When he realizes you won’t speak again. Negan tries a new approach. “So, if you don’t want to do any stuff with me, how’s about you tell me about the stuff you’ve done with other people” he smiles, as if requesting his favorite bedtime story.

“No”.

He laughs almost goofily, not taking your answer seriously “Oh c’mon, you into anal? Like being the one in control? Into feet or whatever weird shit people were into before the world got fucked?”. Negan throws as much as he can at you, already knowing he’s successfully flustered you after mentioning anal.

“Jesus! I don’t want to talk about those things, alright?” you get defensive, making no subtle movements as you scooch away from Negan on the couch “Just because you’re a fucking jackass doesn’t mean you have to be a huge pervert too”.

You can see the change in his face this time, predicting the mood swing and the loss of the fun persona. “Stuff? Things? You sound like a fourteen year old that’s too embarrassed to say ‘dick’ in front of her parents” he butts in, criticizing you.

“Is anything ever good enough for you?” You bite back “Is this why you have six wives but still prefer a bat?”.

Bringing Lucille up between you both, he grips her tightly. She wavers in front of your face for a moment but you make sure not to flinch. “I said I liked that you didn’t take shit, that doesn’t mean you get to talk like that to me” he warns.

You want to slap Lucille away from you. You want to pour the rest of the whiskey over his head and throw the empty glass at him afterwards.

But you don’t. You can’t. Instead, all you do is settle back and shut your mouth.

“Darlin’ I’m trying to be civil here and give you the opportunity to confide in me,” he lets out a snicker as he looks around and drops Lucille back down by his legs “I mean, ain’t this a safe space?”.

You don’t entertain his question by looking around and inadvertently giving yourself the reminder that you’re trapped in here with him, unable to leave until he allows you to. Negan leans back, lazy and disinterested, like a petulant child bored with a toy.

His voice drops, casual, like he’s just making small talk "So how about it, huh? Why not open up that cold little heart of yours and tell me... you a virgin or what?"

The words land heavy, landing with a bite that makes your stomach churn. He says it like it’s nothing, but to you, it feels like a punch to the gut. "Not really something I care to share," you reply, eyes narrowing just enough to show you're not afraid.

Negan's laughter slices through the tension, loud and unapologetic. “Really?" he grins, leaning in just a little too close. "I mean, It's obvious, sweetheart. I could tell the second I laid eyes on you”.

He gives you a once-over, as though he's stripping you bare. "The way you hold yourself, all stiff and closed off… yeah, you don't need to say a word. It’s written all over you”.

Your face flushes, a hot rush of embarrassment crawling up your neck. You try to centre yourself, but his words linger in the air, cutting deeper than they should. You hoped you could keep that part of you hidden but now it feels like he's pulled it into the light for everyone to see, and suddenly, it’s all you can think about.

You swallow hard “You don’t know anything about me”.

But even as you say it, doubt creeps in. Maybe he does.

Letting Lucille slip out of his grasp, she rests on the floor, her handle leaning against the couch. Negan spreads his thighs, manspreading once again. “C’mere,” he orders.

Despite every cell in your body protesting, you scoot closer.

Negan scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pats his thigh “No, come here”. He can see your body instantly react. You go back into yourself, your body stiffening.

There’s a few beats of silence and he knows you're internally debating it but it’s taking longer than he wants. With a sigh, Negan adds “Or I can come to you… not sure if that’d be better though; with me on you”.

That’s enough to convince you to comply. Standing, you put your glass on the small table before flattening out your dress. You don’t want to flash him or have your dress ride up, accidentally offering up more skin for him to ogle at.

With a gulp, you slowly lower yourself down on to him. Thankfully, you don’t feel anything. No boner or gun in the waistband of his jeans. You hold on to the end of your dress as you sink down, awkwardly straddling him.

Negan’s fingers lightly skim your hips, waiting to see if you’ll flinch before finally settling his hands on either side of you. He smiles up at you, flashing you an almost boyish grin. It’s weird being this close to him, looking down at him and seeing every gray facial hair, every line on his face and faded scar. You try not to let your gaze linger but where else are you supposed to look?

“See, this ain’t so bad, is it?” he asks, giving your hips a testing squeeze.

“Can I get off now?” you don’t get the full question out before he gives you a disapproving grunt. Negan doesn’t hold on to you tighter, forcing you to stay where you are. He simply gives you a look and as it would have it, that seems to be enough for you to stay.

Negan lets the look fade before changing conversation, happy for now with simply having you on his lap. “Has your dad always been a dick to you?” he changes topics, making your stomach sink. You preferred his flirting to discussing your father, and more specifically, to confirm that yes, he’s always been an asshole.

“I guess,” you reply vaguely.

He hums, taking in your answer. “I’m sorry about that,” his words take a few seconds to sink in “you don’t deserve shit like that… even if you run your mouth every now and again”.

You try not to show a reaction.

There’s a tension in your chest that you ache to ignore. You don’t deserve it. A simple statement, really. One you know yourself, deep deep down. It hits more than you expected, even as you try to hold everything back. You shouldn’t feel comforted by that. You shouldn’t let his words even touch the raw edges of your heart.

You’ve spent so long distancing yourself from the idea of ever needing validation from anyone, least of all someone like him. But God, the fact that someone finally sees it? It's a blow to the walls you’ve built, and you’re not sure if that’s a relief or a pain you never asked for.

You try to keep your face neutral. It’s instinct to swallow down the sudden rush of emotion, to remind yourself how much you don’t want to lean into Negan’s words. You look away quickly, hoping he can’t read what you’re trying to bury.

Negan watches you closely, as if he can see that small crack in your armor. You’re good at hiding it, sure, but Negan has a knack for seeing what others miss.

He leans back against the couch, deciding to take on this new approach. Maybe he had it wrong before. You don’t fit into the same old categories of wanting to embrace hedonism or need some guilty encouragement like the wives before you. No, instead Negan thinks you just need to be seen.

“I know you’ve just been surviving for a long ass time now, darlin’ and hell, if you want to keep doing that, then that’s fine with me,” just when Negan is starting to draw you out, he backs off.

You feel his grip on your hips go slack, his hands falling to the couch cushions. You would never admit it out loud but you miss the warmth almost instantly. Just when you think he’s seen a flicker of who you are, he loses interest.

Negan's sudden withdrawal leaves a palpable void between you, the space where his warmth and attention once resided now chilling in his absence. His casual dismissal, as if your presence is inconsequential, strikes a blow to your self-worth. You stay on his lap for a moment, grappling with the sting of his indifference. Is it bad that it hurts this much?

Rationally, you should feel liberated by his dismissal, perhaps even eager to leave. Yet a part of you remains tethered, unwilling to let go. Moving slowly, you don’t pull away. You don’t know what it is that makes you do it, but you go forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

Negan doesn't move. He doesn’t tense nor does he soften against you. He doesn’t even speak (a rare occurrence, truly) and lets the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, while your forehead rests against his shoulder like some pathetic white flag.

Just when you think you’ll have to admit defeat and awkwardly clamber off of him, a low and smug voice reaches your ear.

“You learnin’ how to be sweet, baby?”.

You can’t tell whether he’s being mocking or not. You should move but your limbs won’t listen. Negan’s hand moves slowly to your back, not to comfort but to remind you that he’s still the one holding the reins. Fingers drag deliberately, almost thoughtfully, up your spine.

“You behaving now cause you don’t want me to get bored of ya?” he guesses “Or do you just want a strong voice tellin’ ya you’re worth a damn? Daddy not do that enough, sweetheart?”.

Your breath catches. He chuckles, pleased with himself.

“That’s what I thought,” Negan drawls. Slowly, you pull back to see his face again. He’s got you roped in and there’s nothing you can do.

Every word that leaves his mouth drips with arrogance, laced with that mocking affection he wields like a blade and still, you hang on them. You convince yourself that there’s a warmth in his gaze, a weight that's surprisingly not as uncomfortable as when he used to watch you in the wives parlour.

"Don't get me wrong," Negan continues, his voice dropping low, like he’s telling you a secret, "I could go on about how much of a piece of work your old man is, and shit, that’s only after seeing the grimy fuck for a little while… but I think we both know that's not what you need right now, huh?".

Negan’s got you pegged. It’s as if you’re already laid bare for him to see. It’s like he crawled into your psyche and made himself comfortable, propped his boots up on the furniture and lit a damn cigarette. No one's ever looked at you like that, past the fire and the walls and the venom to see the soft, shivering thing you swore to hide.

But he has. He sees it and he’s circling it like a vulture. And no matter how much you tell yourself you hate him or that you’d kill him the first chance you get, you’re letting him do this. No, not just letting. You're leaning into it. Folding into his touch like it's inevitable. Like it's easier to give in than pretend he hasn’t already sunk his claws in.

“And hey, I know I don’t exactly have the cleanest record when it comes to making people feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” he says, flashing you a grin that’s got all the cockiness you expect “But I’m good at one thing. I’m good at knowing when someone’s got potential. And damn, I just think you and me got the potential to make this shitshow a little more fun”

Your pride is screaming. Your sense of self-preservation is banging on the walls, demanding you to snap out of it—but it’s like background noise now. Distant. Dull. Because here and now, with that smug glint in his eyes, you feel something you’ve never had long enough to trust.

“Look,” Negan continues his pitch “I get it. You don’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either, not after everything”. His eyes watch you closely, as if he’s waiting for some micro expression to give away your feelings “But trust me on this. Sometimes, the world’s a lot more bearable when you’ve got someone there to screw your brains out and I think– no, I know that I’m the man for the job”.

Flicking your attention down to his jacket, you carefully trace a finger along it. Negan lets you, feeling how close you are to cracking.

“That’s a stupid reason for thinking I’m a virgin” you go back to his previous comments, ignoring his monologue.

Negan doesn’t deny it. “Stupid but true”.

You don’t know how to do this. And to do this in front of Negan feels like you’re trying to make a creme brulee in front of a chef. This isn’t your forte. You don’t take the lead. Not in your old group. Not when dealing with your father or even with Negan… up until now, that is.

In a way, you don’t see this as Negan getting what he wants. This is getting the upper hand and finally making him be the one on the back foot.

Bringing your head down, you shut your eyes and blindly shove your lips onto his. You don’t do it to be sweet or romantic or enact your alleged wifely duties. You do it to prove and point. And Negan can feel it.

He almost sputters out a laugh and it would’ve come out if your lips were swallowing up every attempted noise his mouth makes. You feel his hands grip your hips again, sliding up to your waist but this is different than before. He gives you a small tug, not to pull you flush against him like you expected, but away.

“Easy tiger,” Negan says once he can catch a breath, letting his head fall back on the couch to assure there’s space between your faces.

Your heart sinks momentarily, a rush of panic and rejection flooding your senses. You try to conceal the disappointment that threatens to show but you can't help the quick jerk of your head towards the floor, avoiding his gaze.

A part of you feels stupid, while another part of you is silently relieved. Negan is who you assumed him to be. An asshole! Who you can’t win with whether you do as he wants or the exact opposite.

As you begin to shift awkwardly on his lap, attempting to create some distance between you, his grip tightens, holding you in place. Negan notices the hurt in your eyes, the subtle withdrawal that follows his previous words. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring as his hand runs up your back in a gentle caress "I didn't mean it like that."

Fuck.

Despite yourself, you listen. “I think maybe I should take the lead on this one, hm?” he talks so softly, you almost forget about his cruelty “I mean, maybe if we were practising the silent treatment then you could lead, seeing you’re a professional in that”.

Negan tries to get you to crack a smile. You don’t. But you don’t get off his lap either and so he sees it as a win nonetheless.

“So how’s about you let me take care of you instead of you doing… whatever it is you call that” You don’t miss the diss at your own kissing style. Yet before you can argue back or rebuff him, Negan leans in and closes the gap between you both.

His lips meet yours with a fierce hunger, one less sloppy than yours. Negan’s hands urge you closer again as his tongue forces your lips apart, delving in to claim your mouth entirely.

You wonder if this is how he kisses all of his wives. If he can turn on this passion like a light switch and make each one of them feel like they’re the special one. Your thoughts evaporate when you feel his finger. How it got there so quickly without you noticing is beyond you— surely all this kissing isn’t distracting you, is it?

It’s just a slight nudge, maybe done with his knuckle. You’re unsure considering you can’t exactly see, your short dress obstructing your view. All you can see is Negan’s arm, running alongside your thigh until it disappears under your dress.

When he nudges again, as if to feel you through your panties, you jerk your head back. Negan is quick to reassure you, moving his hand to your thigh and gripping it firmly. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he tells you “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”.

He waits for you to answer. You nod but Negan lets out a heavy exhale. “I want words,” he clarifies “I think we’re over the silent shit now, sweetheart”.

Automatically, your head nods again but you stutter out “Y-yeah, I know you said that but—“.

“So let me take care of you,” Negan cuts you off, giving your thigh a squeeze “this is all part of it, honey and if you want to just do this today then hell, that’s fine with me. We can just focus on you”.

You don’t believe him. You don’t want to believe him and let down your guard even more than you already have. “I don’t know…” you reply hesitantly.

Negan lets out a small laugh, trying to ease you as his calloused fingers inch closer to your panty line. “Well you don’t have to look so scared, I’m not gonna stick my whole fuckin’ fist up there” he jokes, planting a small kiss by your jaw.

It feels like your mind is tearing into two. You hate it but it feels nice. His hands, his lips, the warmth in his voice. But dammit, is this what the other wives thought? Did they give in this quickly too?

As if hearing your internal monologue, Negan says “I won’t do anything you don’t want, baby, I just wanna show you a good time”.

You believe him. You believe the man that took you from your only living relative and has kept you like a pampered prisoner. It doesn’t make sense in your head and yet the words slip out. “Ok… yeah” you agree reluctantly.

The boyish smile you get in return feels like a reward.

“Just a peek” he promises, tentatively pulling the fabric aside and sliding his middle finger between your lower lips. You had thought he would have given you more of a warning before sliding a finger between your folds and yet this is exactly the sort of thing you assumed Negan would do.

Your body tenses immediately, your nose taking in a sharp suck of air. Negan can feel your thighs go rigid but he doesn’t comment on it. How can he when he’s distracted by how goddamn wet you are? His finger glides with ease, testing the very wet waters.

You try to maintain your composure, steeling yourself against the overwhelming sensation. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm before he's even got a finger in you. Negan watches your determined expression, a smirk tugging at his lips as he slowly moves his finger around, gathering your wetness.

"Such a pretty little pussy..." He compliments and with no warning, begins to circle your clit. You jump from the sudden contact, leaving out a gasp as you grip his shoulder. “Shit, Negan,” you hiss with gritted teeth “You couldn’t give me a heads up?”.

He scoffs as his finger runs back through your folds. “Fine then,” he mockingly entertains your request “incoming!”.

“Wha—“ your mouth snaps shut as Negan plunges not just one, but two fingers inside of you. Your eyes snap shut for a moment, wanting no more than to focus on the digits working their way into you.

“Goddamn it’s a tight fit for my fuckin’ fingers!” He says it like he’s amused. He slowly pushes his fingers deeper into your tight hole, moving them in and out at a slow pace.

"Poor baby, had to wait for the world to end to get laid," he teases softly, his fingers spreading you wider, preparing you for something much thicker than his digits.

You blink your heavy eyelids open to find Negan's gaze locked onto yours, his expression unreadable. There’s no smug smirk or no mocking glint in his eye. He looks... focused, almost genuine. His fingers continue to stretch you open, preparing you with single-minded determination.

It makes you realize how much you like his eyes. Your hips shift forward on their own accord, seeking more contact. The last barrier of doubt melts away as you give in to the pleasure he's building.

"Let's see if we can make this tight pussy come," he whispers, the heel of his hand rubbing against your swollen bundle of nerves. His fingers hook upwards, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The pleasure builds rapidly, overwhelming your senses.

You whimper his name uncontrollably as your pussy coats his fingers with your juices, the sensation unlike anything you've ever experienced. "You're starting to feel it, ain't ya?" he says gruffly, his fingers curl and press against your g-spot, making your legs tremble.

Your inner muscles clamp down tightly around his fingers as a sudden, intense wave hits you. You cry out, your body stiffening and convulsing. You grab onto him for dear life, your nails digging into his skin as your orgasm tears through you.

As the final tremors of your orgasm ebb away, Negan slows his fingers to a stop and removes them. Not that you mind as you collapse against him, still trembling as your pussy flutters weakly. He wraps a strong arm around your waist, holding you close. “There we go, baby” he coos.

You want to stay like this forever. The warmth of your orgasm wrapping around your brain like a warm blanket and subduing you. As you instinctively shift to make yourself more comfortable, your thigh accidentally grazes against the prominent bulge tenting Negan's pants.

You freeze momentarily, realizing with sudden clarity what your climax has done to him. He inhales sharply at the contact, his grip tightening reflexively around your waist.

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” you trail off, unsure whether you should apologize for causing such a reaction. Negan shifts slightly, his voice low and strained as he adjusts himself.

"Fuck, it’s ok, baby" he mutters under his breath. He nudges you off of his lap, depositing you down onto the rest of the couch. You flop down with no protest. After an orgasm like that, you feel too dazed to be moving around much.

Negan stays seated. Not crawling all over you but not standing up and walking away either. He looks over at you with a sigh. “I said I’d keep my dick in my pants, didn’t I?” His tone is rough, almost pained.

Is it weird to feel bad? He’s given you so much and yet he’s already blocked himself off from getting anything in return. “Yeah… you kinda did…” you trail off, feeling oddly awkward about confirming that.

“And I guess you don’t want to lose it all in one day, huh?” Negan continues, knowing he has to be strategic about this “I get it, losing the V card can be a big fuck ass deal… well, it’s a fuck-pussy deal actually but y’get me”.

He earns a small laugh from you in response and Negan knows he’s on to a winning formula.

"I-I don't know," you say hesitantly, looking up at the ceiling. "Dicks are big and I know it’ll hurt no matter what… I don’t know, it’s just a lot”. He can tell you're conflicted, torn between the fear of the unknown and the primal desire to be filled.

You bite your lip, bringing your gaze back to him. Unfortunately he looks good. "I've read about it… before. But I don't know what it would feel like. Does it really hurt?" you ask blatantly.

Negan tilts his head as he thinks. Despite what people may think, he is an honest man. To a fault most of the time. But he’d hate to scare you off now, especially when you’re so close to saying yes.

He shrugs "Ain't like I'll be pounding into you. I can be gentle when I want to be. I mean, shit, shouldn’t I get a little something too?”.

You stew on his words. As the afterglow of your orgasm slowly fades, you can still feel the wetness clinging to your panties. It's a reminder of how desperately your body craves more, urging that rationale side of your brain to say “fuck it!” and just go for it.

"I guess... we could try," you murmur softly, your voice barely audible as you gather your courage. You peek up at Negan through your lashes, trusting his word despite your shyness. "But you have to be gentle, and you have to stop if I tell you to, okay?".

"Baby, you know I'm not gonna lie to you," he says, his voice low and persuasive "It might hurt a bit at first, when I first push in... but after that? Fuck, you'll see stars. You trust me?”.

“No” you reply honestly, the admission escaping your lips amidst a flurry of giggles that betray the nervous flutter in your stomach.

Negan doesn’t frown at the admission. Instead he grins “Guess I’ll have to give ya a reason to trust me, huh?”. You don’t answer, unable to when he moves down to you and captures your mouth in a kiss.

Without wasting a second, Negan is already yanking his jeans down, freeing his rock-hard erection. Before you can even blink, he's pressing his body against yours, letting you feel every inch of him.

You give him a bewildered look as he kisses along your jawline, his sudden movement stealing your breath away. You mentally scold yourself for already knowing this aspect of Negan-- warnings aren't in his vocabulary, especially when he wants something.

Trying to process what’s happening, you hear him muttering some praise as he goes for your panties again. You lift your hips naturally as he tugs them off of you. You can't help but wonder if this is right, but your body seems to have its own agenda. It knows exactly what it wants, even if your mind is still playing catch-up.

Before you know it, Negan looks down at your pussy and you realize he’s already lining himself up. “Wait!” You exclaim. You try to sit up but can’t with Negan’s frame above you.

“Can’t I see it first?” You ask, knowing he'll understand your vague question.

He lets out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours. "Darlin'," he drawls, "all you need to worry about is feeling it, not seeing it”.

“But is there anything I need to do? Will I take off my dress?” You question hurriedly.

Negan runs his tongue over his teeth as he listens, narrowing his eyes slightly at your incessant questions. “Christ, woman,” he tries to stay patient “You just gotta lay there and take it, hun”.

As if to make sure you don’t start blabbering again, Negan leans down and takes your lips in a demanding kiss. His tongue pushes its way into your mouth, silencing your remaining questions. As he kisses you, you feel something large and warm pressing against your sensitive pussy lips. You gasp into his mouth, realizing it's his tip.

Your hands find their home on his face, cupping his stubbled cheeks as you kiss him back frantically. Negan begins moving his hips slowly, spreading your wetness along his length. The smooth head of his cock slides between your lips, making you shiver against him.

"Fuck, you're so goddamn wet," he groans against your mouth, his praise making you blush. He begins to push inside, his thickness stretching you open. "That's it, sweetheart. Take my dick like a good girl."

All you can feel is the ache as his tip stretches you. You’ve heard it all before; how it hurts before the pleasure kicks in. With a slight grunt, you try to relax but you don’t exactly know how you’re supposed to do that. How do you relax your pussy when all it feels is pain?

Negan slowly moves his hips forward, trying to push himself further into you and yet… nothing. His dick opts to pop back out than go any further in. “Huh… you’re a tight one,” he compliments but all you feel is embarrassment.

You can feel your eyes start to water, although you’re unsure if that’s thanks to Negan’s relentless efforts to fit or the fact that you’d rather him be balls deep inside you already. Subtly nudging your legs out wider, Negan lines himself up and tries again. He knows he made you cum earlier so he assumed this next part would be easier. Yet here you are, tight as a virgin… heh, literally.

Negan watches your face, trying to gauge your reaction as he presses into you. “You alright?” He grunts, trying to slowly ween his way in. When you don’t respond after a few moments, Negan lets out a strained huff “This ain’t the time for you to go quiet again”.

“It just hurts!” You snap more than you anticipated. A part of you was scared Negan would take it personally and reprimand you for your tone but thankfully he doesn’t.

With a big sigh, Negan pulls out completely. You let out a grunt at the feeling and his tip pops back out, leaving your pussy sore. He stands, cock glistening and determined despite a frustrated Negan running a hand through his hair.

“What kinda cruel fuckin’ game is this,” he blabs “I get to pop a fuckin’ cherry but it just happens to be the tightest goddamn cherry ever? Talk about a blessing and a curse!”.

You sit up, tugging your dress down to cover you. “Sorry,” you mutter, looking anywhere but Negan and his… ahem, package.

He shakes his head, hand dropping back down to his side. “No, don’t apologize,” he replies, watching how you hold yourself, slowly retreating back into your shell.

“We can leave it at that, if you want,” Negan tries to hide the defeat in his voice. Here you are, the best damn gift in the world and he can’t unwrap it! “Maybe if the boys find some lube on a run we could try again,” he tugs up his pants, haphazardly shoving his dick away just for it to tent in his pants.

You watch him carefully as he slumps down beside you. Maybe this is a sign from some greater power that you shouldn’t be doing this. Not with him, anyways. Not after all he’s done. And yet, every time you look at him, that line between right and wrong starts to blur.

There’s a voice in your head, the sensible one, telling you this isn’t a good idea. You’re supposed to be smarter than this. You’re supposed to know better. That’s what kept you alive for so long and yet you open your mouth and say “Would it help if we tried a different position?”.

Negan’s eyes immediately lock onto you. There’s a flicker in his gaze, a mix of surprise and admiration. A chuckle escapes him, but it’s different this time. It’s not the playful, sardonic laugh he’s known for, but something more appreciative, like he’s impressed. "Well, shit," he mutters, his voice deep and almost reverent "Didn’t expect that".

He stands again, wasting no time in getting his member out again. “I was about to ask if you’ve ever tried doggy,” he scoffs out a laugh as he rubs himself “but we both know the answer to that”.

A spark of excitement runs through you and before the rational side of your brain can stop you, you get into position. Sitting up on the couch, you turn your back to Negan, perching yourself over the back of the couch with your knees on the couch cushions. Arching your back, you glance behind your shoulder and ask “Like this?”.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” you hear his voice behind you, trying not to shiver as he lifts your dress up over your ass. The couch cushions dip as Negan rests a knee besides yours, lining himself back up.

You wait with a still breath, anticipating the stretch again. But it doesn’t come. You can feel him behind you, his body close enough to touch and yet all you feel is the heat radiating off of him.

Your body sways back, trying to feel anything. That’s when his voice meets you, low and smooth, right behind your ear. “Eager?” Negan asks.

“I just wanna see if it’ll fit” you downplay your feelings, ignoring the fluttering in your stomach. To help sooth you, Negan places gentle kisses down the side of your neck as he presses his cock into your hole.

With a deep breath, Negan pushes forward slowly, feeling your tightness resist him. “Fuck, you're tight” he grunts as he starts to push in deeper, getting the tip fully in. You try to embrace the pain, to let him go deeper but as he slowly plunges deeper into you, you swat your arm back.

“No, wait, just wait a second,” you close your eyes, trying to stay composed.

Negan stops immediately, his thick cock halfway inside you. “Easy there, sweetheart,” He coos , rubbing your back gently “I know it hurts. Just breathe through it and relax your muscles for me”.

That’s easier said than done. “I don’t know how,” you say loudly, hoping that’ll mask your groans of pain “I don’t know how to relax”.

Negan keeps his voice calm and steady, trying to help you through the discomfort. “Shh, it's okay. First time's always rough” he leans down, using a hand to turn your head sideways so he can capture your lips in a kiss.

You kiss him back to distract yourself, hungrily pressing your lips against his. Negan moves his hips slowly as you kiss him, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

Your pussy stretches, heat flooding your system until you feel something coarse. Pubic Hair. Reluctantly, you pull your mouth away from Negan and you try to look back at what’s happening.

“There you go, baby, that’s it,” Negan encourages you, slowly becoming breathless as he restrains himself. “Goddamn! All the way in, didn’t think I’d fuckin fit” he pants, giving you side a small approving rub.

You physically relax at that, knowing that this is as far as he could go. Talking you through it, Negan starts with shallow thrusts. He only moves a mere inch or two, just enough to get a feel for you without causing you too much pain.

His deep voice rumble near your ear “You're doin' great, baby”. He reaches around to circle your clit with his thumb. Your body jerks, a small whimper escaping your lips as unexpected pleasure shoots through you.

You moan again as he hits a sweet spot inside of you. Without thinking, you arch your back and push your hips back slightly to meet his shallow thrusts. Negan watches the movement, his eyes darkening.

Holding your hips firmly, he begins to move faster, his shallow thrusts turning into deep, powerful strokes. He pulls back and slams into you, his cock filling you completely. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air as he starts to properly fuck you.

A loud moan escapes your lips, your body jolting with the intensity of his movements. “N-Negan!” You gasp, your body jolting with the intensity of his movements.

"Fuck yeah," he pants behind you, one hand gripping your hip while the other tangles in your hair. Each thrust causes the couch to creak. "Jesus, your pussy's squeezin' me so good..." His voice becomes ragged as your inner walls clamp down around him.

You whimper and moan as Negan pounds into you, his earlier promises to be gentle long forgotten. The initial soreness has given way to a surprising pleasure as his thick length stretches you with each deep thrust. You understand now why people find this so good, why people can be so hedonistic when it comes to sex.

His hand in your hair gives a sharp tug, forcing your head up. "Ah—fuck," you gasp, words tumbling out in broken syllables. "That's it... fuck, if only Daddy could see you now..." Negan grunts.

You whimper, shutting your eyes. Everything feels as though it’s happening at once. It’s all too much yet not enough. "Who's your Daddy, baby?" Negan urges as he tugs on your hair, refusing to let up.

“You! Negan, Negan, Negan!” You spew out the words, your whole body feeling the force of his dick. You feel like you’d say anything, admit to anything if it meant he’d stay inside of you longer.

Negan can feel it, that he truly owns you now as you repeat his name over and over again. You hold on to the couch as your body crashes again, another orgasm wrecking havoc over you. Somewhere along the line, you replace his name with one you’ve now awarded him. “Daddy!” You cry out again, your body still spasming.

Negan can feel his own body tense at your words, his grip tightening on your hips. "Shit," he hisses, trying to pull back. He manages to withdraw just in time, hot, sticky fluid shooting out and coating the back of your thigh.

You stay where you are, your full weight on the back of the couch. Breathing heavily, Negan puts his hand on your back to steady himself. After a few seconds, he straightens up and steps back, admiring the mess he's made on your thighs. "Well, fuck me," he mutters, shaking his head slightly.

He pulled out so fast that you barely registered the loss of his length inside you, too busy dealing with your own high. Negan watches his cum slowly start to drip down your thigh. With a low hum of approval, he leans over and plants a kiss on your shoulder. “I’ll get a towel, don’t you move” he says, his voice drifting as he walks further away.

And so, like the obedient wife you are, you wait. You blink slowly, your mind foggy from the post-sex haze, already imagining curling up in his strong arms. It’s an oddly comforting thought and something you wouldn’t mind coming into fruition.

Kneeling behind you, Negan gently wipes your thighs clean, occasionally pressing soft kisses to your skin while doing so. The contrast between his tender touch now and the ruthless dominant way he just fucked you has your heart fluttering. "Such a good girl," he mutters against your shoulder blades, placing a small kiss there.

You wait for more. Maybe he’ll scoop you up and bring you to his bed, or settle you on his lap again. Instead, you hear his footsteps walking away. You turn your head to watch him grab his empty whiskey glass from the table and head to his array of liquor. Negan pours himself another glass, not even looking back at you.

You pivot your body, settling back onto the couch cushions. Ignoring the dull ache in your stomach, you let your gaze wander around the room. Your eyebrows knit together when the realization kicks in.

“...Where did my underwear go?”.

Negan takes a quick sip of his drink, eyebrows raising as he scans the room. “Probably under the couch if they’re not on the couch” he offers up, not bothering to check himself.

With a slight huff, you slide off the couch and on to your hands and knees, looking underneath. Because this is a dignifying thing to do right after losing your virginity. Especially when you don’t even find it down there.

You hum as you get back up and look around. “Fuck” you huff, making a mental note of Negan’s lack of help.

“Got plenty of shit like that back in the wives rooms,” Negan waves off your concern “y’can have your pick of panties”. Making his way back to the couch he just fucked you on, he sits nonchalantly.

It feels silly. You hate to admit something like this but considering he’s already been inside of you, the words come out. “I know but… they were mine. I mean, mine mine, the ones I was wearing when I got here first”.

His face practically lights up with amusement. “Oh, so the panties are a memento?” Negan chuckles “Guess there’s a first time for everything”.

You give him a deadpan expression and his face turns pitiful “If I find ‘em later, I’ll send them your way, alright?”. You’re reluctant to agree but there’s not much else you can do now.

“Yeah, sure” you agree, knowing there’s not much else you can do.

He stands, kissing your head. It’s not the cuddling you expected after your first time but it seems to be all you’re going to get. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up? Have a shower back at the parlour” he feigns the suggestion. You know all too well that it’s an order.

“Right… yeah, I guess” you nod, knowing there’s nothing else to say. It stings to be cast to the side. Well, what hurts more is that you knew this would be the outcome yet you went with it anyways.You knew what Negan was like entering this room. You knew how this would end and yet you savour the kiss he gives you, wishing that maybe next time, you’ll get a bit more.

It’s the scam all of the wives must fall for.

You wander closer to the door, almost waiting for Negan to call out to you, to tell you to wait and come back to him. He doesn’t. With a small, almost silent sigh, you turn the door handle when you hear.

“Hey, sweet thing?”

“Yeah?” you sound so hopeful, you’d cringe if Negan wasn’t looking.

He vaguely points at you, that boyish grin that made you pussy wet coming back with vengeance as he gives you a wink. “You’ll be my Tuesday fuck from here on out, alright?”.

Your hope dwindles at his words, snuffing out any lingering warmth for the man. Oh. Just another fuck. His Tuesday release, to be more exact. You nod silently, retreating back into your shell as you quietly exit the room, leaving him to his whiskey and smug grin.

Negan waits a beat, ensuring the soft pad of your footsteps have faded. Only then does he lean over the couch, groping between the cushions until he finds your discarded panties. Right where he left them.

It may be your memento but it’s his trophy. Besides, needs something to show daddy… heh, your other daddy, that you’re fully cooperating with him. He needs to know his daughter is Negan’s now. Through and through. And this is the proof of that. Giving the panties a slight sniff, Negan grins.

Goddamn. He can't wait for Tuesday.

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