#this took way longer than i thought it might

[yvesssssssss]

Hellooo :3

Mayhaps could I request Mydei with spouse reader who is just so atrociously down bad for their husband? It's not even about his title or anything, they are just down horrid (totally not projecting)

Even better if it started off as an arranged marriage

𐙚⋆.˚Mydei — honkai star rail

Hellooo!! I kinda had a hard time writing this one💔 but i hope you enjoy!!😽😽😽

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You had been warned about Mydei before the wedding.

That he was quiet. Stoic. That you’d never know what he was thinking. That he was a difficult man to understand, let alone love. That this marriage, arranged for diplomacy and structure, was destined to be little more than cordial distance and shared titles.

They couldn’t have known that you were a disaster.

Not in the political sense. No, in that you were already, hopelessly, horrifyingly infatuated with him by the time you arrived at the capital. Not with his influence. Not with the legacy he carried like armor. But with him—the elegance in how he held himself, the sheer gravity in his silence, the way he could say your name and make it sound like it belonged in a poem.

He met you with courteous bows and an unreadable gaze.

You met him with heart palpitations and a mouth dry enough to parch stars.

The wedding was brief and immaculate. He offered his hand. You took it like a lifeline. The entire time, you wanted to say, My husband is so beautiful I could scream, but you were trying not to combust in public.

Your chambers were adjacent, not shared.

Your roles were parallel, not intertwined.

Your feelings? Definitely not mutual.

You fell first. Fast. Hard. Unreasonably.

He would pass you in the hall, nodding politely, and you'd nearly drop whatever you were holding. Once he said, “You look well,” and you had to sit down for five minutes to recover. You once caught a glimpse of him in the early morning—hair slightly mussed, collar undone—and it haunted your dreams for a week.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. He spoke to you gently, always gently, and kept his distance with care. Like you were precious. Like he was afraid of hurting you.

And yet—despite how cold others claimed he could be, he never looked away from you. He always answered. He always listened.

It was maddening.

You tried being subtle. Which, for someone as disastrously down bad as you were, meant:

Staring.

Standing closer than necessary.

Fumbling compliments like, “Your hands are so elegant— I MEAN efficient—no, wait—beautiful! NO. STRONG??”

You were a walking embarrassment.

And Mydei? Ever composed.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The change happened quietly.

A shoulder offered when you stumbled slightly in public—fingers steadying your elbow, his hand lingering just a moment longer than required.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “I should’ve stood closer.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Later, during a diplomatic dinner, you’d leaned into him more than propriety allowed. His breath hitched—hitched—when you brushed his arm.

“Do you... mind?” you asked, already wanting to dissolve into the carpet.

He looked at you. Not through you. At you. And said, “No. I rather prefer it.”

You nearly passed out.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

And now, tonight.

He had just returned from a series of long negotiations. Hours of speaking in that calm voice of his, delivering strategies and commands like scripture. You were waiting in his study, legs swinging over the edge of the chair like a child too jittery to sit still.

The door opened. He walked in, loosened his coat, and stopped.

“You’re here.”

“Always,” you chirped. “I mean. Not always. Not in a weird way—well, maybe weird, but not creepy. Definitely not—”

His mouth twitched. The smallest smile.

You melted.

“I made tea,” you added, voice pitching embarrassingly high. “If you want. Or need. Or don’t. I just thought you might. Because, you know, you’re—you.”

He walked to you slowly, soundlessly. Took the cup from your hand.

You felt the heat of his fingers even after they left.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“Am I? Oh. Wow. So I am.”

He studied you then, truly studied you. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No!” You answered too fast. Too loud. “Never. You could ruin me with one word and I’d still follow you around like a lost puppy. Wait. Ignore that. That’s insane.”

“It’s honest.”

“...That’s worse.”

He took a breath, then placed the tea down, untouched. “Why do you speak like that around me?”

“Like what?”

“Like I might vanish. Or like you’re ashamed to want me to stay.”

The air cracked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, helplessly, whispered: “Because I’ve never been in love with someone who makes me feel like this.”

Mydei’s gaze softened.

“I thought… I was the only one,” you added, laughing weakly. “People said you’d never care. That I’d always be a name on a contract to you. But I don’t care about the arrangement. Or your rank. Or what we were supposed to be. I just—”

You paused.

“I just really, really love my husband.”

There was silence. You waited for his rejection, his polite dismissal, his cool, distant kindness.

But instead—

He stepped closer.

Then, softly:

“I know.”

You blinked.

“I’ve known for some time,” he continued, voice lower now, more intimate. “I didn’t think you’d stay. Most people in my life do not.”

“Why—why wouldn’t I stay?” you asked, stunned.

“Because I’m not easy to love. I’m not expressive. Or thrilling. I move slowly. Deliberately. I don’t chase.”

“I don’t need you to chase me,” you said, standing. “I’m already here.”

Mydei’s hand reached for yours. Hesitated. Then laced your fingers together with a gentleness that felt like reverence.

“I find you… extraordinary,” he said.

You made a sound halfway between a squeal and a sob.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he added. “But I think I’ve always admired the way you look at me. Like I am more than duty.”

“You are,” you whispered.

His other hand cupped your cheek. “Then allow me to return the favor. Stay with me tonight.”

“Just stay, or—”

“Just stay. For now.”

You nodded, utterly starstruck.

And that night, lying beside him in soft silence, his fingers curled lightly around yours and his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your side, you realized something wonderful:

He might not say much.

But you didn’t need declarations. Not when he held you like this.

Not when he whispered, so faintly you thought you imagined it:

“I love my spouse too.”

[postgamevibes]

Will Smith x reader nurse, where he meets her on a visit to the children’s hospital and keeps going back to see her

Sorry for the late response, for some reason it didn’t appear in my inbox, but I hope you enjoy it.

Summary: Will wasn’t expecting much from the team’s hospital visit. Smile for the photos, sign a few sticks, keep it moving. What he really wasn’t expecting was you—a pediatric nurse with a quick tongue, warm heart, and a laugh that he can’t stop thinking about. One visit turns into more, and soon he’s making up excuses just to see you again.

Genre: Fluff | Soft Romance | Comfort

*********************************************************

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the kind of sterile hum Will usually associated with away-game locker rooms or long customs lines, but today, it echoed off white hospital walls and pastel-painted murals of cartoon animals holding balloons.

A nurse led the group of the Sharks players down the hall, each with a bag of signed mini sticks and plush toys. A few staff members walked behind, snapping photos for PR. Will hung toward the back, doing his best to stay present even though his mind was still half on their last game.

He didn’t hate stuff like this, he got why it mattered. It was just awkward. He never quite knew what to say to kids he never met before. They were braver than he was, fighting harder battles with smaller bodies, and he didn’t feel like much of a hero in comparison.

Still, he smiled signed a stick, took a picture with a kid in a Mario Kart T-shirt.

And then she walked in.

You.

Scrubs in a cheerful shade of lavender, lanyard with pins from the kids, including a glittery “Cool Nurse” badge. Hair pulled back, a few strands falling near your cheek. You were cradling a clipboard in one arm and talking gently to a boy in bed who couldn’t have been older than six.

Will froze like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

You noticed the group and turned.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived,” you said with a smile.

Your eyes landed on Will for a second longer than the rest, but maybe he imagined it.

“Which one of you is the one obsessed with Sour Patch Kids?” you asked, arms crossed.

That made Will blink. “Uh me?”

You nodded knowingly. “Mason here heard it on TikTok. He’s been talking about it all morning.”

The boy grinned shyly from the bed, holding up a small plastic bag of the candy. “I saved some.”

Will smiled and stepped forward, kneeling beside the bed. “You have excellent taste, Mason, we might be best friends now.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “That’s what he said about the cardiologist yesterday.”

The visit moved on, but Will lingered behind.

You were checking vitals, humming softly under your breath, one hand tapping against your thigh in rhythm.

He hadn’t meant to speak. He really hadn’t.

But he did.

“You’re really good at this.”

You glanced up, half-surprised he was still there. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” he said, softer now. “They love you.”

“They’re easy to love.”

He nodded. “Still.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not too bad yourself, Mr. Sour Patch.”

He laughed. “That’s going in my bio.”

A pause.

You tilted your head. “You sticking around?”

He shrugged. “Might.”

Will showed up again two weeks later.

This time, no cameras. No teammates.

Just him, standing in the pediatric hallway with a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a sheepish grin.

“I’m visiting Mason,” he said quickly when you spotted him. “Thought I’d check in.”

You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “Uh huh. And I’m sure that has nothing to do with the fact that the nurses just got a fresh coffee delivery from downstairs?”

“I’m hurt.”

“You’re predictable.”

You let him follow you through rounds, only half pretending it wasn’t the highlight of your week.

One visit turned into three.

Three turned into six.

And somewhere between the giggles of young patients and the quiet comforts of evening shift check-ins, you started to look forward to the sound of his sneakers in the hallway. The way he’d lean against the counter at the nurses' station. The way he’d wait until the end of your shift to walk you to your car, even if it meant sitting in the waiting room for an hour with nothing but a hospital vending machine and Property Brothers reruns.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked him once, voice low.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“I like the company,” he said finally.

The seventh visit was different.

It had been a long day tough cases, short tempers, and a stubborn vending machine that ate your last five.

Will found you on your break, sitting on the floor in the staff lounge, sipping lukewarm tea with tired eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just sat next to you and offered a bag of candy.

You took one.

Then another.

Then leaned your head on his shoulder.

“You ever get that thing where your heart just feels… full?, but also heavy?” you murmured.

He nodded. “All the time.”

You exhaled slowly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I’m listening.”

You looked up at him.

And there it was that quiet warmth in his eyes, that safety, that steadiness.

So you kissed him.

Just once. Soft. Testing.

But when he kissed you back, you forgot the heaviness entirely.

Weeks later, after the first real date (and the second, and the third), he came to pick you up from a double shift. You were running late and looked frazzled, but he didn’t mind.

He leaned against the hood of his car, watching the automatic doors slide open.

You stepped out, hair pulled up, cheeks flushed.

He whistled. “There’s my favorite nurse.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. I think I’m injured.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh yeah? What is it this time?”

He stepped closer, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “Heart-related.”

You tried not to laugh. Failed. “Sounds serious.”

“Very.”

“Well, Mr. Smith,” you said, slipping your arms around his waist, “good thing I’m certified.”

He grinned. “Think I need daily monitoring.”

You kissed his jaw. “You’re lucky I make exceptions.”

[ldydeath]

I Love It | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong have a running bet on who can make who crack the first on his M.O.T.T.E tour. Who knew all it would take was a wig and some very suggestive dance moves? Word Count: 2k Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v., fluff at the end. Author's Note: This was requested by @nikolaikwon, hopefully I did you proud!

It had been going on all summer. Flirty jokes, longing glances, feelings you were both trying to ignore. You were Jiyong’s main dancer. You couldn’t afford to get into anything with him, fun or otherwise. He was also enlisting soon, there was no future for you, not one that ended happily at least. 

It was getting to a point where you needed to do something, though. You were getting tired of the games. Maybe just one night wouldn’t hurt anything. You just needed him to crack. And you had the perfect idea. 

You’d pulled the girls aside, explaining the outfit change for ‘I Love It’ that night, showed them the wigs too. They thought it was just a funny joke and had decided to do it. They had no idea what you were really planning. 

The lights dimmed to start the song and you took your position, laying down on the stage. You could feel Jiyong’s eyes on you, he knew something was off but in the dark he couldn’t really tell what it was. 

The music started, the lights came up and Jiyong blinked, a smirk on his lips. How could you look so fucking hot and goofy at the same time? The wigs were too much, but the outfit? Yeah, that would be his undoing. His eyes stayed on yours as you moved on the floor. He needed to look away. Otherwise he might just have you then and there on that stage. 

He turned, trying to focus on anything other than your legs in the air. The wigs were doing their part to make you look just a little less than perfect, but unfortunately for him, it wasn’t working well enough. 

He turned again, your wig flowing with your movements and he covered his face to stop from laughing. Yeah, you looked hot in that body suit, but the wig was keeping you balanced. He couldn’t take you seriously. He stood off to the side, his eyes staying on yours for longer than he liked. You noticed. You always did when he was looking at you. Your movements slow and deliberate as you slapped your hands on your thighs. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. His mouth wide, forgetting he was on stage for a second as he ran over to you. Realizing where he was, he threw himself down on the ground, a grin on his face as he sang the next lines of his song. His eyes staying on you. This might as well be a love song to you at this point, and it was in its own way. 

You were so close he could just reach out and touch you if he wanted too. You took a step back falling in line with the other dancers, a satisfied smirk on your face at Jiyong rolling around on the floor in front of you. He rolled over, crawling to you as if getting lost in the moment again. He’d take you now on this stage, fuck the consequences, if you’d have him. 

He stood up slowly reaching out for you but you moved just out of touch. He bent down, to cover for his movement and to also adjust himself so nobody got a peak at just how much he was reacting to you. You raised a brow at him and he shrugged ever so slightly. His eyes stayed on you as he continued on with the song. 

The song drew to a close and the lights went down, much to the relief of Jiyong. He grabbed you, flung you over his shoulder and ran off the stage. Your wig falling to the ground in the process as you laughed. He didn’t stop running until he was in his room. He eyed his crew and swallowed hard, forgetting they’d be in there. 

“Everyone out.” His grip tightened on you and you watched helplessly as everyone left the room. 

He locked the door as the last person ushered out quickly, before setting you down on the ground. You looked so much hotter now that the ridiculous wig was gone, it was almost too much for him to handle. 

“You think you’re funny, huh?” His eyes roamed your body before locking on your eyes. 

“Hilarious, actually.” You beamed, taking a step back from him. 

“You’re supposed to run all the changes by me.” He acted annoyed, or as annoyed as he could muster. 

“You gonna punish me?” 

His eyes bore into yours as he crossed the room. His lips crashing onto yours hungrily. God, he’d been wanting to do this for months. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you to him as his tongue darted out, begging for entrance. You parted your lips, happy to oblige, his tongue massaging yours. 

You let out a small whimper and Jiyong smirked. He may have caved first, but he’d always be able to claim that he could do that with a simple kiss. 

He lowered himself on the couch, bringing you down on top of him and your hips brushed against him. The feeling too much, and Jiyong almost let out a moan - almost, but he refused to let you be his undoing anymore than you already had. His hand gripped your hair, pulling you away from him as his lips brushed your throat. He kissed down your neck, biting along the way, leaving tiny marks he hoped wouldn’t fade anytime soon. You were his, and he wanted everyone to see it. 

His hand moved under your skirt and he sucked in a breath when he was met with your wet folds. He’d been expecting to meet the fabric of your panties. You smirked as his eyes locked on yours and his finger entered you. He pumped in and out of you hard, inserting another digit. His fingers curling inside of you as his thumb brushed your clit. 

“Ji, fuck.” You moaned, your hips rocking in his hand. 

His thumb moved faster, bringing you close to the edge, your breaths coming out in quick moans. He stopped, removing his fingers, his hand laying on your waist. Bringing you just close enough. You glared at him and he smirked. He was going to punish you alright. 

“What the fuck?” You groaned. 

“I think you owe me an apology.” He shrugged, leaning back on the couch. 

“Oh?” Your brows raised and you slid off his lap, falling to your knees in front of him. 

You unzipped his pants and pushed them down just slightly, freeing his aching cock. Your hand wrapped around his shaft and your lips hovered over him. You pumped him up and down slowly, your finger massaging over his tip before sliding back down. Jiyong sucked in a breath as your tongue darted out, licking the precum, before your mouth widened to take him in. 

You took him in as far as you could before you gagged, your eyes filling with tears. Jiyong’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers gripping your hair, hard. His hips bucked, and he began thrusting in and out of your mouth slowly. Your moans vibrating off his cock. His head leaned back against the couch as he took a second to collect himself. 

As good as this was, and trust him, it was the best he’d ever had, he didn’t want to come this way. He pulled your head back, your lips popping as you released yourself from his cock. 

You moved to straddle his lap and lowered yourself on him slowly, taking him inch by inch until he had fully entered you. You let out a moan, that Jiyong quickly hushed by kissing you. Nobody needed to know what was happening in this room, not yet. 

Your hands slid under his jacket, sliding it off of him, thankful that he didn’t have another shirt on underneath, your nails digging into his chest as your hips rocked against him in slow circles. Jiyong hissed as your nails tore this his flesh, maybe he could pass it off as a cat scratch later, and if not he didn’t care. 

His hand moved to your thighs, lifting up gently before letting you slam back down, his hips thrusting into yours as yours moved against him. His hands moved up, tearing at your shirt until it ripped off you. He’d just make you another one, or you could switch to another outfit all together. Whatever. He lowered his head to your breast, his hand moving to your other one. His tongue swirled your nipple as his fingers gently pinched your other one. 

“Ji, fuck.” You moaned. 

He took that as his encouragement to continue and he kissed his way over to your other breast, making sure to give each one the same amount of attention. 

“Gonna need you to come for me Aein, I can’t hold on for much longer.” Jiyong whispered against your skin. 

You shuddered, your hips moving faster and Jiyong matched your movements, thrusting into you hard. His hands moving back to your thighs, gripping you so tight you were sure he would leave bruises. 

You came loudly around him, your head falling back. His hand gripped your hair again, pulling you to him and he kissed you hard, biting down on your lip gently. His hips bucked into yours as he came inside you. You went to move off him but he held you in place, not ready for you to go yet. His dick twitching inside of you as he finished his orgasm. His lips stayed locked on yours, the kissing calming from a desperate to soft. 

“That was” You trailed off, a small smile on your face.

“Yeah.” He breathed as you climbed off him. Smoothing out your skirt. 

“Gonna need to borrow some clothes to get out of here.” Your hands moved to cover your bare chest.

Jiyong smirked as he zipped his pants back up. He stood up, sliding his jacket back on before walking over to you. He planted a soft kiss on your lips and moved your arms. 

“Don’t hide from me.” You blushed at his words, but kept your arms down at your side. 

Jiyong nodded, moving to his clothes rack, emerging a few seconds later with a simple t-shirt. It was one of his favorites, you’d recognized it right away. Jiyong and his Disney tees. 

“You sure?” He nodded and you slipped the shirt over your head. “Feel like I should ask what we are.” You joked. 

Jiyong snorted, his arms wrapping around you as his lips brushed yours softly. This was why he’d been avoiding his feelings for you. He knew he’d never get enough of you now. 

“We’re whatever you want us to be.” He shrugged. 

“Be still my heart.” You teased, your hand moving to rest on your chest. 

“You know what I mean. I think it's obvious how we feel about each other. But it’s up to you. Do you want to be with me? Because I understand if you don’t. I’m kind of broken goods these days. And I’m enlisting soon. Not a huge selling point.” He shrugged. 

“Hey, don’t do that.” Your hand moved to his cheek. “You are not broken, Jiyong. Are you kidding me? And I don’t care about enlistment. I care about you. You have me obsessed with you, no distance is ever going to change that. I’d wait for you, if you want someone to come home to. And I’ll remind you every day just how perfect you are. No more bad thoughts entering that pretty head of yours.” 

“You’re perfect.” Jiyong leaned in, his lips brushing against yours gently. “There’s nobody else I’d want to come home to. The idea of that makes these next 18 months all the more bearable.” 

“Come on. We have a show to finish.” Your hand brushed against his cheek gently before you let him go. 

He watched you as you walked out of the room, questioning how he’d managed to get so lucky. This tour had started out a shit show but you’d made it bearable from the start. One of the only familiar people he’d had, coming from BigBang to join him on tour. You’d really stepped into a leadership role and he’d been lucky to have you along for the ride. Now he’d get to take you home with him when this was all over. Maybe everything wasn’t as damaged as he thought it was. Maybe with your help there were other pieces of himself you could help mend along the way.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy @bettelaboure

[yanadolls]

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS TONIGHT ✧˖°.

||| FEATURING: REO MIKAGE X FEM READER

||| 18+, MDNI ── .✦ drunk sex, semi-public sex, praising, degrading, petnames, slight obsession, spanking, breeding kink, almost being caught

||| SUMMARY: reo attends yet another boring party with his parents, but when he meets you and learns how uninterested you are in him at first, he immediately yearns for you.

-

reo adjusted his tie in the bathroom as he stood in front of a mirror, head a bit fuzzy from the alcohol he consumed. it was really the only way he could handle these gatherings- they were so lame! he hated that his parents forced him to attend to keep up the mikage image even in his adult life, and he grew pretty exhausted already of the long business conversations. however, he knew he had to go back out there so with a grumble, he pushed the door open and exited. as he was rounding the corner to head towards the ballroom, he felt a body collide with his chest.

"oh, sorry."

"it's okay, i'm sorry as well. i wasn't looking where i was going."

upon hearing the feminine voice, his purple eyes roamed down to see who he bumped into, only to find out it was quite as beautiful girl. from your dress to your makeup, you were breathtaking and even he could admit that. considering reo was tipsy already and not very interested in going back to the party, he decided he might as well flirt a bit. a charming smile came to his lips as he took your smaller hand in his and placed a chaste kiss to the back of it.

"my, my. you're a beauty, dolly. which family are you attending with?"

'she shouldn't be too difficult.' the thought ran through his mind.

although when his eyes trailed back up to you, his smile faltered a bit. he wasn't met with the typical blushing face any other girl would've had- no, instead, you looked at him with a look that screamed how weirded out you were.

"thanks, i guess.. but i don't think i'm gonna give you that information. bye."

the shock was obvious on his face as you yanked your hand out from his and walked off. this was something reo was NOT used to. did this girl seriously just reject his advance? well, screw you anyway! he only wanted a distraction.

that's what he told himself as he grumbled back to the ballroom, getting another glass of champagne.

the more reo drank, the more bothered he was by the fact he actually had gotten rejected. it wasn't long before he was pretty drunk, and found himself eyeing you from across the room way more than he should've. the longer he stared at you, he felt an odd feeling bubble up in his chest. you were really gorgeous, and the tight dress that hugged your pretty curves and showed off your thighs was making the room a bit hotter for him.

the whole night reo continued to try to make moves on you, but they were all brushed off or shut down swiftly. he grew evermore frustrated as time went on, but he refused to give up. it just wasn't in his nature.

after a couple more drinks of your own, you were quite drunk as well, stumbling out of the ballroom to get some air. reo followed you and before you could rush down the hall from him, he grabbed your wrist tightly, spinning you around and bringing you to his chest. he glared down at you.

"am i ugly or something?" he started, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

you were unable to get out of his hold as his other hand moved to grip your waist- not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you stay put.

"that's not even the problem! i just don't want some rich playboy trying to make me one of his toys!"

reo growled at your words. "that's not what i'm trying to do. is it so hard to believe i'm just interested in you?"

"yeah, it actually is."

"then let me prove it to you! i'll show you it's worth it to take a risk with me."

reo didn't know why he was so desperate to have you, considering the fact he had only just seen your face for the first time two hours ago. maybe it was the fact that you were so different from other potential sweethearts he had in the past, or that you didn't give him what he wanted from the start. whatever it was, reo didn't care. he needed to make you his.

a large hand came up to cup your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him. without any warning, he crashed his lips against yours, alcohol swimming in his mind. to his surprise, you actually reciprocated, moving your hands to hold his face as your tongues pushed against each others. you were giving him a chance, and reo couldn't be happier.

was it inappropriate to be making out in the middle of a hallway in someone else's estate, where both of your families could see you? 100%. although, it didn't seem like either of you cared as reo gently pushed you against the wall, hand hooking under one of your thighs and lifting it to hold against his hip.

"fuck, m'gonna make you mine."

reo grumbled on your lips, his much taller body caging you against the wall. it was a blur how or when you both moved into a nearby closet, but it happened; and now reo was sitting you on a heavy box, spreading your legs open hungrily.

"to think you tried to keep me from this.. gonna fuck you so hard for that."

you felt embarrassment rush to your face at his words, arousal pooling between your thighs at the mere thought. his thumb pressed against your sensitive clit through your damp panties, eliciting a moan from you. reo's cock twitched in his pants as he harshly tugged the lacey panty down to your ankles, revealing your glistening pussy. he couldn't help but groan at the sight, pressing his free hand roughly against his aching and throbbing hard-on.

"sooo fucking pretty. gonna ruin you for anyone else, princess."

"c'mon, reo.. just fuck me already.."

reo hissed at your words, unbuckling his belt in a rush. normally, he would've teased you for hours on end just for doing what you did tonight, but he was too drunk and horny to care. all he wanted right now was to be deep inside your gummy walls. he let out a small sigh as he released his dick from his boxers, only pushing his pants down to his thighs before he grabbed you and held you in his arms. your legs instantly hooked around his waist as you prepared yourself for what was about to happen. reo was big- bigger than anyone you had ever been with.

"oh, fuck!"

your legs trembled as he slowly pushed into your tight hole, the stretch from his large cock making your mind go blank. it hurt like hell at first, but once he was fully in, your pain turned to pleasure. reo pressed your back against the wall as he fucked you with experience, mouth sloppily biting at your neck to scatter dark hickeys across your smooth skin. moans spilled from your pretty lips as you felt your guts being totally rearranged by the handsome rich boy, your hands scratching at the back of his suit.

"pussy feels incredible, baby." he groaned out, "like it was made for me and only me."

his words made you clench around his dick, giving more pleasure for the both of you. reo continued abusing your poor cunt, silencing your whines and moans by kissing you passionately.

however, even in such an intoxicated and heated state, reo faintly picked up on the sounds of footsteps coming down the hallway. his movements halted in you, much to your dismay.

"ugh, asshole! why'd you stop-"

reo quickly covered your mouth, although he didn't pull out of you. he brought your body closer to his, dropping his head down beside your ear so he could whisper.

"don't make a sound."

before you could question why he was requesting such a thing, sudden voices could be heard approaching the closet. your heart fell to your stomach.

"someone said they heard weird noises coming from this direction.. what could it be?"

"darling, it could just be from outside."

the couple who were throwing the party in their own home were one door away from finding THE mikage reo balls deep into a girl he just met. you bit down on your bottom lip harshly, but a part of you couldn't help but feel more aroused at the thought of being caught getting your pussy pounded by the purple haired man. unintentionally, you clenched around reo, who held back a noise at the feeling- but barely.

"the hell are you doing?!" he whisper hissed at you, "you trying to get us caught?"

no, you weren't. honestly, it would be a horrifying situation to be placed in if the two discovered what was happening in their unlocked closet just a few feet from them. maybe it was because of the alcohol you consumed, but you weren't even thinking about that consequence you would face as you clenched down on reo again, eyes rolling to the back of your head. the door handle jiggled as you both held your breaths in horror.

"..excuse me!"

a sudden voice called from further away, and the doorknob was released.

"there's a stray cat in the bathroom down the other hallway! it appears to have snuck in through the window!"

what a lucky coincidence. footsteps backed away from the closet you were both hiding.

"oh..that must be what the noises were. come, honey. we have a cat to catch!"

only did you sigh of relief once the footsteps had totally faded, leaving you in the clear from being caught. however, what you weren't in the clear from was the little stunt you had pulled during the tense situation. reo suddenly pulled out and flipped you around, pushing you to bend over the box as he yanked your dress to your waist, placing a harsh slap on your ass.

"you some kind of slut? the fuck were you trying to do back there, huh? did you want that poor, old couple to see how well i fuck you? how well you take my fat cock?"

he spanked you again, both the action and his dirty words going straight to your core. reo slammed into you again, setting a more brutal pace than before.

"yeah, you'll get what you want. take my dick like a good girl, cause you're not gonna be walking for days once i'm done with you tonight."

his hands roamed everywhere on you, no longer caring about how much noise you two were making. you had only fueled reo's growing obsession with you, and he wasn't planning on letting you go. he wanted to claim you as his, keep you for himself. his heavy balls slapped against your backside with each thrust as he fucked into you like a madman.

"aah! ohmygod, reo!" you cried out, "m'gonna cum, gonna c-cum so hard!"

"f-fuck- me too, princess. gonna fill you up so much till you're leaking with my cum. take it all, ugh- take it!"

with one last cry, you clenched down and came around his thick cock, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. reo hugged your waist tightly as he twitched in you a couple times before painting your walls in white. you rode out your orgasm with him before he pulled out of you slowly, collapsing onto your back. heavy breathing was the only sound that filled the small closet now.

"think i love you already... yeah, you're all mine, now." he pressed a kiss behind your ear, although it was more gentle now. "just wait till i take you home. you're now my girlfriend."

AN: i think this was my longest write yet KEKW, i love reo sm <3 also my requests are open!

[y4-mama]

Bucky Barnes request?

Paradise

Bucky Barnes (TFATWS) x reader

Summary: After everything went down with the flag smashers you guys finally had a chance to relax

Content: Gender isn’t specified but the pet name Doll is used, fluff, Bucky being down BAD for you, Bucky making fun of sam

A/N: sorry for getting this out so late i didn’t mean to ignore the request

WC: 1.2K

Life Couldn’t get any better.

You, Sam, and Bucky finally got a well-deserved vacation, as you would call it, after finishing all the Flag Smasher stuff.

Which is how you found yourself sitting on Sam’s boat, with a glass of wine in your hand, watching the sunset.

You watching the sunset led Bucky to not be able to take his eyes off you as you sat there, though this has become a regular occurrence. He watched the way your eyes glittered with the setting sun, the way your hands tightened ever so slightly around your glass of wine, how your lips were curled into a soft, content smile, and the way your hair perfectly framed your face.

How could he not look at you?

You, having a sixth sense, felt someone’s eyes on you. You turn your head and see Bucky staring right at you. When he noticed you caught him, he quickly snapped his gaze away from you, busying himself by taking a drink of his beer. He had been caught red-handed. He suddenly found his boots extremely interesting.

That whole reaction he just had confused you, but you didn’t think much of it and looked back at the sunset. Bucky stole a glance at you and noticed the confusion written all over your face. He internally groaned, knowing he hadn’t been doing the best job of hiding the fact that he was staring at you for the past couple of minutes.

Get it together, Barnes.

You kept your eyes on the sunset. “Is there something on my face, or is there another reason you keep staring at me?” Bucky's mouth suddenly felt very dry. He didn’t expect you to call him out like that. He decided that playing it off nonchalantly was the move. “There might be.”

“And what reason is that?” Bucky mentally curses himself because if he was being honest, he wasn’t thinking of anything PG. He obviously wouldn’t tell you that, so he went with the next thing he thought of. “You just look good in the reflection of the sunset.” Real Smooth, Bucky.

You honestly weren’t expecting that, especially coming from him. It made you nervous, but you masked that with a soft smile, “Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky swore he died, then came back to life when you gave him that smile. He gulped his beer to try and seem unaffected. “No problem, Doll…” Could he be more obvious?

You giggle at his reaction.

Your giggling was gonna be the death of him. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the fact that his stomach thought it was a good idea to start doing somersaults. “Uh- You have a pretty laugh.” He mentally slapped himself. Out of all the things he could’ve said. He chose that?

The compliment shocked you, “Thank you…” He nodded and took another drink of his beer, trying to calm himself a little. It was getting increasingly harder the longer he talked to you. “Of course, you should do it more often.” Seriously? Who says that?

“I should…laugh more often?” Bucky cleared his throat once again. He suddenly found it hard to look you in the eye, so he decided staring at the sunset was much easier. “Y-yeah, it suits you. The way it just lights up your face…it’s adorable…or whatever…”

You definitely didn’t see that coming. So naturally, you got flustered and let out a quiet ‘thank you’.

If it weren’t for Bucky’s super senses, he would’ve missed it. He melted at your flustered expression. “Of course…” He couldn’t help himself from thinking about how he wouldn’t mind seeing a different flustered expression on your face entirely. Get it together, Barnes. He took another long drink of his beer and tried to focus on the sunset once again. “So uh… how are things going, other than the whole Flag Smashers fiasco?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” He nodded in response, drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. He found it hard to sit there and have normal small talk with you when what he really wanted to do was kiss you senseless. Stop it, Barnes! Down boy! “What about you?” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “Other than just trying to keep Sam from getting his face beat in by someone? Nothing out of the ordinary for me either. Guess that’s kind of a good thing, huh?”

You nodded at him, "That's a great thing, besides the Sam part.” Bucky chuckled in response to that. “ Yeah… the Sam part definitely isn’t a great thing. That man couldn’t hold his own in a fight to save his life. I swear he needs me to watch him every two seconds.”

You laughed at his comment, and Bucky’s stomach did somersaults for the millionth time that night when he heard you laugh again. He shook his head, a soft smile on his face. “ You know it’s true, Doll. I’m forever saving him.” You couldn’t help but smile when Bucky smiled, even though it was barely there it was something. “Y’know, if I were to ask Sam, he’d say it’s the other way around.” Bucky scoffed knowingly. “Of course he would! I’m telling you he’d get it handed to him every day if it wasn’t for me. He’s delusional, I tell you. Delusional.” You chuckled, “No doubt about that.”

Bucky nodded in agreement. He couldn’t tell you the amount of times he’s had to dive in and save Sam. “Honestly, it’s a miracle he’s still alive.” “Well, he has the amazing White Wolf there to always save him.” Bucky chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Of course, I’m always at his disposal. White Wolf, of all the nicknames they could’ve saddled me with…”

“It’s cute.” Bucky’s heart started doing somersaults again. “Cute isn’t the word I’d use for that name…” He muttered under his breath, taking another drink of his beer. You shrugged in response, “Well, I like it.”

Bucky’s heart skipped another beat at the fact that you liked the nickname. “You’re the only one who does.” He shook his head again, still trying to act nonchalant about it. Even though his heart was doing cartwheels at the fact that you liked it. Seriously Bucky? Get it together. All reason and common sense seemed to have left him at this point. Why couldn’t he just get his brain to shut up? “You… You actually like that dumb nickname?”

“I don’t think it's dumb.” Bucky raised an eyebrow in suprise, his heart beating a mile a minute in his chest. “You… You don’t?” You shook your head in response. Bucky found himself unable to form words for a moment. Here he was thinking no one liked that nickname-especially not with the way Sam’s made fun of it. “Really? You’re not just messing with me?”

You chuckle at his silly question, “Why would I mess with you Bucky?” Bucky shrugged suddenly feeling very awkward. “…I don’t know. I’m just used to people finding it ridiculous.” He took another gulp of his beer as you took a sip of your wine, “Those people are just lame.”

Bucky couldn’t help the small smile that started to form on his face as he listened to you call the people who disliked his nickname “lame.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He couldn’t deny the way his heart started fluttering when he glanced at you, trying his best to keep his feelings under control. It didn’t help that you were currently looking at him in adoration with a gentle smile on your face.

“I’m always right.”

———————————

A/N: Does anyone know how to get divider images on here without the background? Each time I try putting one in the background is white

[atimesfeeler]

A stupid stupid poolverine au that won’t leave my head of Logan getting turned into a cat.

He gets jumped or something, getting groceries. Maybe someone from another timeline maybe someone magical who has a grudge for this worlds Logan, but poof. He’s a cat.

And he goes back to the apartment only to find that Wade is definitely not a cat person and communicating with him is harder than he thought it would be.

Wade won’t let him in the damn door for starters. He opens the door thinking the scratching is a raccoon or something and finds the grumpiest, fluffiest gray tabbish cat glaring daggers at him.

Wade’s not really a cat person. He can’t figure them out. Dogs at least tell you outright whether they like you or they don’t. The only concrete interactions Wade had with a cat was the stray by his apartment that would hiss and scratch at him or anyone who got close. This cat also looks like it might kill him if he looks at it wrong, but for some reason seems extremely determined to get inside.

Wade tries explaining that the apartment is full and really can’t hold another living being in it and is already at max capacity. Well. If Logan comes back.

The trek back took significantly longer as a cat Logan can’t really go anywhere else that is walking distance. Figuring out how to convince Wad to let him in is his best bet. But being sweet has never been his strong suit so Wade ends up closing the door on him. (Apparently getting angry and hissing doesn’t convince someone to let you inside).

Logan tries a couple more ways to break in but ultimately has to spend the night outside. He sleeps on the balcony and glares daggers through the window at Wade. It only makes Wade sure he’s been cursed by a witch and the cat was sent to finish him off.

When Logan doesn’t come back in his human form Wade begins to lose hope. Abandonment issues come out to play. He’s been waiting for the shoe to drop anyway.

He goes out to smoke and Logan hops up on the roof to join him (and convince him to let him inside). He attempts to bribe Wade into keeping him with cat affection, despite his reluctance. And Wade has never met a more confusing cat that purrs when he brushes up against him but will scratch and bite if Wade pets him. Logan sits on Wade’s lap but lets out a low growl of Wade attempts to touch.

They have a sweet moment but Wade goes back inside with a “sorry kitty. I don’t have a litter box.” And leaves Logan out on the balcony.

Next day no luck. Logan’s considering seriously walking to the mansion. But he’s struggling being a cat. He doesn’t have his claws and he has to find food in the city. He also doesn’t know if he has his healing factor and doesn’t want to risk it. There’s also all these new cat instincts he has to get used to.

At night he gets cornered by some dogs and chased. Logan runs to the apartment by habit and gets cornered at the door. Wade opens the door at Mary Puppins barking and sees Logan is hurt. Shoos away the dogs and brings him inside.

He realizes the cat is healing l- mutant cat!! And thus prompts Wade to keep him. The cat also reminds Wade of Logan so he can’t say no a third time when Logan jumps up on the couch and sits there like it’s his spot.

After that, cue cat shenanigans and Logan trying and falling to communicate to Wade that he’s trapped in cat from. All the while Wade slips into a depression at the fact that Logan took off without saying anything. And Logan ends up comforting Wade and learning that physical affection isn’t so bad.

Laura adores the cat obviously and it’s her idea to take him to the mansion where they ultimately figure out it’s Logan and reverse the spell.

Wade and Logan are obviously twisted up in knots about the bonding and cute cuddling (and also Wade rambled a lot about Logan and how he felt about him).

I’ll probably never write it but I think about it from time to time.

[potatoplace]

🧡❤️‍🔥🔥

Eris deserves some love 😔❤️

-🪐

Delicious

Alpha!Eris x Omega!Reader

Warnings: smut, omegaverse, kinda dub-con cause it's a surprise heat

🧡 Eris | ❤️‍🔥 Smut | 🔥 Omegaverse

Notes: I hope you like this one 🤭 it took me far longer to write than it should have cause I was distracted by greys anatomy... 🤷‍♀️ oh wellll I'm happy with how uhhh. Horny this turned out 😂 love you boo 🫶

🧡🤍❤️‍🔥🤍🧡

You were currently in the orchard picking apples, already far behind your daily quota with how feverish you had felt since waking. Yet you persisted, unwilling to let your family down and not have a large enough harvest to present to the High Lord.

The orchards were where you preferred to spend your time, breathing in the soothing scent of crisp autumn air. Harvest month was your favorite time of each season, the air sweetened by grown fruit.

Today though, you could hardly smell anything, a rarity for you nose. You supposed you might be coming down with a cold, given the fever you had.

You were halfway through picking your third basket when it hit you - the mouthwatering scent of crisp leaves, apples, and a hint of smoke having your head turning to find the source without a thought.

It took a moment, but between the trees in the distance you spotted him - an auburn haired male dressed in Autumn Court finery.

You began moving on instinct, dropping the basket in your arms to the ground and starting towards the male. When you were within fifty paces of him, his head turned, fiery amber eyes meeting yours.

His scent was stronger now, an irresistible pull as you approached him without hesitation, arms circling his neck and your face resting in the crook of his neck. You took in greedy lungfuls of his scent and let out a relieved sigh, the fever in your body abating slightly.

A rustling noise behind you elicited a growl from the male's throat, sending a lick of heat straight to your core. You melted further into him, sighing when his arms lifted your legs to hook around his hips, his hands gripping your ass.

"Sweet omega, is this your first heat?" He asked sweetly as he moved to a tree, resting your back against it. When you didn't answer, merely began licking at the skin of his neck - he tasted even better than he smelled - a firm hand pulled your face from his neck, eliciting a whine from you as you licked your lips, desperate to taste more of him. "Omega, is this your first heat?" He asked again, looking you in the eye until you answered.

You nodded, though you weren't *entirely convinced you were an omega.

He was just... delicious.

"Do you need alpha's knot?"

*Alpha? The burning ache within you grew and you nodded again - if he was suggesting it, surely it was what you needed.

"Good omega," he purred, the words only fanning the flames of your arousal. With one arm, he was able to hold you to the tree, the other hand working to shimmy the skirts of your dress up to your hips, only your underwear covering your center now. Amber eyes watched your lids flutter as one long finger ran up your clothed slit, heady arousal blending perfectly into his scent.

Two careful fingers pinched your panties between them, a flame incinerating them the next moment. Autumn air hit your glistening cunt, slick slowly leaking from you already.

A groan came from the male's throat, his free hand already springing his cock from his trousers, dragging the head up and down the length of you. You moaned when he slid across your clit, your head falling against the tree trunk behind you.

"Alpha," you whined pitifully, needing *more. "*Please."

"Since my omega asked so sweetly," he said teasingly, before slowly pressing the head of his cock to your entrance, slipping inside an inch.

The stretch to accommodate him added to the burn already coursing through you, white hot pain lancing through you for a moment as he pressed in further. The pad of his thumb rubbed your clit, soothing away the hurt and turning it to heady pleasure as he continued forging his way into you.

Your head tilted forward, forehead falling against his shoulder once he was fully seated within you, feeling fuller than you'd ever thought possible.

Lips pressed to your neck softly, a sigh leaving you at the tenderness of it. "Such a sweet little omega, hidden out here. So sweet for her alpha, hmm?" The alpha asked, and you just barely managed to nod before whining at the fire coursing through you still. "Don't worry, alpha's going to make it all better."

His hips started moving slowly, each thrust more heavenly than the last. Your pleasure built quickly, aided by the teeth grazing the sensitive gland at the base of your neck, so obvious now that you've presented.

Moans and the slapping of skin filled the orchard around you, the cool air doing nothing to ease the ache within you like the drag of his cock against your inner walls was.

Pleasure overtook you when his cock angled just right, hitting a sweet spot just right. You keened loudly into the air before letting your teeth dig into his shoulder, a hiss the only warning you had before your alpha picked up his pace, thrusting into you as quickly as he was able in this position.

The base of his cock began to swell, catching on your entrance with every pull, until he pushed into you one last time, his thumb circling your clit as his hips twitched, knot inflating within you as you crested the edge again from, set of teeth biting into your neck while wave after wave of cooling pleasure washing over you.

Some time later, you came back to awareness, laid on your side with your alpha's knot still locked inside of you. Now, though, you were laying atop a soft bed, thick red woolen blanket pulled over the two of you.

"Keep sleeping, 'mega," your alpha said, the gentle command in his voice enough to have you obeying, drifting back to sleep with his scent ingrained in your nose, the feel of him etched permanently into you.

🧡🤍❤️‍🔥🤍🧡

[ganondoodle]

rough concept for the unique boss within the deku-tree (required for the quest to repair the mastersword; boss name is a placeholder)

(totk rewritten project)

[flaming-toads]

So what if I go back to s1e10 of 911 and I enjoy Bobby's little dating profile and think about silly cute ideas about it hmm?! HMMM?!

[lapdogchase]

disabled queer pride flag edits !!

gilbert baker pride + progress pride / gay + lesbian / pan + bi / trans + genderqueer / genderfluid, agender / bigender + nonbinary / aromantic + asexual / polyamorous + aroace / queer chevron + intersex

[television-overload]

beautiful (X-Files fanfic)

Rating: G

Word Count: 4,985

Summary: Weakened by her latest round of chemotherapy, Scully doesn't feel much like herself. Mulder helps her find the strength to keep fighting.

Read on AO3

“I wish you weren’t seeing me like this, Mulder,” she says out of the blue, drawing his attention away from the magazine he was idly flipping through at her bedside. Immediately, he sets it aside, dropping his feet to the ground from where they were perched up on the hospital bed.

“What do you mean?” he asks, grabbing her closest hand and running his thumb over her knuckles.

Scully sighs. “Don’t make me say it,” she responds. The answer looms over them both, and she’s right. He doesn’t like hearing it spoken aloud.

Dana Scully is wasting away, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

This latest round of chemotherapy has hit her harder than the first, and he’s starting to see the physical changes. She’s thinner, paler. There are dark circles under her eyes. The doctors have noticed it too, recommending that she stay in the hospital for a few days or even a week rather than recover at home.

Of course, she had refused on principle until Mulder told her he was being forced to take a few days’ leave anyway to use up some vacation time, which wasn’t exactly true, and she probably knew it.

But either way, she had let him accompany her to her appointment, which was more than he could say for her previous round of treatment.

“I look like the night of the living dead,” Scully mumbles, fiddling with the scratchy blankets on her lap.

Mulder tries not to show a physical reaction to her choice of wording. “Don’t say that,” he pleads, shaking his head. “Please don’t say that.”

Scully smiles wryly. He’s as predictable as ever.

“I just mean, I don’t look like myself. I don’t feel like myself.” She says this with such an unaffected voice, that anyone less familiar with her tells would think this was just some passing annoyance, but Mulder knows. He can see the way this has grated at her, and he just wishes he could take this all pain away from her. “I can’t even do my makeup,” she adds, throwing a breathy laugh in for good measure at the end of her sentence, as if to say, ‘but why should I care about that?’

Mulder tugs on her hand, and she follows his unspoken cue and meets his gaze. “I like you just fine without makeup,” he says, his eyes communicating the sincerity of his words. “Besides, who is there to impress anyway?” he asks, gesturing at the empty room over his shoulder to emphasize his point.

Scully gives a tired smile. “You’re a guy, Mulder, you wouldn’t understand.” Squeezing his hand once, she adds, “But thank you,” and he gives her a smile back. He wishes he could do something to help her.

She hasn’t had the strength for much, ever since they began the treatment two days ago. She’s having a better reaction to it than she could be, but he knows the fatigue is frustrating her. She’s told him a thousand times that he doesn’t have to stay here with her, but he does anyway, even when she’s sleeping for hours on end. When she’s awake, he reads to her, or they watch something on TV, whatever she’s feeling up to. If it weren’t for the harrowing circumstances, he might even be really enjoying this time spent together outside work.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Scully speaks, drawing his attention back to her. “But you’re not looking so great yourself.” Her teasing tone is softened by her genuine concern for him, but he can’t help but play along.

His eyes narrow at her in mock offense. “Just what every man likes to hear,” he says sarcastically. “Scully, you wound me.”

This earns a patented Scully Eye Roll.

“Go home and take a shower at least,” she amends, looking at him fondly. “You could use one.”

He simply stares at her, challenging her to more of this banter.

“Are you gonna just keep insulting me until I finally leave?” he asks.

“If that’s what it takes,” she answers. “I could touch on your poor posture next, if you want.”

Mulder laughs, waving a hand dismissively as he stands. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” He looks back at her, pauses, and pointedly straightens his posture before grabbing his bag and taking a step toward the door. “You’ll be okay while I’m gone?” he asks, unable to help himself.

Her gaze softens, her playfulness turning back to seriousness. “Yes, Mulder, I’ll be fine. I probably won’t stay awake for much longer anyway.”

He nods, shifting to take another step, but on looking at her again, changes his mind. He turns back, crossing the floor to her bed and leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek. The hand that isn’t busy holding his briefcase gives her left shoulder a squeeze before he pulls away.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises, tucking her blankets back up to her chin.

She smiles, her eyelids already growing heavy. “I know you will.”

-.-.-

True to his word, Mulder makes a stop at his apartment to shower and change, trading out the books they’d already finished with new ones that she will probably roll her eyes at. He has to admit, he feels like a new person as he steps out of the shower. He needed that more than he thought he did. There was something to what Scully had said earlier, about feeling like yourself. It gave him an idea.

As much as he wants to get back to her, Mulder knows she’ll be out like a light for at least a few hours. He decides to make another stop before heading back to the hospital.

It’s still fairly early in the day when he knocks on the door and waits for a minute. He hears the shuffling sound of someone approaching on the other side before the door creaks open.

“Fox?”

“Hi Mrs. Scully,” he says, giving her an awkward half smile, his hands jammed deep into his front pockets.

“What are you doing here? Is it Dana?” The woman is understandably worried; it’s not like Mulder to show up out of the blue like this unless there’s some kind of terrible news to convey.

He is quick to reassure her. “No, no, nothing like that. I just had something I—I wanted to ask you, if it’s no trouble.”

Maggie’s brows pinch together in that distinctly Scully way as she pulls him into her home, shutting the door behind him.

“What is it?”

Sheepishly, Mulder rubs a hand over the back of his neck, feeling less and less certain of what he came here to ask.

“Well, it’s just—Dana mentioned something earlier about wishing she had her makeup on, and I wondered… You know, her strength isn’t what it usually is, so I thought maybe I could—”

Maggie’s hands wrap around his forearm, halting his rambling speech. He looks up to see tears glistening in her eyes, and she nods in understanding.

“That’s very sweet, Fox.”

He nods, hoping his cheeks aren’t turning pink. He doesn’t do well with motherly praise.

“So, are you wanting me to show you how?”

He lets out a breath, relieved that he doesn’t have to find the words himself. “That would be great, actually.”

Mrs. Scully smiles, jerking her head toward the stairs so that he would follow her. “Come with me, I’ve got some stuff we can use.”

He dutifully follows after her as she leads him up the stairs. This is the furthest he’s been inside Maggie Scully’s house. He wonders how much of her belongings are mementos from Scully’s childhood, whether a certain painting hanging on the wall appears in her family Christmas photos or if it was bought recently.

In his perusal of the house itself, he nearly collides with someone he knows by name only. “Mom, who was that at the door?” the man is asking, and the moment their eyes meet, the air in the room thickens. “What’s he doing here?” he demands, looking to Maggie for answers.

Maggie is quick to come to Mulder’s aid. “It’s none of your business, young man,” she says, shooing him toward the stairs they had just come up. Despite his protestations, she continues, “Why don’t you go to the drugstore and pick up some eyelash straightening cream for Dana, we can bring it to her when we go visit later this afternoon.”

“But—”

She swats him on the arm. “No buts. Dana would really appreciate it if we brought it.”

He grumbles all the way down the stairs, but does as she told him. As soon as he’s grabbed his jacket from the coat closet, he’s out the door and starting up the car.

“What was that for?” Mulder asks, breaking the silence that had settled after the front door shut.

Maggie gives a pleased little smile. “There’s no such thing as eyelash straightening cream. Bill will be there for thirty minutes at least. As I’m sure you can imagine, knowing my daughter as you do, he doesn’t like asking for assistance if he can help it.”

Mulder lets out a surprised laugh. This woman runs a tight ship, and he has to respect her for it.

“Alright, now sit right here, Fox,” Mrs. Scully orders, pulling out a small stool from the vanity in her bathroom. She quickly leaves and returns with another chair from the bedroom, placing it across from him. She hums quietly as she rummages through her drawers, extracting several mystifying objects and setting them on the counter. “Now, let’s start with the foundation. I’ll show you how, and then you can do the other side of my face, sound good?”

Mulder nods, sitting up straighter to watch as she blends the creamy substance onto her skin. She’s narrating as she goes, and Mulder commits her words to memory, hoping his ability to replicate them will be as good as his ability to remember her instructions.

“Here, now you try,” Mrs. Scully says next, handing the brush to Mulder. He pushes aside any lingering feelings of awkwardness or embarrassment and sets in on applying the makeup. Maggie’s lips curl in a smile as she watches him, tapping ever so gently on her face as if he might break her. She wonders if he’s done this before. “You’re a natural,” she praises, “Are you sure this is your first time?”

He lets out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “I’m no expert,” he answers. He’s silent for a moment, not breaking concentration, and then adds in a quiet voice, “My sister had this play makeup set, real cheap quality stuff. She’d sometimes force me to be her test subject.” His eyes grow distant as he remembers.

It wasn’t all that long before her abduction, he thinks, the last time they did this. It always went the same way. He’d sit patiently—or as patiently as an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy could—while she clumsily dabbed colorful eyeshadow onto his eyelids. He’d learned early on that it was better to just go along with it, having suffered the wrath of Samantha Mulder once before for refusing to be her dress-up doll. The makeup rarely stayed on for more than a minute after she declared him done, scrubbed off like some kind of deadly germ in the sink, but it was enough to appease her.

When she was finished, she’d beg him to help her with her makeup, putting that pouty lip out that she knew he couldn’t say no to.

“Stop blinking, Sam,” he’d say, focusing intently on brushing on the mascara she’d stolen from her mom’s makeup bag. “You’re gonna mess it up.”

He remembers these times fondly, of rare moments where he managed to be a good big brother, instead of pretending to be annoyed by her like he often did. He’d give anything to be teased by his peers for spending time with his kid sister, if it meant having her back.

With the utmost care, Mrs. Scully walks him through the remaining steps, patting him gently on the cheek once he’s put on the finishing touches.

“You’re a good man, Fox,” she says, her fondness for him evident in her smile. “Dana is lucky to have you.”

Once again, Mulder shrugs, uncomfortable with the compliments, no matter how sincere they are. “I’m the lucky one, Mrs. Scully.” He thinks he’s never meant something more in his life. “But I appreciate you saying so. Thanks again for showing me everything.”

She pulls him into a hug. “Of course, you call me if you ever need anything. We’ll be by sometime this afternoon.”

He nods, and is thankfully out the door with time to spare before Bill can get home.

After a brief visit to Scully’s apartment to grab some of her things, he drives back to the hospital. When he arrives, Scully is awake in her bed, her upper body elevated so she can look out the window. She greets him with a warm smile, and he can’t help but grin back.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says in apology, “Had to make a quick pit stop.”

This catches Scully’s attention, and she watches as he produces a bag from behind his back, setting it on the tray table in front of her and starting to take items out. She recognizes it immediately, and looks up at him in wonder.

“Mulder,” she says, her tone jokingly admonishing. “You didn’t have to bring me this.” She’s smiling still as she starts to sit up, reaching out to grab a tube of lipstick, but he stops her.

“No, no,” he says, gently lowering her hand back down to the table and urging her to sit back and relax. “You take it easy, I’ll take care of this.”

She gives him a look with a furrowed brow, but eases back, watching him suspiciously as he selects a bottle of liquid foundation and a brush.

He sits sideways on her hospital bed so that he is facing her. With the limited space, his thigh brushes up against her blanket-covered one, but it barely even registers. This kind of closeness is nothing particularly unusual for them. If nothing else, it is an added comfort to them both.

“You ready?” he asks, makeup brush poised to start.

Scully searches his eyes for a moment and, deciding she trusts him, gives a nod. “Okay.”

With a pleased little smile, Mulder begins applying a light layer of foundation, leaning in closer to reach as he gently blends it into her skin.

Scully can only watch him, his brows drawn together in focus as he works to meticulously apply the makeup. Her eyes wander over his face, over the sharp lines of his nose and the roundness of his lips. Occasionally his tongue peeks out in concentration, and she can’t help but fall a little more in love with him.

She didn’t ask him to do this. If he thought her needless grousing earlier was a request, she felt terrible. He isn’t her servant. He doesn’t exist to make sure she has all the niceties of her normal life in this cold, sterile place. The last thing she wants is to be a burden, especially to him. He’s had enough to deal with in his life without having to look after his terminally ill coworker.

But that isn’t all they are, is it? They’re friends—the closest of friends. This isn’t the first time he’s gone out of his way to do something nice for her, and she suspects it won’t be the last, no matter how little time she has left. For some reason, he’s taken it upon himself to be with her throughout this whole ordeal, even when it means holding back her hair as she heaves into a trash can or when she can’t adjust the covers over her cold feet.

The words jump into her mind unbidden: “In sickness and in health.”

It’s funny, in a distinctly unfunny way. She supposes she should be thankful that someone cares enough for her in that way, even if they are nothing more than friends and coworkers. In some ways, their partnership is more of a marriage than many people will experience in their lifetimes, and for that she is exceedingly glad. She couldn’t have asked for a better person to have in her life than Mulder.

He’s moved on now to powdering her skin with translucent powder, beginning with her forehead. As he brings the soft brush down between her eyebrows, she scrunches her nose up, hiding a smirk from him. His sloping green eyes soften from their earlier focus and he lets out a chuckle, playfully tickling her nose with the brush.

“You’re not gonna sneeze on me, are ya?” he asks, getting back to work on her cheeks and chin.

Her only answer is a quiet, affectionate smile.

After a careful application of blush on the apples of her cheeks, it’s time for her eyes. She watches him open her eyeshadow palette and rub a brush over one of the colors, and she quirks an eyebrow in concern. As he brings the small brush closer to her face, she draws back and looks at him doubtfully.

“Don’t put too much on,” she says, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Mulder rolls his eyes. “Relax, Scully, I got you.” He starts in again, shifting a few times to find the best angle before gently brushing over her eyelids in an arc.

“I like the brown color,” Scully informs him, her eyes fluttering in an effort to stay closed.

“I know,” Mulder answers. He pulls back just long enough to show her the tip of the brush, which is covered in a tasteful brown, exactly the right shade.

Before she has time to process that he knows what color eyeshadow she likes, she’s being told to close her eyes again and she complies, soaking in the feeling of being taken care of in such an intimate way.

“How did you know what eyeshadow I wear, Mulder?” she asks during a moment’s respite, while he returns the brush to the palette to pick up more of the colorful powder.

Now it’s his turn to glance at her disbelievingly. “I look at you every day,” he answers, as if it were obvious.

She takes in a breath, willing her heart to start beating normally again. The look on his face makes it clear that he’s laughing at her, amused by her lack of self-awareness in this respect.

“And…” he adds amusedly, “this one has clearly been used more than the others.”

Of course, she laughs to herself. There’s no way he was looking at her close enough to guess what shade of eyeshadow she wears. Although his perception of the finer details is greater than that of the average man. He has his Oxford education and eidetic memory to thank for that.

“Who knew a background in profiling could come in handy as a makeup artist?” she says as he finishes blending out the color.

“It was actually one of the main selling points when the FBI recruited me,” he deadpans, enjoying the banter. He could almost forget why she wasn’t able to do her own makeup.

The mascara comes out next, and it requires Mulder to encroach on her personal space even further, to the point where she can feel his breath on her face. He smells of peppermint toothpaste and hazelnut coffee, and she even catches the scent of his shower gel, like fresh rain water. All of this she counts as a marked improvement to the antiseptic smell of the hospital. It smells like their office. It smells like home.

When he’s done all he can to her eyelashes with her eyes closed, he asks her to open them so he can give them the finishing touches. Her eyes flutter open, and she is mildly startled to find him hovering only inches away.

“Do you have to be that close to my face, Mulder?” she asks, carefully hiding her nervousness behind a laugh.

Mulder chuckles and goes back to work, gingerly running the brush over her lashes. “That depends, do you want to be poked in the eye, Scully?”

Resigned to their positioning, she fights the urge cup his elbow with her hand, steadying him as he completes arguably the most delicate part of this routine.

“There,” he says, leaning back at last. “I think that about does it. Except—”

He pauses, reaching onto the tray table to grab the lipstick she’d picked up earlier.

“I knew I was forgetting something.” Before she can prepare herself, he’s removing the lid from the tube and drawing closer again, his hand finding its way to the back of her head to hold her still. She hardly dares to breathe, feeling his fingers threading through her hair as he carefully runs the tip of the lipstick over her lips, depositing the bright color on their surface.

She looks more alive than she has in a while, even if it is a false image.

She wants to avoid eye contact, being this close, with him doing this thing for her, but she can’t. Her eyes are locked on his as they focus intently on keeping the color within the lines of her plump lips. A few times, his eyes flick up to hers, and she catches the way the corners of his mouth quirk up when they do. She wonders what he’s thinking.

In no time at all, it’s done. Every last detail has been tended to, and he pulls back to survey his work. The hand that was resting on the back of her head drags forward along her jawline, and ever so lightly, his thumb comes to rest over her newly-painted bottom lip.

“There’s my Scully,” he says quietly. Proudly.

She feels the tears pooling in her eyes, but there’s nothing she can do about it. He, thankfully, doesn’t mention it.

“Can I see?” she asks, her voice managing not to waver too badly.

He smiles and nods, reaching for a handheld mirror and holding it out to her.

She’s not sure what she was expecting—clown makeup, maybe—but that’s not what she sees at all.

“Oh, Mulder…” She’s finding it very difficult to withhold the tears that are trying to escape. “You—you did a great job.”

Aside from perhaps just a little too much blush, everything is as it should be. She looks healthier, more confident. Her makeup is a mask. It is comforting to her, makes her feel like she can face whatever it is that lies before her. Mulder has always been able to see past that mask, and if it were anyone else, it might bother her. But not him.

“You didn’t cover my mole,” she says, reaching up to touch the offending spot beneath her nose.

Mulder takes her hand and pulls it away from her face. “Cause it’s cute,” he answers simply, smiling at her almost reverently.

She’s surely blushing now.

“How do you feel?” he asks. What a loaded question that is.

She tilts her head, surveying the surface of her face from every angle in an effort to stall long enough to regain her composure. It’s a placebo, she knows, but she feels reinvigorated. Ready to fight another day.

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt like myself,” she answers, her voice thick with emotion. “I… I look beautiful.”

He nods, an unnamable look in his eye, and she swears she hears a mumbled, “You’re always…” before he trails off, dropping his gaze to his lap. He subconsciously squeezes her hand once before letting it go, instead occupying his hands with putting everything away.

“You really did do a good job, Mulder,” Scully speaks after the somewhat awkward silence had persisted long enough. “Have you done this before?”

With a zip of her makeup bag, Mulder looks up at her with squinted, suspicious eyes and jokes back, “What me and the Lone Gunmen do on our boy’s nights is none of your business.”

Scully laughs, amused by the imagery that conjures. Never one to be thrown off, however, she persists. “Well, someone must have taught you,” she declares, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Who was it?”

She gets a devious look in return. “I’ll never tell.”

-.-.-

As Bill pulls into the driveway after his wild-goose-chase trip to the drugstore (“You made me look like a fool, Mom!”), Margaret Scully greets him, sliding into the passenger seat with a bag full of goodies for her daughter.

He seems to finally be getting over his mother’s betrayal by the time they arrive at the hospital. They walk in, accepting visitor’s badges which they stick on their shirts before taking the elevator up to the oncology ward.

Bill’s admonishing tirade, which had persisted throughout most of the car ride, lingers on between intervening silences as they make their way down the hall. Once they approach Dana’s room, however, Maggie shushes him, holding out an arm to stop him.

Through the window, she sees Mulder setting a tube of mascara aside and exchanging it for lipstick. Bill’s curiosity gets the best of him, and he leans over his mother’s head to see for himself what it was that made his mother pause.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” she says, putting a guiding hand on her oldest son’s arm.

Inside the room, Mulder pulls back, and Bill can see even from this angle how his cheeks widen in a smile. His sister looks like herself again, and he doesn’t miss the shine of tears in her eyes, or the wobbling smile on her lips. Since they were children, he has kept a careful eye on her, monitoring her emotions, the protective big brother that he is.

And that’s why now, he understands. He hadn’t realized before, his own fault for not wanting to believe it.

His sister isn’t being dragged through hell by a sadistic partner, bent on destroying her life and everything she holds dear in one fell swoop. No. The truth is that she does it willingly, walks by his side through even the darkest shadows.

Because Dana is in love with her partner.

And he is undeniably in love with her.

The pieces slowly come together in his mind, everything he knows about Fox Mulder. His mother must have seen it long ago, hence her willingness to help him this morning. And he would have stood in the way.

The thought fills him with shame.

Mulder’s love for Dana goes so far beyond what Bill himself knows about love, that he had almost missed it entirely. What a blessing it is for his sister to experience it, for however brief a time.

With one final glance into the hospital room, Bill allows himself to be pulled away and toward the cafeteria.

“You see now, don’t you, Bill?” his mother asks as they walk, her eyes looking to him hopefully.

He nods, feeling his throat close up with unexpected emotion.

“Yes,” he answers. “I do.”

-.-.-

An hour into Mulder’s in-depth explanation (and diagramming) of the anatomy of dinanthropoides magnipus, otherwise known as “sasquatch” or Bigfoot, someone gently taps on the door.

“Come in!” Scully calls out, thankful for the reprieve.

“I hope we’re not interrupting…” Margaret Scully says as she enters, followed closely behind by Scully’s brother.

Mulder scoots back in his chair, shuffling the papers he’d strewn about and trying his best to fade into the background to provide them some privacy.

“Not at all,” Scully says, and she’s sounding better already than she has since they’d gotten here. “I’m glad you came by. Bill, I didn’t know you were in town.”

Bill clears his throat and steps forward, looking a little uncomfortable but otherwise happy to see his sister.

“I had a few days’ leave. Tara and I decided to make a weekend of it.”

Scully nods and looks between her brother and Mulder, realizing they’d never actually been properly introduced. She hopes they’ll both behave. Lord knows she’s told Mulder enough about Bill over the years, and she’s very familiar with her brother’s opinions about her partner.

She coughs. “Oh, uh, Mulder, this is my brother, Bill. Bill, this is Mulder.”

The two exchange an odd look before Mulder stands, and Bill meets him in the middle with a firm yet friendly handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Mulder,” Bill says with a pointed look, not at all unfriendly.

Mulder nods with a funny half smile. “Likewise.”

There’s another look exchanged briefly before they let go, returning to their respective awkward stances.

“We wanted to bring you some new magazines,” Maggie speaks, carrying a tote bag over to Scully’s bedside. “And Tara sent us with some crayons and coloring pages, in case either of you gets bored.”

Scully smiles, her fingers dragging the corner of Mulder’s silly sasquatch diagram out from its hiding place under a stack of other papers.

“I’m sure Mulder will appreciate being able to enlighten me on the specific coloring of Bigfoot’s spleen,” she says teasingly, and Mulder briefly wishes he could disappear, fearing the look on Bill’s face.

When he looks up though, both son and mother are smiling in amusement, not a hint of malice on Bill’s face.

Maggie leans in to place a kiss on Scully’s cheek, holding her daughter’s hand in hers.

“You’re looking like you feel a bit better,” she says as she pulls away, brushing her fingers over her brow and pushing back a lock of hair. “Lovely makeup, too.”

 With these last words, she looks to Mulder and—discretely—winks.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Fox?” Maggie asks, goading him knowingly.

He rises to the challenge, his eyes finding Scully’s and holding.

“Beautiful as always.”

-.-.-

The TikTok video that inspired this made me sob uncontrollably, so I hope I captured some of those same emotions here. I beg you to go watch the video too, but have tissues at the ready. It seriously hasn't left my mind since I saw it the other day. I hope we all have the chance to find a love like that in this lifetime.

Tagging some people: @today-in-fic @teenie-xf @cutemothman @queenlovett @tygertygerfoggybright @baronessblixen

If you ever don't want to be tagged by me, just let me know! You won't hurt my feelings. Alternatively, if you want to be tagged if/when I write more X-Files fics, let me know and I'll make a list!

[hexcitrine]

randomly looked at this account to update my age and holy shit it's been a while since i posted here..........i have a small pile of art i have yet to post but hbhbshdbshbd too lazy

[bizarrelovetriangel]

lipstick stains.

reader decides to dabble with art using several lipstick as her tools and sylus' sleeping face as her canvas.

fluff. inspired by one of sylus' texts in the game (included down below near the end). no warnings, just little kisses and reader having a little fun <3

It's two in the afternoon and there's nothing to do until sunset, when it's time to get ready for a date with your lover who's currently sleeping.

No... maybe there is something you could do.

A certain someone recently just bought you several new shades of lipstick from the brand that you love. Maybe now is a good idea to see which color would suit your outfit best for your date.

You wore a sly grin as you gathered all of your new lipstick and tiptoed your way inside Sylus' bedroom.

He's still in the same position as when you put him to bed: mostly on his back, though his upper body's slightly on a higher level due to the fluffy cold pillow supporting his shoulders.

He's wearing his satin burgundy robe, which had gotten a little loose to expose a portion of his chest. You were tempted to rest your head against it, but you can't afford to be distracted right now. You have a mission.

You're going to test the shades of your new lipstick with Sylus' help.

First up is cherry.

You put on a single layer of that color on your lips, then you carefully leaned down towards Sylus' face and softly kissed his forehead. You made sure it was as light as a feather so he doesn't wake up and end your fun so soon.

Next: rose.

You painted your lips with the brighter shade and pecked Sylus' left cheek. It gave a similar result as the previous contender: it looks great, but this particular color probably won't match your outfit tonight.

Third candidate is: wine

This one went to his right cheek and your gaze lingered on it for a little longer than the rest, as the color seemed so fitting on Sylus' face. The stain of wine always did compliment him, so this shouldn't be a surprise.

Up next is blood-red.

It's darker than wine and you also love its velvety texture. More importantly, the kiss mark of its hue looks wonderful on Sylus' left jawline.

Following that is blush.

This one's brighter and more on the pink side. Even though you like it, tonight won't be the night when you'd wear it. Nonetheless, it certainly looks lovely on your lover's chin, which twitched for a second after you kissed it.

Next one is apple.

You kissed the right side of Sylus' jaw and awed at its surprisingly vibrant tone. This one might work quite well with your outfit.

There's the shade called merlot, too.

It's more on the darker side, but you're not sure if it'll look good with your outfit tonight. On the other hand, it's cute on Sylus' nose.

Last but not least: ruby

This one seems like it's in the middle of the palette in terms of saturation, and it appears to have an appealing texture as well. To test it out, you put it on your lips and left a mark on the little spot just above his lips.

Or at least, that was the plan.

Sylus stirred all of a sudden, so you ended up kissing him on the lips.

From the very moment your lips touched, your face heated up and you backed away in panic.

You've kissed him plenty of times. You've kissed him on the lips and on spots that are not his lips. You've done way more than kissing. And yet still, your heart raced at the thought of him catching you stealing kisses from him while he sleeps.

It's still a little early for him to wake up, so you decided to leave him alone for now. You took all of your lipstick with you and ran out before he could detect your presence.

//////////

Your mouth drops at the text message you just received.

"I need to hide, quickly! You guys better not snitch on me! Especially you, Mephie!" You glared at the crow before leaving Luke and Kieran, suddenly ending your game of Kitty Cards.

You fled to look for a hiding spot, but it's too late. Your face planted against a strong chest.

You swore you heard a cough from behind you, followed by the sound of someone's phone clicking for a picture.

It didn't matter though because Sylus spared no attention to Luke, Kieran, and Mephisto as his eyes are completely focused on you.

"Sylus....." you laughed nervously. "Good afternoon. Had a nice dream?"

"Mhmm." He crossed his arms, giving you a raised brow. "In my dream, I was being attacked by a mischievous kitten while I was asleep."

"...."

"You're coming with me." He took one step towards you and leaned down to whisper to your ear. "You have to be punished for your crimes."

Suddenly, he threw you over his shoulder and retreated back to his bedroom.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other.

"Did you get the picture?"

"Yeah."

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available. 

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community. 

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company? 

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists. 

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom 

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

-

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits. 

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people. 

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

[sceletaflores]

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

[sangunary]

- Hush now Crybaby.

YANDERE BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED READER.

\\ Part 1 // \\ Part 2 // \\ Part 3 //.

You would stay by your rotting corpse, gently brushing your hair out of your face or just starting at it in general. Your corpse was becoming stiff and extremely cold, at times you tried to warm it by holding it.

A soft sigh left your mouth as you give up on trying to warmth the body display infront of you.

"How much longer do I have to wait...?"

You've been thinking alot, wondering why your body is still chained to Earth and you realised your physical body never got the rest it deserves.

The body laying on your coffin underground was a decoy made by your father, as twisted as it sound he only did it in hope of putting your soul back into the body.

Alfred and Bruce knew that, they knew that your current physical body was hidden inside the batcave. Alfred was hesitant at first but Bruce assure him that what he was doing might be morally wrong but it was the best option they have, if they want a new start.

Even after death nothing was better, your life only change slightly and it was for the worst. No one could see or interact with you, but you can uncover all the secrets which was alot more depressing than you expected.

You've found out how your mother died recently after a drug overdose... She was found stiff and unresponsive in her motel and a foam seeping out her mouth, surprisingly everything was clean, no missing things or any sing of struggle.

It was ruled as a sucide, the media claimed it as 'Woman killed herself after her daughter died of her neglection' it was Ironic... You couldn't help but stump your feet a little at that information, first your mother would never neglect you... and Second she was the best mother you could wish for.

You couldn't bear the silence inside the room so you decided to go outside to check on a particular individual.

Dick Grayson.

He was sitting infront of your grave cleaning it with his bare hand, replacing the previous flowers with Rose's. Since your relationship with him was on the edge when you died he doesn't even know your particular taste in flowers , as a result he would pick out new flowers everyday and replace them each day.

Your ghostly figure sit next to his watching him clean your grave once again, atleast he was being productive. Some especially Tim was coping in an unhealthy way.

Locked himself and barely ate anything, everything reminded him of you... His favourite coffee was now leaving an extremely bitter taste on his tongue, it was only because he realised how involved you were in his life and how without you his daily routine weren't the same.

Tim have also started to spiral into madness, doing research on you instead of his usual detective work. Who have hurt you and who have been nasty to you, he was willing to do anything but blame himself for your death or the family.

He's been looking back at every video footage of you and him and storing it into new files each file were specifically made for each video.

"Im sorry little wing... I couldn't find anything new today, so you'll have to take this for today"

Grayson gently murmured as he pluck out the old Lily's- old by one day - Wiping the vase carefully, holding as if it were the most fragile vase in the word.

"Life been abit hard... I know I shouldn't burden you with my problem especially when... You never had them. But, Kory and I took a break..."

His voice was more high-pitched than normal... Yet he continues to look after your grave, dealing it with great tenderness.

His mind flashing back to everything he had done wrong, prioritising joker over you... He remembered how he left you inside a burning building and instead saved the joker, as a result you got a nasty burn mark on your left hand.

Although he doesn't know who to blame you or the joker. Cause you're a hero, he thought you could save yourself... It doesn't matter that you were like what 7? Thought he did half heartily apologise after being lectured by Bruce.

"If you were back... Everything would be fine, im not blaming you of course... Just, I don't know anything good from bad especially after you left us"

"I do not know what possess you to be so reckless... I can't imagine what you must have felt but it's selfish"

"If you were here, Kory and I would take you before any of those... people could. It'll be just the three of us, I'll be the one you will depend on... You won't need to worry anymore, We'll never let you get hurt. Never again"

Dick continues to pour his heart out and slowly he began to smile, his mood began to shift from gloomy to thrilled, suggesting places and activities as if you were still alive.

If anybody was to come across this interaction it's either they'll lable him as mentally challenged or is high on sadness that they ended up talking to a grave.

You stood up getting ready to walk away, it's abit hard to pity them. They never acknowledged you when you were breathing and it's messed up that they only care after realising their mistakes.

"...Huh?"

A mysterious man was standing infront of you, you wouldn't be startled if he wasn't staring right into your eyes. A white lantern...?

You know him only because of the file you would read when you were bored out of your mind. Bruce must have called him, afterall he was a very new and surprising face to see in Gotham.

"...Nice to meet you?"

After your short introduction and your very long introduction on why he must not interfere at all, because as much as it suck being a ghost being alive with your current family would be hell.

Thought he does not seem to value your opinion at all, directly telling Bruce about your presence.

"You can speak... she can hear you"

Deadman informed Bruce.

"I apologise for my negligence and your mother unexpected death. She was a great woman just like you... I don't expect you to forgive so easily but, I want to see you smile again"

You didn't utter a word. You wanted to comfort him yet it was hard pitting the same man who avoid your presence when you were alive.

"Can't you bring her back...?"

"No, she's too far gone"

Your corpse look fine from outside but your inside were rotting and molding. Bruce tried his best yo preserve your body but what's gone is gone. All you want is for your body to rest.

"I refuse to believe. There must be a way for her to be back."

"I have no saying in logic. But there are artifact's that allows one to see ghost"

"I will do anything to see that smile again... I want to apologise to her face to face as well"

Your Father was one of the rare people in the family taking the responsibility in your death, this wasn't the first time he utter an apology. He would slept in your bed missing you, crying or talking in his sleep apologising it seem as the guilt never stopped chasing him.

Though he was the same man who left you unattended during gala surrounded by random man while you were a child. The same one who lecture your brother for leaving you in a fire only because he would have to explain why the burnt mark was there and not because it was wrong.

It was only natural for guilt to cling onto him the longest, he already lost Jason. But you were different, Jason died while having a somewhat happy memories. You died with nothing but bitterness and salty tears.

As much as you would love to fulfill your father's dream you couldn't help but be uncomfortable.

You've overhead Bruce and Jason conversation once and you regretted it. Jason being the most experienced in dying suggested the worst thing possible.

A new bedroom, made just for your liking.

A dingy room with chains to restrain you. All the window must have bars, even if you somehow managed to broke the iron chain you wouldn't be able to jump out and possibly risk breaking a bone.

"It's a necessity, I went mad when I came back, what gives you the idea that she won't be the same and in our case you'll be her first victim"

Jason harshly spit out. You couldn't help but disagree you wouldn't dare to hurt your family, even if they have hurt you in unexplainable ways. Your heart still ache for them in vain.

"Even if she dare to break out I have another method, far more wise and useful but I rather we use it as a last resort"

The last resort was, smashing your ankle. It was simple and Jason already have experience to make sure you won't be in more pain than necessary.

To put anything between your foot and for that object to be used as a support, tying the foot and arm's to restrain you. With a hammer all they have to do was to smash the bone into pieces, you wouldn't be able to walk at all but it was also necessary to treat the bone to avoid disability.

If the bone was to be left to heal by itself it would reconstruct themselves wrong leaving you to excruciating pain, not being able to depend on your foot and you might need to cut your foot off.

Another reason why you dread to be brought back, no amount of convincing or pleading would make them understand... They'll break you and rebuild you as if that was nothing.

They can't treat you like a daughter or a sister even tho they seem so willing... To you they only love you because of the guilt and not because they understand.

Damian was a reason itself, didn't even let a single tear drop during your funeral and the visit at the hospital. He did cry in secret which was pleasant to watch.

He's either beating people into pulp for the smallest crime or is actively trying to bring you back in another form. He have asked Raven to assist him but even the girl found it inhuman, suggesting for him to just mourn you and let your soul be in peace.

It was now noon the whole family jam inside the living room discussing.

"She can't be brought back? Jason died, the Lazarus pit can and must brought her back"

Damian argued, as much as he doesn't wanted to be emotional your absence was taking a toll on him.

You were the first to treat him like a human and he took that for granted. When he realised others weren't as understanding as you were he would get bothered... As much as he hate you that was just the crust of his heart, to him the core matter more... It was totally not an excuse for his horrible behaviour.

"You haven't tried that, father we must try before coming into conclusion!"

"I have tried Damian, nothing worked. Her body was rotting from the inside I was not aware"

Finally Barbara spoke up.

"You have tried? I have been visiting her grave everyday when did you di-"

"It was a decoy"

Jason decided to told the truth. The room felt into a long silence and suddenly shouting and names. They weren't happy that Bruce didn't tell them about the decoy, to them that was a breach of trust Bruce desperately tried to build after your death.

"Silence! There is another way we can see her, Deadman suggested using special artifact's that allows people to see ghost... We will us that as a temporary comfort and we'll find a way to bring her back... with us "

Everybody agreed, unknowns to them you were contemplating life whether you should leave your family and risk the chance of being brought back to life against your will or... Leave.

TAGS: @lovebug-apple, @leeiasure, @invinciblewaffles, @dangeroustravelermultiverse, @shycreatorreview, @bellethesleepypotato , @cluelessteam , @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @doggyteam2028 @icryat2

SPECIAL TAG: @megasweetbones.( TYSM for the great idea 🫶)