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kingdom-of-peace · 3 months ago

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Spotlight. | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), language, mentions of homophobia, mentions of sex, Me not being familiar with the inner workings of network television.

Word Count: 5.6k+

A/N: Hey everyone! Long-time reader, first-time poster here. So I guess you could see this as a little thank-you for getting me through some tough times with your amazing stories. This chapter is a bit of a practice run - if you guys like it, I’ll probably be continuing this as a mini-series. The idea has been lingering in my mind for a while. FYI English isn’t my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes!

The clock ticked toward the seven-hour mark, numbers climbing up steadily as the seconds bled into each other. The studio hummed, a cacophony of voices layered on top of one another. Producers, directors, and assistants hustling between monitors, whispering instructions and updating cues. But through it all, Natasha Romanoff the pride of the network moved like a conductor of chaos. Every step, measured. Every glance, deliberate.

She made her way to the sleek glass desk, the papers for her notes already laid out in perfect alignment— black letters against white background. The desk, like everything else around her, was immaculate, designed to make the person behind it the centre of attention. As she sat, Betty, a new member of the makeup crew, approached with a kit. The girl was eager, almost too eager, hands slightly shaking as she opened her compact mirror. Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she reached for the earpiece.

“Don’t put too much highlighter on my face,” Natasha said, her voice clipped, without a hint of softness. “Last week, your colleague made me look like a disco ball.” Betty froze eyes wide. Natasha could feel her anxiety before the words even left her mouth. “I-I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff. I’ll try my best...”. “Don’t try your best. Do as I say,” Natasha interjected sharply, her tone biting. “Y-Yes, Ms. Romanoff,” Betty stammered. “two minutes,” someone called out from the back of the studio.

As Betty moved to step back, she quickly wished Natasha good luck. Natasha didn’t respond, merely rolling her eyes before glancing toward the producers’ booth. She could already feel the inevitable irritation building. The earpiece clicked into place, and the familiar voice of Maria Hill, her producer, filled her ear. “Finally decided to grace us with your attention, huh?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked upward to the glass wall behind which the production room was located, her lips curling into a smirk. “Maybe you shouldn’t let Sharon take a holiday whenever she wants. I know you two had a thing back at university, but those doe-eyed makeup artists turn my pretty face into a caricature. Sharon is the only one, who knows what to do with a pretty face like mine.”

Maria’s laugh crackled through the earpiece, dry and sharp." They don’t stay doe-eyed for long. Give it two weeks, and Betty will be completely head over heels in love with you, especially once you start showing off your... bedroom charm." Natasha’s smirk only deepened. “What can I say? I know what a woman wants.”

“You mean intentionally creating potential workplace conflicts the moment they realize their feelings are not reciprocated. You know Agatha from HR told me, your file is by far the heaviest on her desk.” Maria replied with a slight edge to her voice. Natasha knew Maria was not a big fan of her sexual escapades at the network but once in a while the stress of the job caught up even to her. She opened her mouth to respond, but Maria’s voice came through again, cutting the conversation short: “All channels open. 15 seconds.” Signalling that the conversation was over and no longer private. Time to focus.

The tension in Natasha’s body shifted. Taking a moment to collect herself, every inch of her posture shifting from sharp banter to the cool, controlled persona she had perfected over the years. The camera would be on her in seconds, and there was no room for anything other than perfection. Repositioning herself in her chair—back straight, shoulders squared, the very picture of professionalism. As the last few seconds ticked away, Natasha’s eyes snapped to the teleprompter, locking into the script. It was all business now. Her world contracted into that single, glowing line of text. Her fingers twitched slightly, but otherwise, she remained still.

“We are live in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1,” Maria counted down, the words cutting through her thoughts.

The red recording light snapped on, and everything else—the noise, the chatter, the chaos—ceased to exist. The iconic newsroom music blaring through the speakers. The sound that had become synonymous with what Natasha had achieved. A few quiet clicks echoed in the room as cameras shifted into position. Natasha didn’t blink. Her face settled into its trademark calm, eyes piercing the lens like twin weapons. Showtime.

“Good evening. I’m Natasha Romanoff, and this is The Hour.”

Her voice, cool and steady, carried the weight of authority. As the camera zoomed in, her gaze never wavered, her presence filling every corner of the screen. “Tonight: disinformation, climate crisis, and the story the numbers won’t tell you.”

The graphics behind her came alive in choreographed rhythm—images of protests, wildfires and talking points sliced into headlines. She didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to.

The redhead had already memorized the arc of the story: crisis, confusion, control. Natasha told it backwards, starting from what the public feared and unravelling the mess with her usual signature—calm, vaguely unforgiving clarity. In her earpiece, someone was murmuring time cues. She ignored them. She always did.

“In five minutes, you’ll hear from a senior intelligence analyst. But first—what we aren’t talking about.” That was the trick. Tell them what they didn’t know they wanted to hear. Make it feel like truth. Deliver it with a stillness so complete, it silenced doubt before it could form.

----

The lights above Natasha dimmed for a second—an automatic adjustment to keep the focus on her. From the control room, Maria watched her like a hawk, fingers dancing over her tablet, the constant pulse of the broadcast in her veins.

"She’s on fire tonight," Maria murmured to Pepper the network president’s personal assistant, standing beside her, flipping through notes. Pepper didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Natasha always delivered, always commanded the room. “She always is.” Pepper’s voice was dry, but there was a touch of admiration beneath it. She could feel the heat even through the glass. She paused, the corner of her mouth curling up slightly. “How much do you bet that his career is over after the interview?”

Maria shrugged, her sharp eyes never leaving Natasha, who was now in the midst of her segment. The current topic a prominent politician—someone who had recently come under fire for money fraudulence now being interviewed by her.

“Senator Rumlow, you’ve been under fire recently for a report that surfaced showing you used large portions of your campaign donations for luxury vacations. These funds, which were meant to support your ‘community welfare initiatives,’ were instead spent on lavish trips to the French Riviera and resorts in the Maldives. How do you justify that?”

The senator’s mouth twitched. A quick glance to the side, a nervous swipe of his hand across his brow. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Miss Romanoff, I... there’s been a misunderstanding. These funds were used to secure partnerships and build networks with international leaders. I was meeting with potential investors who could bring millions in funding to my community.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked on his, a calculated silence hanging between them.

“So,” she leaned forward, voice cutting through the air like a blade, “you used funds intended to alleviate poverty and support struggling families for personal vacations to network? A trip to the Maldives to discuss ‘potential investors’—is that the kind of network we’re talking about?”

The senator's face flushed, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words. Natasha’s expression never shifted, while the senator on the other end of the interview appeared slightly uncomfortable. She leaned in just enough to suggest she was giving him a chance to speak, but also to control the pace of the conversation. He was about to make a mistake. Maria could feel it back in the production room.

"Yeah, she’s definitely on fire tonight." Maria allowed herself a slight smile, eyes sharp. “The way she’s making him squirm, you’d think they were old enemies.”

Pepper glanced over at the monitor. Natasha was listening intently, her gaze never leaving the senator, dissecting every word he said, her expression calculated but not unkind. She didn’t need to look at the teleprompter anymore. This was where Natasha was dangerous—the moment she stopped relying on the script and instead started using her own control over the conversation.

“I never—look, these trips were necessary for the larger cause. My team and I were—”

“Your team?” Natasha interrupted, her tone cold, unforgiving. She didn’t give him a second to recover. “You’re telling me that your ‘team’ thought it was acceptable to spend taxpayer and donor money on personal luxuries under the guise of ‘building international relationships’? And those relationships just happened to involve resorts, yachts, and five-star hotels?”

The senator’s face tightened, but Natasha’s sharp, relentless gaze showed no mercy. Her posture was perfect, the epitome of control—one hand lightly resting on the table, the other folded under her chin as she leaned forward, waiting for him to crack.

“Senator,” Natasha continued, her voice low but cutting, “you’ve used the public’s trust to fund personal indulgences. You’ve done nothing to benefit the very communities that donated their hard-earned money in good faith. You’ve used their trust as a shield for your personal gain.”

The senator shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the sweat on his brow was the only sign that he was losing his composure.

“I... I apologize for the perception this has created, but I am still working tirelessly for the people. I don’t expect you to understand the pressure we face in this position.”

Natasha’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that signalled the end of a conversation, not the beginning.

“Understand? You’ve already made it clear, Senator. You’ve made your priorities clear. You’ve misused the public’s trust, and no amount of ‘apology’ will make up for that.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “You’ll have a lot to explain in front of those who donated their last dollars to your supposed cause. I don’t think a few ‘networking’ excuses will make that any easier.”

The camera panned out slightly, framing the senator on the screen, defeated, under the weight of her words. Natasha sat back in her chair, her expression coldly satisfied, but there was no triumph in her gaze. Just the quiet assurance that she had exposed the truth—and in this game, truth was always her weapon.

Maria looked at Pepper. “This is going to be everywhere by tomorrow morning.” Pepper, watching the screen, nodded but said nothing. She had worked with Natasha long enough to know the pattern. She didn’t miss a single beat, didn’t flinch even when the questions cut close to the bone. She was ruthless—but always just controlled enough to keep the narrative hers.

Maria continued, her tone dropping a bit, a hint of something else in her voice. “Have you seen the video of this upcoming professor from Shield University? What do you think?”. Pepper’s fingers hovered above her phone, pausing as she considered the question. “She’s definitely been keeping an eye on Natasha,” Maria added with a knowing smile. “It’s only a matter of time before Natasha finds out—and it’s probably not going to be pretty. For that woman, or for us... I’m not sure.”

Pepper finally smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Yeah, well, she’s got competition now. She doesn’t seem like the type to just back down. Maria nodded. “Let’s just hope Natasha doesn't end up too intrigued. If she starts getting personal, that’s when it gets... interesting.”

---

Natasha’s expression remained unchanged as she moved on with the interview. The camera panning back to her, flawlessly.

“Thank you for your time, Senator Rumlow,” she said, her voice a calm cadence that barely masked the satisfaction of knowing she’d just made the politician’s situation far worse. Every channel and newspaper would be jumping on this story tomorrow, no doubt splashing it across their front pages.

“Also thank you to our generous audience tonight. It’s always a pleasure to bring you the news about what’s happening in the world. And remember, stay informed, stay sharp, and never let anyone sell you a story that's less than the truth.” she said, a hint of finality in her tone. “Now, I’ll pass it over to Steve Rogers, our weather anchor, who has a much sunnier forecast for you.”

The camera switched to Steve, who was already grinning behind him a large screen displaying shifting regions and temperatures. “That’s right, Natasha. The last few days of sunshine are upon us before we officially roll into the fall season. So, grab your families, go outside and enjoy...”

As soon as the words left Steve’s mouth, Natasha pulled her earpiece out, the familiar click of the disconnect echoing in her ears. The moment she was clear from the screen, she shifted in her seat, the professional mask slipping away, just slightly—only enough for her to exhale, her expression finally softening, if only for a moment. She rose in a single, smooth motion. The producers didn’t approach immediately; they never did unless they had to.

As Natasha turned to leave the desk, a younger intern stepped forward, tablet in hand, speaking quickly, his words tumbling over each other.

“Sorry, Ms. Romanoff, I—I just wanted to say you were amazing up there.” Peter, who had joined the team last year to gain experience after his graduation, was still a bit green, though for some reason, Tony Stark—who owned the network—had taken a particular liking to him. Which is why his golden retriever-like personality felt like a constant presence she couldn’t escape.

Natasha didn’t break stride, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. A few crew members glanced at each other, nervous, hoping Peter wouldn’t get an earful for approaching her without a significant reason. But to their surprise, Natasha offered him a brief, unexpected smile. “Thanks,” she said, her voice calm and unbothered. "Keep up the good work." Though she’d never say it out loud, she’d grown surprisingly fond of him and the unshakable optimism he brought with him. Maybe it was because he reminded her of a time when life had been simpler, before everything became high stakes and expectations or perhaps it was the adrenaline rush from having just put the senator in his place.

With that, she made her way down the hallway toward her dressing room, the echo of her heels fading with each step, leaving Peter standing frozen in place—blinking, stunned. The Natasha Romanoffhad smiled at him. A real, genuine smile. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Then, unable to contain himself, he did a quiet fist pump and half-skipped down the corridor, suddenly determined to be the best intern the station had ever seen.

-----

When Natasha stepped into her dressing room, Betty and Pepper were already there. Pepper, as always, was glued to her phone, typing away with that near-obsessive focus Natasha had come to expect from her. She often wondered if Pepper had put her phone down for more than five minutes in the last few years. Meanwhile, Betty was busy clearing the table, preparing to remove Natasha’s makeup.

“You did a good job out there,” Pepper said, glancing up from her phone just long enough to catch Natasha’s eye before diving back into the glowing screen. “Thanks,” Natasha replied, settling into the makeup chair. “I mean, it’s hardly difficult when the senator does most of the work embarrassing himself.”

Natasha smirked, enjoying the victory of another successful segment. Betty began to work on removing the makeup, her hands steady despite the usual hustle of the room. “Still, it takes talent to make people like him squirm like you did,” Pepper remarked, her eyes still glued to the phone.

“I don’t know if it’s talent or just good instincts,” Natasha replied with another sly grin. “Either way, I’m hoping he’s out of office by the end of the week.”. “Well, Maria bet he won’t last past tomorrow night, thanks to what you pulled off,” Pepper said, her tone light but amused. And just as if on cue, Maria walked in, her presence immediately filling the room. “Great show as always, Natasha,” she said, striding over to the couch and sitting down behind Natasha.

Natasha met her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. “I couldn’t do it without my tirelessly working producer.”. “Damn right you couldn’t,” Maria replied, a satisfied smirk on her lips as she picked up a magazine from the table and started flipping through it. The conversation flowed easily between the three, mostly floating around ideas about upcoming segments and possible interviewees, with Betty shyly asking Natasha to tilt her head for better access occasionally as she worked. About half an hour later, Betty finished packing up her things and, with a quick “Good bye,” exited the room, clearly relieved to have survived in the lion’s den.

“I swear, they’re more scared of you than Tony,” Pepper observed, watching Betty leave with a raised eyebrow. “It’s not my problem if they’re that easy to intimidate,” Natasha replied coolly, giving a slight shrug. “Debatable,” Maria countered, her voice teasing. “You could at least go a little easier on them.” Natasha smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”.

There was a brief pause as Natasha rummaged through her bag, searching for her phone. When she looked up, she caught the silent exchange between Maria and Pepper through the mirror, their eyes communicating something Natasha couldn’t quite place. Turning in her chair, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last glance, and Natasha’s patience wore thin. “You’re not going to keep it from me, are you?” she asked, her voice a low murmur. Her eyes didn’t waver from the two women, the challenge clear in her tone. She had worked with them for years and even shared pieces of her college days with them, so she knew, whatever they were about to reveal, she probably wasn’t going to like it.

Reluctantly, Maria handed Natasha the tablet, the screen already pulled up to a paused video. Natasha’s gaze immediately fell on the title: The Sociopolitical Influence of Media in Modern Society. She glanced up at Maria, eyebrow raised. “A lecture? You really think this is important?”. Pepper, not meeting Natasha’s eyes, sighed. “It’s... well, it includes you. Specifically.” Natasha’s lips parted slightly. “About me?” she repeated, voice hardening. “What are you talking about?”. Maria took a breath before responding, her voice cautious. “It’s a lecture. From a professor at Shield university. She’s young, so she wasn’t around when we were there. But she... uses you as an example in her talk.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed, the weight of the words sinking in. “She what?”. Pepper winced. “She talks about how news anchors—people with a platform like yours, aren’t just reporting the news but shaping it. And, uh... she singles you out by name.”. “Great,” Natasha said, her voice sharp. “What exactly does she say about me?”. Reluctantly, Maria tapped the screen and started the video. The camera panned to you, standing at a podium, adjusting your notes before speaking directly to the audience in the lecture hall.

“The media’s role isn’t just to inform—it constructs reality,”you began, your voice clear and confident. “Take someone like Natasha Romanoff, a news anchor with the most-watched primetime segment in the country. She doesn’t just present the facts—she defines how those facts are received. With a single word, a glance, a choice of guest or segment, she can shift the public narrative for millions.” Natasha’s jaw tightened as she listened, her fingers curling around the armrest of her chair. She’d always known she had influence but hearing it described this way, hearing herself used as an example of media manipulation, made her blood boil.

“Figures like Romanoff,” you continued, “can shape heroes or villains with a single broadcast. Their influence is vast and rarely questioned. The issue isn’t just about power, but about how and whether it’s wielded responsibly.” Natasha set the tablet down with a sharp click, her expression hardening. “So, I’m the villain in her story?”. Maria nodded slightly. “It’s more complex than that. You’re the example she’s using to critique a larger issue.”. “She might as well have painted a target on my back,” Natasha muttered, her tone thick with frustration. Pepper shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not personal, Natasha. But the way she frames it… it feels personal.”

“I don’t manipulate people,” Natasha snapped, her posture rigid. “I don’t twist the truth. I present it—clean, honest, verified. Just because I know how to deliver it doesn’t mean I’m playing puppet master.” She turned toward Maria, frustration boiling over. “Is this seriously the kind of crap I have to put up with now? Academics critiquing my work from their ivory towers?”. Maria raised her hands, trying to calm the storm. “It’s not about you. She’s critiquing the media as a whole. But yeah… you’re the example that serves her point.”

Natasha paced the room, her steps rapid and sharp. Why her? Why not the other anchors who sensationalized or fabricated? Sure, she was the highest-rated, most successful. She’d climbed the ranks quickly, but she never used her position to control the narrative, did she? She prided herself on her professionalism. She worked hard to ensure her biases didn’t creep into her delivery. She turned back to Maria and Pepper, eyes flashing with frustration. “It’s just a professor talking. The students in her class, maybe a few online nerds, will care for a few days, but that’s it.”. Maria and Pepper exchanged another glance. Maria spoke first, her tone firm. “It’s already spreading, Natasha.”. Pepper nodded, setting her phone down. “The video’s gaining traction—blogs, social media, even some paywalled articles. Small waves now, but they’re starting to grow.”

Natasha froze, her gaze shifting between Maria and Pepper. “Viral? It’s just a lecture. Seriously?”. “Not anymore,” Maria said, her arms crossed, her stance serious. “This thing spreads fast. And with the narrative it’s building, it’s only going to pick up steam. And don’t forget people are already out there who’ve held a grudge against you for years because of your success, your gender, your sexuality.”

Pepper leaned forward, her voice quiet but urgent. “You need to prepare. If this keeps going, it’s not just a lecture, it’s a movement. And once the perception shifts, you can’t ignore it.” Natasha’s gaze shifted back to the screen, her arms folding across her chest. The weight of what they were saying hit her. She’d worked hard for her credibility, for the trust of her audience. But if this narrative took root… it could undo everything. It wasn’t just about your opinion anymore, it could become public discourse, with herself at the heart of it.

“I don’t “control” the narrative,” she said firmly, almost like a mantra. “I report it.” Maria’s gaze softened, but she didn’t back down. “We know that. But the issue is how people perceive it. And right now, this perception is being built, whether it’s fair or not.”. Pepper showed her phone to Natasha, scrolling through the notifications. “See this? It’s trending right now. People are questioning your integrity, your influence. It’s not just going away.” Natasha stared at the screen, her heart sinking as the headlines flashed before her eyes of future articles that would cast her as the embodiment of everything wrong with the media landscape.

“So, what should I do?” she asked, her voice quieter now. Maria leaned forward slightly, offering a calm but firm suggestion. “We stay low for now. The wider public hasn’t really caught on yet. You’ve built your career on credibility—don’t let this shake that. But if this picks up more steam…”

“We’ll be ready.” Pepper added, her voice calm but determined. Natasha exhaled, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I don’t want to give this more attention than it deserves. But if she continues to use my name, in her little act it won’t be pretty.” Pepper opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha cut her off. “No. She should know better. Publicly crucifying someone without context? That’s wrong, and she should know that.”

The room fell silent. Natasha stared at the tablet screen, your words echoing in her head, even as she wrestled with the weight of her own thoughts. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last look, both knowing Natasha well enough to understand she would not let go of the topic easily. If there was one thing Natasha excelled at, it was holding onto grudges. She grabbed her bag, offering both women a curt “good night” before making her way out of the room. As she stepped into the cool night air, a black SUV already waiting, ready to take her back to her apartment.

---

After a silent car ride, with a brooding Natasha sitting in the back seat, her gaze fixed out the window, too consumed by what had been said to engage. The driver, initially trying to make polite conversation, quickly fell silent after receiving a few clipped, one-word replies, enough to register that her mood was not to be tested. When they finally reached her apartment building, he offered a quiet nod as she stepped out.

She had moved into the place after the second year of her show’s success, when for the first time, she no longer had to think twice about money. The apartment was more than a living space; it was a quiet reminder of everything she had built, and everything she had once thought would bring her peace.

When Natasha finally stepped into her loft apartment, the door clicked shut behind her with a familiar, hollow finality. The view that greeted her was one she never quite grew tired of—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the river and the city skyline, skyscrapers lit like circuit boards against the night. Somewhere in that sprawl was the studio she had just walked out of, its glass tower faintly visible in the distance.

Before she could set down her keys, a soft, expectant meow echoed through the entrance hall. Liho, her long-time feline companion, padded gracefully into view and rubbed himself against her calves, tail high with dignified affection. “Hey, soldier,” Natasha murmured, crouching to run her fingers through his fur. His purr vibrated warmly beneath her hand.

She hadn’t planned to keep him. Years ago, when she was still a glorified intern running coffee for people whose names she barely remembered, she’d found him one night half-frozen in a cardboard box outside the train station near her old apartment—or rather, a shoebox-sized room. A vet diagnosed hypothermia, said he’d recover with proper care, and gently implied there was nowhere else for the tiny creature to go. Natasha, who had never seen herself as someone who owned a pet—who barely trusted herself to care for plants—had taken him home, wrapped in a soft blanket. Told herself she’d find him a nice family.

She never did. He’d stayed. Through the grind, the promotions, the late nights, and the loneliness. Liho remained the one quiet, dependable thing in her life. She named him after a figure from old Russian folklore—Likho, the spirit of misfortune and chaos. A creature you were warned not to name or challenge, but whose presence was sometimes inescapable. It was meant as a joke at first—dark humor, a habit she never quite grew out of. But over time, the name stuck and softened. Likho became Liho—less an omen and more a constant.

After giving him a generous serving of premium cat food, she microwaved some frozen supermarket pasta-dish and poured herself a glass of red wine. Dinner was quiet, save for the low hum of the television. A dusty old Western was playing, something about cowboys and crooked sheriffs. Natasha wasn’t really watching. She sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Liho curled beside her like a sentient heating pad.

Her thoughts kept drifting. Back to the studio. Back to the lecture Maria had shown her.

Back to you.

She hadn’t said it out loud, but the words had stung more than she expected. The calm measured critique of how anchors like her “curated truth,” how polished delivery could sometimes mask institutional bias. The examples had been academic, but Natasha had felt it—she had been the example.

And yet… you were compelling. Articulate. Passionate in a way that wasn’t performative. You didn’t grandstand; you just believed in what you were saying.

She pushed the thoughts aside, finished her meal, rinsed her wine glass, and went through the motions of her nightly routine. Brushed teeth. Washed off the last traces of studio makeup Betty hadn’t already removed. Changed into a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized Shield University shirt she’d never admit was from Bucky her old dorm roommate. Then, finally, she slipped into bed, Liho jumping up to settle at her feet.

It should have ended there. Lights off. Day over.

But Natasha lay there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the echo of your lecture still playing in her mind. She sighed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, and opened the video again—not to rewatch it this time, but to scroll through the comments. Most were thoughtful. A few were aggressively supportive of her, others staunchly in your corner. Some were messy and contrarian for the sake of it.

Still, the consensus was unsettling: people were listening to you. Her curiosity piqued, she tapped your name into the search bar. Dozens of results popped up.

“Youngest Professor at SHIELD University Breaks Down Media Ethics in Viral Lecture.”

“SHIELD University Appoints Rising Academic to Faculty—Is the Professor the Future of Public Communication?”

“Bridging Theory and Practice: How the Professor Makes Media Research Accessible.”

She clicked on your university profile. A picture of you smiling at the camera greeted her. Natasha couldn’t deny you were attractive, it was a shame you seemed to despise everything she embodied. Below the picture was a brief introductory text.

We are proud to introduce Professor Y/N, who began their academic career here at SHIELD University. After completing their master’s abroad, they returned to complete their PhD and were recently appointed as the youngest faculty member in our Department of Media and Communication. Their research focuses on media literacy, narrative framing, and the role of journalism in democratic decline.

Natasha scrolled further.

Recent Publications:

• ��The Myth of Neutrality: Power and Performance in Anchor-Centric News”

• “Narrative Fracture: The Battle for Public Trust in Digital Broadcasting”

• “Face of the News: Gender, Perception, and Charisma in Prime-Time Journalism”

Beneath that your contact email and Office hours.

Natasha sat back against the pillows, resting her phone on the nightstand, the soft glow of the screen now gone. It appeared that very little private information was available about you online to the public. She stared at the ceiling, the weight of your words from the lecture still lingering in her mind.

"Why the hell am I even looking at that?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head slightly as if to dismiss the whole thing. Liho, curled up at the foot of the bed, paused mid-purr, his amber eyes narrowing as he stared at Natasha. His ears twitched, confused by her sudden outburst, but he didn’t move. Natasha let out a frustrated sigh, rolling onto her side, her fingers lightly brushing her hair away from her face. "This is ridiculous," she murmured, though the words felt hollow even to her. “She’s nothing more than an overachiever, leveraging recognizable names to draw attention to her small research hobby.’’ Liho blinked, then slowly stretched before curling up into a ball again, letting out a soft, contented sigh as he drifted off to sleep beside her, unimpressed with Natasha’s mood swing.

She didn’t like being called out. Didn’t appreciate being used as a case study for all that was wrong with modern journalism. It shouldn’t have gotten under her skin the way it did. And yet…

It wasn’t just criticism. It was smart. It was sharp.

That’s what bothered Natasha. She turned onto her side, her alarm clock faintly glowing in the dark room. She told herself she didn’t care. That it was just another critic, jealous of Natashas success. Just another overconfident academic with a limited view of how things worked in the real world. She had seen it time and again—people criticizing her without reason, trying to dismantle everything she had built from the ground up. You don’t even know me, she thought bitterly. To you, she was manufactured. Superficial. A product, not a person. Power-hungry. Egocentric. It didn’t matter how many stories she had broken, how many sleepless nights she’d spent carving out her place in a world that never welcomed her. You had already made up your mind and in the media world, that was dangerous. A single narrative, repeated with enough conviction, could become truth. The public loved a fall from grace. To you, she was nothing more than a symbol. But to protect herself, Natasha clung to the thought that you were just another fleeting presence in the endless crowd of critics—one more voice hoping to see her fall. No one had ever succeeded in pushing Natasha out and you wouldn’t be the first. But as sleep tugged at her, slow and unrelenting after an eventful workday, the cadence of your voice still echoed in her subconsciousness. And despite herself, she was already wondering what you’d say next.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #marvel #the avengers #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #black widow #natalia romanova

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theonottsbxtch · 4 months ago

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HOPELESS | PO5

an: first time writing pato and i know i've written him less cocky and flirty than i wold have personally expected him being depicted. but i think for this request it worked in my favour.

wc: 3.3k

Pato had never been particularly good with words, but that didn’t matter much in motorsport. Out on the track, skill spoke louder than conversation, and for the most part, he was fine with that.

But with her, it was different.

She was the first-ever Indy champion, a driver who had carved her name into history with raw talent and relentless determination. Everyone knew her, everyone respected her—himself included. The other drivers had stories about her, moments shared in garages and on podiums, inside jokes and easy camaraderie. He had none of that.

For some reason, he simply didn’t exist in her world.

It wasn’t that she disliked him. There were no grudges, no bad blood. She treated him with the same polite professionalism she extended to reporters or engineers she barely knew. And yet, when he spoke, her responses were clipped, transactional. If she laughed at a joke in the paddock, it was never one of his. If she scanned a room, her gaze slid past him like he was a shadow against the wall.

It shouldn't have bothered him. It did.

Because Pato had been nursing a hopeless, ridiculous crush on her for as long as he could remember.

It wasn’t immediate, this thing he had for her. It crept up on him, slow and insidious, like the way tyre wear set in over a long stint—barely noticeable at first, until suddenly, it was all he could think about.

Maybe it started the first time he saw her race, years ago, before he even had a seat in IndyCar. He remembered watching from the pit wall, the way she danced through traffic, fearless and calculated, wringing every ounce of speed from a car that should’ve been struggling. He told himself back then that it was admiration, the kind any driver would have for another at the top of their game. But admiration didn’t tie knots in his stomach when she brushed past him in the paddock, nor did it make him hyper-aware of every offhand comment she made.

No, this was something worse.

And she had no idea.

Pato had tried to make an impression—nothing over the top, just little things. A comment here, a question there, something to make him more than just another driver in the field. It never landed. She’d acknowledge him, sure, but only in the way she acknowledged anyone she wasn’t particularly close with. There was no spark of recognition, no shift in her tone when she spoke to him.

Everyone else had that with her. Everyone but him.

And the worst part? He had no idea why.

It wasn’t arrogance; he knew his place in the pecking order. He wasn’t naïve enough to think he deserved her attention just because he wanted it. But it wasn’t as if they’d ever clashed, either. He’d never taken her out of a race, never bad-mouthed her, never done anything that might explain why she skimmed over him like he was background noise.

He’d never mattered to her.

And yet, she was all that mattered to him.

He knew he needed to get rid of his hopeless crush on her.

It was stupid. Pointless. Self-inflicted torture.

He told himself that constantly, especially when she breezed past him in the paddock without a second glance, or when she laughed—really laughed—at something another driver said, like they were in on some joke he would never be part of.

He needed to move on.

Until they were paired for pre-season media.

For a whole week.

Pato stared at the email in his inbox, half-convinced it was a mistake. Media obligations were a necessary evil in racing, but they were usually spread out, different drivers rotating in and out for interviews, photoshoots, sponsor promos. This, however, was something else.

A full week of interviews, press events, and behind-the-scenes content. Together.

The logic made sense. She was the reigning champion, the face of the sport. He was coming off a strong season, a title contender in his own right. Pairing them up created a compelling narrative—two of the top drivers, side by side, setting the tone for the year ahead.

For everyone else, it was great marketing.

For Pato, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

Because how was he supposed to pretend she didn’t affect him when he’d be stuck with her for seven straight days? When he’d have to sit next to her, answer questions about their "rivalry" (which didn’t exist, considering she barely registered his presence), and—God help him—probably pose for staged social media content where they’d be forced to look like they were actually friends?

He could already see it: a carefully curated clip of them laughing at some scripted joke, the kind of moment fans would eat up. She’d be effortless, charming as ever. And him? He’d be struggling to act like he wasn’t hanging onto every word she said.

It was going to be the longest week of his life.

The first day of pre-season media started early. Too early for Pato to be dealing with this.

He arrived at the studio ahead of schedule, hoping that being early would give him time to settle in. It didn’t. The place was already a whirlwind of activity—PR reps barking orders, camera crews setting up lights, stylists buzzing around like it was the Met Gala instead of a bunch of racing drivers doing press.

And she was already there.

He spotted her near one of the backdrops, talking to a producer, nodding along as they ran through the schedule. Effortlessly composed, like she’d done this a thousand times before. Which, of course, she had.

She was dressed in team gear, but even the plain polo and branded jacket looked good on her, like she belonged on the cover of a motorsport magazine. He forced himself to look away before his brain could start romanticising something as stupid as the way she stood—like she owned the room without even trying.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Good.

Maybe he could get through this week by staying in the background, doing his job, keeping things professional. He just had to ignore the fact that every time she looked through him, it twisted something in his gut.

“Ah, Pato! You’re here.”

Too late.

One of the PR reps clapped him on the shoulder before steering him forward, right into her line of sight. She turned at the sound of his name, her expression shifting from polite focus to something neutral. Not cold, not unkind—just nothing.

“Morning,” she said, like it was an afterthought.

“Morning.” His voice came out steadier than he expected, which was a miracle in itself.

She gave a small nod, then looked back at the producer, clearly expecting the conversation to move on without him.

Of course.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Right! So, you two are paired for the day, and we’ve got a packed schedule. First up—some quickfire Q&A for the socials, then a sit-down interview for the pre-season documentary.”

Pato nodded, determined to act like this was just another media obligation. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth overthinking.

Until the PR rep added, far too casually—

“And after lunch, we’ll be doing some fun challenges—bit of a ‘getting to know each other’ vibe. Teamwork exercises, that sort of thing.”

He froze.

So did she.

Her brows pulled together, just slightly. It wasn’t irritation, more like mild confusion—like she couldn’t understand why they had been chosen for something like that.

“Right,” she said eventually. “Sounds… fun.”

It didn’t sound fun. Not to her. Definitely not to him.

Pato had wanted her to acknowledge him. To notice him.

Now, for the first time in his career, they were going to be forced to interact properly.

And he had no idea if he was ready for it.

The first part of the day went about as well as Pato had expected—awkwardly, painfully, and with absolutely no shift in how she saw him.

The quickfire Q&A session was fine. Standard questions, standard answers. They sat side by side while an off-camera producer fired prompts at them. Who had the better qualifying record? (Her.) Who was most likely to be late to a team meeting? (Him.) Who had the worst taste in music? (Also him, apparently, judging by the way she scrunched her nose when he admitted to liking 80s rock.)

She didn’t laugh at him, but she didn’t laugh with him either. The same easy, effortless energy she had with other drivers wasn’t there. It was all business, like she was just getting through another obligation.

The sit-down interview wasn’t much better.

“Describe each other in three words.”

Pato hesitated. Three words. Just three? He could name 100 if she asked.

“Fast,” he said eventually, because obviously. “Consistent. And… competitive.”

She gave a small nod, acknowledging the answer, but there was nothing behind it.

When it was her turn, she barely hesitated. “Skilled. Focused.” A pause. “Quiet.”

Quiet.

It wasn’t wrong, exactly. He was quieter than most of the grid, more measured with his words. But coming from her, it felt less like an observation and more like confirmation—of what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe that she still didn’t really see him.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was convinced nothing about their dynamic was going to change.

And then, the afternoon happened.

The "fun challenges," as the PR rep had so kindly put it, turned out to be a mix of stupid icebreaker games and team-building exercises.

The first was a trust exercise.

“Okay, you know how this works,” the producer explained, gesturing between them. “Pato, stand behind her. She’s going to fall, and you’re going to catch her.”

Pato’s brain short-circuited.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking more amused than anything. “Try not to drop me, yeah?”

It was the first remotely casual thing she’d said to him all day.

He managed a smirk. “No promises.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not a full smile. Not even close. But it was something.

She turned back around, took a breath, and let herself fall.

For a split second, he almost forgot to catch her. Not on purpose—he just wasn’t used to her being this close, trusting him with something as simple as this.

His arms wrapped around her waist just in time, stopping her before she hit the ground. For the briefest moment, she was right there, weight pressed against him, her head tilting slightly as if she was about to glance back.

And then it was over.

She straightened up, stepping away, brushing her hands over her jacket like nothing had happened.

“Not bad,” she admitted.

Pato exhaled, forcing his brain back into normal function. “Told you I wouldn’t drop you.”

She hummed, considering. “I thought you said no promises.”

He blinked. Was she—was she teasing him?

Before he could figure out how to respond, the producer clapped their hands together. “Great! Next challenge—answering questions for each other. Let’s see how well you really know your gridmate.”

Her brow lifted slightly as she looked at Pato.

Gridmates.

They weren’t. Not really.

But for this week, maybe they had to be.

The rest of the week blurred into a cycle of press obligations, staged interactions, and an ever-present awareness that, for the first time in his career, she actually had to acknowledge him.

It wasn’t much—small, incremental shifts that barely felt like progress. But Pato noticed everything.

The way she started looking at him when he spoke, instead of through him. The way she started responding to his jokes—not always with laughter, but with a twitch of her lips, like she was holding something back. The way she started actually engaging with him, even if it was just subtle, throwaway comments between takes.

By the time they reached the final stretch of media duties, it was easier. Almost natural.

Almost.

The moment that stuck with him, though—the one that lodged itself in his brain like an unshakable thought—came on the second-to-last day, during lunch.

He hadn’t even realised she was nearby until she was standing in front of him, hand extended. A cereal bar. Nothing fancy. Just one of those standard protein bars the teams kept stocked for quick energy.

Pato frowned, looking between the bar and her face, like there was some hidden meaning he wasn’t catching. “What’s this?”

She tilted her head slightly, like he was the one being strange. “You haven’t eaten yet.”

He blinked. “How do you—”

“You always wait until the last second, and then you grab something just before the next shoot.” She shrugged. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

Pato stared. Not because it was a grand gesture—if anything, it was small. Thoughtless, even. Like she’d noticed, made a decision, and moved on without thinking too much about it.

And maybe that’s what got to him.

She noticed.

Before he could say anything, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him standing there, cereal bar in hand, trying very hard not to read into something that probably meant nothing.

Probably.

That night, Pato was actively losing his mind.

The cereal bar was still sitting on his hotel nightstand, untouched. He didn’t even like that flavour. That wasn’t the point.

She had noticed him. Noticed him. And not in the usual, fleeting, empty way where he barely registered in her head. She had paid attention. To his habits. To the fact that he was terrible at remembering to eat on time. She had walked over, handed it to him, and left before he could so much as process the fact that it had even happened.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

There was only one person he trusted to make sense of this for him.

His mother.

He pressed the phone to his ear, pacing his hotel room like an idiot, waiting for her to pick up.

“¿Mijo?” came her warm, familiar voice. “¿Qué pasó? It’s late where you are, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m losing my mind.”

She sighed, the kind of exasperated sound that only a mother could perfect. “Ay, Dios. ¿Qué hiciste ahora?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem!”

A pause. “… Es por una chica, no?”

Pato groaned. “Of course you immediately know it’s about a girl.”

“Because you sound like your father when he was being tonto about me,” she said, unimpressed. “Who is she?”

He exhaled. “It’s—ugh. It’s her.”

His mother knew exactly who he meant. He had never explicitly told her about his hopeless crush, but she wasn’t stupid. The one time she’d come to a race and met his fellow drivers, she had taken one look at him watching her across the paddock and raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything. “And what has she done to make you so dramatic?”

“She gave me a cereal bar.”

A long silence. Then—

“… Perdón?”

“A cereal bar! At lunch! She just—she noticed that I wasn’t eating on time and handed me one and walked away like it was nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I know it’s stupid, but she’s never noticed me before. Not really. And now she’s—she’s just—”

“Being nice?” his mother finished dryly.

Pato groaned. “Yes. No. Maybe?”

Another sigh. “Mijo, listen to me. You have been in love with this girl for—what? A year? More? And you’ve done nothing because you convinced yourself she doesn’t care. And now that she’s proving you wrong, you’re still doing nothing?”

“I—”

“Ay, Patricio.” When she used his full name, he knew he was in trouble. “What do you want? Honestly.”

Pato sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

“I want her to see me the way I see her,” he admitted, quiet.

His mother’s voice softened. “Then haz algo, hijo. Do something. Say something. Stop standing in the background of your own story.”

Pato closed his eyes.

She made it sound so simple.

It wasn’t.

But maybe… maybe it didn’t have to be impossible, either.

Pato barely slept.

His mother’s words looped in his head all night. Do something. Say something. As if it were that easy. As if he could just shake off a year of being invisible and suddenly be someone that mattered to her.

By the time 5 a.m. rolled around and his brain still refused to shut up, he gave up on sleep entirely. He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his keycard, and made his way downstairs to the hotel’s outdoor pool, hoping that the quiet would clear his head.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting at the edge of the pool, feet dipped in the water, arms braced behind her as she stared out at the city lights reflecting off the still surface.

Pato froze.

His body screamed at him to turn around before she noticed him. But then she shifted slightly, head tilting at the sound of footsteps. Her gaze landed on him.

Too late.

He had two options: pretend he had some other reason to be here, or…

Do something.

Taking a slow breath, he stepped forward, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a nearby lounger before sitting down a few feet away from her.

“You do realise this isn’t a race,” he said, nudging his chin towards the water. “No need to be this dedicated to aerodynamics.”

She huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, shaking her head. “It’s peaceful. And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he admitted, nudging his bare feet into the water. It was cool, not freezing, but enough to shock his system awake.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either.

Talk, his mother’s voice nagged in his head. Say something.

“So,” Pato started, searching for anything to keep the moment from slipping away. “Since we’re stuck doing media together, I feel like I should get some information. Y’know, for survival.”

She raised a brow. “Survival?”

“Yeah. Like, what’s your go-to pre-race meal? Most important question, obviously.”

That earned him an actual smirk. “Pasta. Always.”

“Solid choice,” he mused. “Okay, follow-up: if you weren’t a driver, what would you be doing?”

She hummed, tilting her head in thought. “Something adrenaline-based. Maybe skydiving. Or stunt driving.”

Pato snorted. “I can definitely see that.”

“What about you?” she asked, glancing at him.

He blinked, caught off guard. Not just by the question—but by the fact that she was asking in the first place.

“Probably something quiet,” he admitted. “Maybe a mechanic. Or a watchmaker.”

That made her actually turn towards him, brows raised. “A watchmaker?”

He shrugged. “I like precision. Small moving parts. Everything fitting together perfectly.”

She studied him for a moment, like she was seeing him properly for the first time.

Before Pato could think too hard about that, he exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, last question.”

She arched a brow. “Go on.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

She hesitated, glancing away. “Extra media obligations. All day.”

Pato nodded, swallowing the mild disappointment that settled in his chest. “Right. Of course.”

But then—she paused.

“… But I’m free after eight. Why?”

His pulse kicked up, and before he could overthink it, the words tumbled out.

“Dinner,” he said. “Just as grid mates.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. Then—her lips quirked slightly.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

Pato’s brain immediately short-circuited.

“N—no,” he said too quickly, scrambling to backpedal. “I mean, it’s not—obviously not—”

“That’s a shame,” she interrupted, standing up and stepping out of the pool. She grabbed a towel, casually drying off her legs. “Because I would have said yes.”

Pato forgot how to breathe.By the time he managed to reboot his brain and form a response, she was already walking away, leaving him sitting there—staring after her, heart pounding, and officially, completely doomed.

the end.

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#pato o'ward #pato o'ward fanfiction #pato o'ward x reader #indycar #arrow mclaren #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one #formula one x you #po5 #po5 x reader #po5 fanfic #pato o'ward fanfic #pato oward

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codfxrn-blog · 16 days ago

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ECHOES OF DESIRE

Lewis Pullman x reader

Summary: After a romantic marriage proposal at a cozy restaurant, the couple heads home planning to just sleep. But an unexpected power outage changes everything—Lewis has a better idea. What follows is a night full of passion, love, and a bittersweet goodbye.

⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit sexual content. For mature audiences only (18+).

Author’s Note: Hi, English is not my first language, so please be kind if you spot any grammar slips or awkward phrasing. I poured my heart into this story, and I hope the emotion reaches you regardless of the language barrier. Thank you so much for reading.

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

The city seemed to have conspired in their favor. Quiet streets, a warm breeze, lights flickering behind open curtains.

The restaurant felt like a dream: soft music in the background, exposed brick walls, candles flickering on every table, and a subtle scent of lavender floating in the air. Everything was wrapped in an almost magical calm, a kind of romantic bubble where time seemed to pause. Their glances were gentle, full of history and promises stitched into shared silences.

Lewis had been especially clumsy all night. He dropped his napkin twice, nearly spilled the wine, and his answers were shorter than usual. She noticed, of course. But she said nothing. She just watched him with a restrained smile, as if she already knew something was brewing beneath the surface.

"Are you okay?" she asked sweetly as he nervously twisted the rim of his glass.

"Me? Yeah, sure... it's just... this pasta has a strong personality," he tried to joke, and they both laughed, though his hands kept trembling slightly.When dessert arrived—a perfectly golden crème brûlée—Lewis seemed to hold his breath. He rose from his seat with rehearsed slowness, walked toward her, and knelt beside her chair. She blinked, confused for a second.

"It's not because the food is good," he began, voice shaky. "It's because you make everything taste better—even the grayest days. And I don’t want more days without you… Will you marry me?"

She was speechless, her eyes shining brighter than the candles. Emotion rose like heat up her throat, and when she could finally speak, all she said was:

"Yes. Of course, yes."

The restaurant blurred for a moment. Everything was him. His arms around her, the ring sliding onto her finger, the kiss they shared: trembling, sincere, perfect.

Everything was perfect. Until they got home.The door clicked softly shut, the lights came on dim.

The city’s echo faded behind the windows. They were full of wine, food, and restrained desire. They kissed in the kitchen, between the cold marble and warm breath. She leaned against the counter, he bent over her neck.

“Lewis… no,” she murmured, breathless, trying to speak as he kissed her gently.

“Tomorrow… work.”Lewis stopped, smiling against her skin, then pulled back reluctantly. His fingers brushed her waist one last time before he nodded slowly.

"Okay. Just sleep," he agreed with a sigh and a half-smile. “Promise.”

They meant to sleep.

But just as the sheets embraced them, the power surrendered. A soft click, and everything went dark. She laughed, murmuring something about the unannounced storm. Lewis sighed dramatically.

“Great… no white noise,” he muttered, dragging his back across the sheets.

She knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He needed that low hum, that steady vibration like an invisible blanket. But instead, there was silence. And heat. And the scent of her skin, inches from his mouth.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” she whispered, barely audible, turning toward him.

Lewis turned too, raising an eyebrow.

“A sign of what, exactly?”

“That the whole ‘just sleep’ thing was a terrible idea.”

He smiled. He leaned in and brushed her neck with his lips, soft, barely there.

“I have a better idea…” he whispered, no longer sleepy—his voice low and ragged, pulled by desire.

His lips found her neck and started tracing an unrelenting map. There was no rush, but no hesitation either. His hands, both skilled and impatient, searched for the edge of her shirt and pulled it up without asking. The heat of his fingers on her back made her catch her breath—but only for a second. Then came the first moan, soft, rising from deep in her belly. And he smiled.

"Yeah… that… just like that," he murmured against her collarbone.

He slid his lips over her breasts, savoring them like forbidden fruit. He played with them, his tongue drawing circles that made her arch her back, her thighs tremble, the entire room shudder. She clung to his hair, tugged it with that blend of pleading and need that drove him wild.

Desire grew like a fever, a slow-burning fire that couldn't be put out. Lewis moved down her body, kissing every inch of skin like he was worshiping a temple. When he reached the center of her need, he settled between her thighs and looked up at her with raw devotion, his eyes shining in the darkness.

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head and kissed her there, softly at first, like he was speaking a different language. His tongue found rhythm, sparking involuntary spasms that made her moan, tremble, unravel.

Lewis devoured her with hunger and tenderness, savoring her slowly, delighting in every quiver. She arched beneath him, thighs tightening around his shoulders, her fingers tangled in his hair, gasping in broken moans.

When he felt her beginning to crack open, her hips lifting in search of more, her breath a sob, he paused, kissing the inside of her thighs as he moved back up her body, leaving a trembling, wet trail across her skin.

“I want to hear you all night,” he murmured between kisses, his tongue sparking spasms that made her beg without words. “You’ll be my white noise, baby.”

He slid over her, their bodies aligning like puzzle pieces. He looked at her one second longer, as if needing to confirm the desire was mutual—and when she arched her hips toward him, Lewis entered her with devastating slowness.

"I'm going to push so deep your body will miss me more than your heart."

He thrust deep. She fell apart with a hoarse cry, arching her back, her legs trembling like every fiber in her body was unraveling. He gritted his teeth, trying not to come too fast, feeling her clench around him with an involuntary force that nearly broke him.He stilled for a moment, buried inside her, biting his lip, panting against her neck. Her scent drove him wild. He couldn’t stop. He pulled back slightly and thrust again, harder, making her cry out loud, pushing her closer to delirium.

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” he growled, feeling how she took him in, hungry, back arched, thighs open without resistance.He leaned into her ear, whispering low and dirty:

“I’m going to make you shake until you forget your name… you’ll beg me to stop… and I won’t…”

And she did. She broke beneath him, drunk on love, on desire, on everything he gave without restraint. Lewis held her by the hips, lifting her so she could feel him even deeper, like he wanted to carve himself inside her. Every thrust was a promise, a sentence. The room filled with the sounds of their union—wet, soft, undeniable.

Her legs were pure tremor, her body an open canvas to his desire. Lewis caressed her thighs, her breasts, her back like he was painting a masterpiece with his fingertips. She answered with choked moans, ragged gasps, trembling whispers of his name.He thrust into her harder, deeper, an unstoppable rhythm. He took her face in his hands, forced her to meet his gaze while he drove into her with an intensity that made her scream."

Look at me," he commanded with brutal tenderness. "Look at me while I make you mine. I want to see you break for me."

She tried to keep his gaze. Her eyelids fluttered. The pleasure overflowed. Her lips parted, but only a stuttering moan escaped, melting with her trembling breath. A moment later, a whisper—barely a “yes”—like an involuntary prayer. Her body said everything: arching into him, hands clinging to his shoulders, eyes wet with bliss. She trembled, whispering his name.

Lewis held her tight, his grip firm on her waist, his hips thrusting with a rhythm that made her quake with every stroke. And in that moment, with her eyes locked on his, she shattered. Completely. She screamed his name as her body came undone again, surrendered, conquered, his.

When they collapsed together, panting, soaked in sweat and interlaced sighs, Lewis held her tight. Rested his cheek against her chest, listening for her heartbeat.

“Perfect…” he whispered.

Finally, the white noise he needed. Made of flesh, love, and pleasure. And he slept soundly. As if she were his only cure for the world’s insomnia.

A couple of hours later, she felt movement. Lewis was getting up, hair tousled, eyes still heavy.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice husky, skin still warm from sleep.

“Early flight, remember?” he replied with a tender smile, picking his clothes up from the floor.

She stretched, half-covered by the sheets, and gently took his wrist.

“I don’t want you to go yet,” she whispered.

Lewis leaned in and kissed her softly—but when she slid a leg between his, when her touch became an unspoken invitation, his resolve crumbled.

He climbed back into bed without thinking. And though she didn’t say another word, her eyes held his with that quiet intensity. The sheets were no longer a blanket—they were witnesses to a desire that knew no fatigue. Lewis moved over her, his lips finding hers with slow hunger, as if he wanted to keep her etched in memory.

The tension, which had never really left, sparked again like a match in the dark. It was as if her body was trying to memorize everything—his breath, the feel of his back, the heartbeat in his ribs. Lewis slid a hand down her bare thigh and knew: goodbyes couldn’t be silent.

They moved with a slowness that bordered on reverence. No rush, only that emotional urgency that comes when you know something has to end—but you can still make it last a little longer. Every kiss was a plea. Every thrust a way of saying: “I’m going to miss you.”

Lewis made her his again, eyes closed, heart pounding as if being ripped from his chest. She welcomed him with open arms, arched back, and sighs turned into sweet moans.

“This is how I want to remember you the whole flight,” he murmured in her ear, thrusting deep and slow. “Shaking… with my name on your lips…”

She didn’t answer with words. Her body spoke for her. And it was enough.

When they finally stilled, exhausted, tangled in rumpled sheets and early morning light creeping through the windows, Lewis said nothing. He just held her tight, as if trying to imprint that moment into his skin.

“I’m going to miss you so much. I haven’t even left and I already crave you on top of me.”

She kissed him. She felt him smile as he stroked her face—but still, he had to go.

The soft dawn light caressed her bare skin, casting shadows over her back, tracing the curve of her hip. Every step she took toward the bathroom, so unaware of her own grace, left him breathless. He bit his lip, no shame at all, with a smile heavy with desire not yet dimmed.

She was his. Entirely his.

And yet, seeing him leave like that—so calm, so beautiful—made her sink back into the sheets, wrapped in a blend of satisfaction and aching anticipation.Hours later, waking up alone in still-warm sheets, she felt his absence like a hollow silence in the room. Beside her, the phone buzzed with a notification. A voice message.She played it with a single tap, still wrapped in his scent and the dampness left by the night.

“Hey, beautiful,” his voice rasped—low, still half-asleep. “I’m heading out, but I can’t stop thinking about you… the way you moaned this morning when I made you mine. You know what I want? I don’t want you to shower yet. I want you to keep smelling like me. Like what we did. I want you to touch yourself thinking about my mouth, my tongue. I want you to open up for me, even if I’m not there…” he paused, a sigh vibrating through the line. “Next time, I won’t let you leave the bed. I swear. I want to see you tremble again. I want to taste you so slow you’ll hate me for it… and yeah, I want every moan of yours to be mine. I love you, damn it, but I also want you like sin—the best kind. Don’t forget that.”

The message ended. She stared at the screen, thighs clenching instinctively as the fire ignited all over again.Her hand slowly slid to her chest, where his warmth still lingered, then she looked at her left hand. There, the ring caught the tender morning light. She twisted it gently, touching the promise it held. Her whole body still pulsed with him, with his voice, with the memory of his lips and his touch. That ring wasn’t just a symbol anymore—it was an echo of everything they’d been that night. A shining confirmation that she was his… and he, undeniably, hers too.

#lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman x you #lewis pullman #lewis pullman fanfic #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman x y/n #thunderbolts bob #rhett abbott smut #lewis pullman smut

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moonwoodhollow · 1 year ago

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Exerzierplatz - a cc lot by moonwoodhollow (feat. The Green Room & the bookshop + a retro corner store)

Exerzierplatz is a building I've been working on for a long time as it was a bit of a trouble-child. I was never satisfied with it and kept thinking that I should scrap it, because of its awkward apartment-floor plans, until I embraced the idea of using it more as a retail/café lot. The result is something I am very satisfied with and I hope it exudes the kind of ~hip/cute neighbourhood~ vibe I'm feeling.

But it's all up to you, how you'll want to use this lot: as a café, a deco lot for your sims-stories (I'd love to see that!!) or as an actual residential building.

More screenshots, info + download link under the cut!

Building background

Another historical brick building, but I'll spare you the historical background this time because I forgot which real-life building inspired me to create this one, but I can tell you how I got the idea for this building in general! (if you care)

The name Exerzierplatz is a bit misleading if you know any German, as a "Platz" is usually a public square, buildings directly next to a square usually receive the square's name as well with a house number added. The square that inspired me is quite a dismal and empty square with a huge car park, but it got me thinking about what kind of buildings originally might have stood there. The historical context here is post-WW2, which left a lot of cities in ruins. Instead of rebuilding the original structures, some cities opted for a "car-friendly" approach, meaning lots of car parks and wide streets, that nowadays feel over-dimensioned.

Now if I had to pin down an era, in which this kind of building was likely constructed, I'd say the latter of the 19th century. It's likely to be a representative of historicism, or at least has elements from this style.

So what do you get?

Exerzierplatz is a 20x20 build best placed in Windenburg, but I could potentially see it in Britechester as well. The building is partly furnished, which means the whole ground floor is furnished, while the other two floors are left unfurnished.

The ground floor includes a café, a bookshop and a Tante Emma Laden (aka a corner store/delicatessen). All three of them are fully furnished and usable as a café or a retail store. The 2nd and 3rd floors are intended as apartments, but everything's up to you!

Uses items from the following packs: I own almost all packs, so I'd say most of them, but I will update this post once I hop back into game to have a look!

Download: Google Drive (600 MB) | Also up on the gallery: aeromantica (but you’ll need the cc files from the Drive folder!)

Is the CC included? Most is! There's an Excel file with all CC that you'll need to download manually, but it's not many files. Deco Sims are NOT included.

Also a BIG THANK YOU to all the CC-creators, without their creations, I wouldn't have been able to build this!

-> Info: I've included 4 merged files, BUT! I've prepared a little note, about which ones are hard requirements, so it's up to you whether you'll include them.

TOU: Please don’t claim as your own or put behind paywalls etc. If you find any issues (wrong/missing files, etc.) please let me know + tag me if you’ll use the house, I’d love to see it in your games.

#ts4 #sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 download #sims 4 build dl #sims 4 lot dl #sims 4 build download #sims 4 build #sims 4 lot #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 interior #sims interior #simblr #the sims community #*mine #*mydownload

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rika-mmendmethings · 3 months ago

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Against Blood & Water l Sylus

Chapter 2

←CH 1 l CH 3→

Summary: Seventeen years ago, your life had taken a turn for the worse when your newborn twins were separated from you by a cruel twist of fate. The same fate had led you to the N109 Zone, to your children who were all grown up now. Reconciliation with your boys would've been slightly easier had they somehow not acquired a father figure over the years who wasn't letting them go anytime soon.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: mentions of blood and drugs, self-suturing, minor character deaths, stalking, some comfort in this one.

Word count: 1.8k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: New chapter every Thursday! This story is for the Sylus girlies' who consider Luke and Kieran their babies. A little information on the timeline: in this story, the reader is 35 with Luke and Kieran being 17. Sylus never felt like 28 to me so he's a hot ass 39 year old man (bear with me). The timeline is a bit confusing I know but soon it'd be cleared too. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me and I'd try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added in the tag list for this series. ♥

Tag list: @babyx91 @pillarofsnow @beyond-the-stars-fairy @yuki-sama6 @sylviewrites @idiashusband @sadmonke @monophobix @lunarvolley @stxrrielle @fries11 @gremlinartstudio @lillycore @novthirty @animegamerfox @cathedralofaudra @nm4565natty @69-gojos-wife-69 @eolivy @namjoons-toenails @silverianni @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @justpassingdontworry @ruyaya

The warehouse loomed like a tomb swallowed by the night, its skeletal frame etched against the bruised sky, whispering secrets of violence and forgotten deals. Flickering neon lights spilled weak, jaundiced glows onto the cracked concrete floor, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters of the past. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, oil, and the faint, acrid bite of burned rubber.

You ran for your life through the chaos like a monkey with its tail on fire. Bad idea. Your mind had screamed at you an hour ago as you snuck into the warehouse to investigate further the drug traces that led to it. But you rarely listened to your brain, and that habit had brought you to this exact moment — hidden behind a few metal racks, your hand gripping your gun beneath the armor of your tailored black blazer.

You’d made the rookie mistake of visiting the warehouse without double-checking if it was truly empty. Some men from the drug-dealing gang were dozing off on makeshift beds after consuming too much liquor. Being light on your feet, you’d made sure not to make any noise just in case, and you were almost done collecting evidence when things went south. You’d pulled out your Polaroid camera for instant pictures of the drug packets, but after a few mechanical shutter sounds, you heard other noises in the background.

You ducked behind metal containers, your heart halting when you peeked and saw burly men searching around. Thus began your little cat-and-mouse game.

Back in the present moment, you analyzed the situation after calming yourself down. Four men on the ground floor of the warehouse, rifles in hand, with you on the first floor. You had a gun, of course — you weren’t that stupid — but taking all of them down would be a hassle, especially with a limited number of bullets. Soon enough, they’d come up to search.

You quickly formed a plan: distract them by aiming at your far left, behind the metal containers, then jump off the first floor and hurry out through the small cavity in the wall you’d come in from. You smacked your forehead with your hand when your mind began to play the Subway Surfers theme song as if it were the musical backdrop of a film starring you.

You were all set to put your plan into motion when you heard their raised voices. But their angry spouts weren’t directed at you — they were directed at someone else who had entered the warehouse. A complete silence fell over the space, and as you strained your hearing, you could make out a new, huskier voice.

Soon after, loud, painful screams echoed before abruptly stopping. You heard footsteps retreating, presumably out of the warehouse.

You blinked once, processing the turn of events. The men who were targeting you were probably lying dead on the ground floor right now — victims of another man who wanted them dead. Strange. You thought, glancing at the Polaroid camera hanging around your neck. At least the evidence was safe, and you were alive. You’d think about who your guardian angel was later. For now, you need to head back to your temporary apartment in the slightly safer regions of the N109 Zone.

You rolled back your tensed shoulders and moved out of your hiding spot, making your way downstairs via a mostly hidden and rusty staircase. Your gun was still tightly clutched in your right hand, just in case. You were about to weasel out of the wall cavity when two pairs of footsteps had you freezing.

You immediately whipped around, aiming your gun at the origin of the sound, and shot without thinking twice.

The tall person you’d shot groaned, knees buckling as he fell to the ground. Beside him, another man in the same uniform, groaning just a second later, clutched his arm before also crumbling to the ground. You gasped, realizing they hadn’t even been on your trail — they were walking over to the dead, burly men.

You felt bad, okay? You knew anything could happen if you moved closer to the unknown individuals, but you didn’t wish to leave them in that condition — especially since they hadn’t even targeted you. They were probably henchmen of your supposed guardian angel if their matching black costumes and crow-themed masks — with horns and beaks concealing their faces — meant anything.

After an internal battle between your logic and your conscience, you finally decided to approach them. You were still on guard but had put your gun away in its holster under your blazer. You nudged the men, but they didn’t even budge, so you assumed they’d passed out from the pain. You pondered why the second man had passed out if he hadn’t even been anywhere near the bullet.

Rushing to your motorcycle, you grabbed your medical kit and hurried back to them.

Luckily, the bullet hadn’t entered anyone’s body — it had only grazed the first man’s arm. It left an angry, gaping gash, though, which was currently bleeding. You rolled his sleeve up to his shoulder and began stitching it. You needed to get this done before they woke and swore mortal enmity against you. You tried to hurry, not really wanting to know if the stitches were messy, but some unknown feeling had you slowing down and being a lot more gentle than you could possibly afford right now.

After some time, you were done tending to the first man’s wounds and had even checked the second man for any injuries for inexplicable reasons. You quickly stood up, double-checking if you had everything you owned on you before rushing out of the warehouse to where your bike was hidden. You put your belongings in the saddlebag before zipping it shut. As you were about to grab your helmet, a small tap on your shoulder caused you to freeze mid-air.

You glanced at the two sets of shadows stretching on the ground just behind yours. It seemed you’d wasted too much time, and now you were about to be barbecued by the probably angry young henchmen. With no backup plan in mind, you turned around with your hands raised in surrender and eyes clenched shut.

“Thanks, missus.”

You’d expected a gun’s muzzle to your head or a hand around your neck, strangling you. And out of all the other wild things you’d expected, thanks was the last of them. You thought you were dreaming until another calm voice brought you back.

“You shot us unknowingly out of human instinct. But you still tended to us, so we decided to drop by and let you know we appreciated that.”

You were hyperventilating, you were sure of it. Until the first man spoke with a lilt:

“Your aim is super cool, though, missus. We were actually awake but wanted to see who had shot us, so we played dead, and it worked.”

You slowly lowered your hands as you heard them burst into hearty laughter. You opened your eyes, rigid as you took sight of their faces beneath the masks. The injured one wiped the sweat off his forehead with a napkin, and the other rubbed his chin — all the while laughing.

It wasn’t their near-identical faces that threw you off — no — it was the color of their eyes. Their irises were the same hues as yours: electric grey, intense as storm-churned clouds.

A gripping realization churned your heart as you silently noted the inky, curly locks — like those of the father of your late twins — and the resemblance to you in their facial features and height. Your lips wobbled, and the smarter side of you willed you not to jump to conclusions. But how could you ignore the unfamiliar warmth and contentment in your chest as you watched them laugh and interact?

Still, the lawyer in you knew better than to claim anything without evidence backing it up, so you remained quiet. They looked quite young, probably in their late teens, and that assumption caused your mind to race.

You pulled yourself together as both of them started speaking simultaneously:

“Anyways—”

The twins narrowed their eyes at each other, and you suppressed a smile.

The uninjured one continued, “We have to deal with the dead scums inside and be back before dusk, so sayonara, missus.”

Both of them saluted you as if you were some sort of general before turning on their heels.

Before they were out of earshot, you called out, “Wait.”

The twins turned around, looking at you quizzically. You shuffled on your feet, asking reluctantly, “What are your names?”

The twins nodded. The injured one pointed at himself and introduced, “The one who you shot is me. I’m Luke, the elder twin,” he pointed to his brother and trailed on, “And this is Kierran, the younger twin. Now, we really ought to dash before boss-man has us in a tight spot. Bye, missus.”

The twins waved you goodbye in sync before hurrying back into the warehouse.

You felt as if lightning had struck you. All doubts, all what-ifs — cleared. You’d crocheted a pair of blankets when you’d found out you were having twin boys seventeen years ago. Your mother had suggested adding the names you’d chosen for them on it too, aside from the cartoons.

Luke and Kierran.

You’d smiled in pure bliss that day as you told your father the names you’d chosen for your kids from the crocheted blankets. A smile of the same kind, albeit even happier, now bloomed on your face as you realized that fate had found a way to reunite you with your children once again.

And you weren’t letting them out of your sight ever again.

A joyful smile curled across your face as you slipped into the dim confines of the apartment — your so-called temporary hideout. The door clicked shut behind you with finality.

You dropped onto the couch, sinking into the worn-out plush. Their faces played over in your mind, every gesture, every word. You were already thinking of the next move, the next encounter. You’d make it happen. You always did.

But then… a pause.

Your brow furrowed, the grin faltering just slightly as a thought cut through the haze like a blade.

“They mentioned some boss-man…” you muttered, voice low, nearly lost to the silence. Your gaze flicked to the window, unfocused. “Who exactly are my children working for?”

The room gave no answer.

But if you'd been paying closer attention — if you'd listened to the silence — you might have caught the almost imperceptible flutter of feathers, or the faintest click of talons on steel. A pair of glowing, crimson eyes blinked once from the darkness, then vanished. The answer to your question, however, did not linger.

The spy departed, slicing through the night sky until it reached the edge of a sprawling mansion. It landed softly on the calloused fingers of the very man you were trying to uncover. The bird gave a mechanical caw as a red hologram burst into life, casting a ghostly light across the man’s face.

There you were, speaking, pacing, questioning. Vulnerable. Unaware.

“Interesting,” the man said, voice like fine velvet. His eyes burned with something unreadable — part curiosity, part calculation.

He leaned forward, watching the screen closely.

“Very… interesting.”

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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kalinazlatkova · 2 months ago

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“The Art and Making of Arcane: League of Legends” 🎨🎨🎨🎨 Book Review Under the Cut

⋆｡°✩*ੈ✶⋆.˚✩‧₊˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˙⟡⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⊹.˚⟡ ݁₊˚⊹⋆☆˖°

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi 👛🫙✨🖤 Thank you! 🥰

Hi All! 😊 As I have amassed loads of Art Books throughout my degree and in my work as an illustrator, I thought I could do some reviews so those of you who are just now embarking on your art journeys and wondering whether something is worth spending money on, can make an informed decision about what part of your creative development you want to put your money towards. I’m thinking of structuring the reviews in five key areas, with books earning a palette for each area they score against, with a total of five palettes being the max, and a brush being awarded in areas where a book can only score half a point. As someone from a working-class background who is also neurodivergent, I’m especially mindful how these things can impact the way in which we access information and new knowledge. Of course, if you have any suggestions on what else should be included, please let me know and I’ll be happy to consider this in future too. 😊

Now! Off to the main bit...

Is the book Useful? 🎨

I think this would of interest not only to fans of the game and series alike, but also less experienced artists who want to learn about the motivation, inspirations, ideas, and thought processes behind the storytelling, characters and plotlines. Alex and Chris (the Creators) talk about the history and background of how it came to be, how the right group and studio of people were found to bring it together, and how the story and visuals were built from the smallest details to the major production hurdles. There are the back scenes of the storyboarding and character designs, with frameworks and the timeline between the layouts of the game vs the show. The book also goes down into details on the music, lyrics, color schemes, speeds of animation, backgrounds and the in-depth world building of Arcane. It pays attention to the visual and personal development of the central characters, their set bases and their props. Given all of this, I would say – Yes. It is a very useful source and guide on master adaptation, for those already interested in the game as well as those who have just come into its world now, brought in by the art of the show before they got caught in the story.

Is the book Engaging? 🎨

The book design has been planned thoroughly, and the content is very well paced. There is good overlay between photographs, illustrations, game graphics and show scenes alongside the text and other visuals. The design of the book is beautifully done, with phenomenal coloring, and good spacing between the texts and images. As someone who struggles with big chunks of text, and a very temperamental attention span, the way that the chapters and sub-sections of the book are broken up, helped me quite a lot in managing to keep my focus and my mind engaged at one page at a time, without feeling the need to put it down indefinitely or jump ahead and move on to the next bit before I was done. Therefore, I would say – Yes. It is manageable, digestible, and entertaining, which makes it a joy to engage with, and even more so because it can be done so easily.

Is the book Accessible? 🖌️

There might be some pages where people who are easily visually overstimulated might struggle to keep with the text, as the graphics fill the sheet and overlay each other quite strongly. However, if you are someone who prefers the strong visuals of a comic book or a graphic novel, then this might not be an issue for you at all. Overall, the blocks of text come in small chunks and are set in narrow columns with a max of 15 words to a line at its longest (on average up to 10), which makes the text easier to follow. Though the typesetting of the book is primarily in serif fonts, and on some pages the text blocks are slanted to fit the visuals’ layout better. I have an advantage that I have a digital copy and can easily zoom into the text, though if you had the physical copy of the book (judging by the format size of 23.5 x 3 x 32.4cm) there might be some pages where you struggle with the smaller lines. From what I have been able to find out, the standard hardcover edition weighs approx. 800gr, which isn’t very light to carry or hold up with one hand, especially considering a thick rectangle is less manageable than a single bag of sugar or bottle of water for example. In terms of language, it is written in plain English (in EN speaking countries) and even though I am not a native English speaker, there were no overcomplicated structures or words I was unfamiliar with at any time. So overall, I would say Yes and No. It is up to you to decide whether any of the above is a deal breaker regarding accessibility, but if it is in the physical aspects, I would advise in looking for a digital copy alike myself as well.

Is the book Affordable? 🖌️

Well. When I was looking for a copy, unfortunately there were no paperbacks available, and the only hardbacks were second hand varying in price point from £40 - £80 GBP. Which is about $50 – 110 USD, or €45 - 95 EUR. I also could not find any free digital copies, so my only option was to buy the book on Kindle for £14, or approx. $18 / €16. Given that when I was a student, I used to live on £1 a day (my family is poor), I think that up to £80 for a single art book is a high price to pay, especially for a young person who isn’t in full time employment. But even though I am a working adult now, I still wouldn’t pay this for the book given that the actual cost was £40 before it went out of stock, and the price has been inflated solely because the book isn’t physically available anymore. Due to this, and because it is the right thing to do, before making a purchase, I would adamantly encourage you to check with the library(ies) near you first. If they have it, you can borrow it for free and make copies, scans or take pics of it if you’d like to make your own digital copy. If this is not an option, look for it online and check if there are any torrents on the sites you have access to where you live. Only if you exhaust all other options, or if you are dead set in buying a physical copy for a memento / getting it signed by the artist type of keepsake, should you consider purchasing it at the inflated price. So even though the book might be affordable to those who have the money, that simply isn’t applicable to most people, meaning that – No. It isn’t affordable as it would not fall into most people’s budgets easily or without being looked at as a luxury.

Is the book Worth it? 🎨

Even though due to points 3 & 4 above, I cannot give the book a full 5 palettes, and must settle only on 4, I would say – Yes. It has been great to learn more about the backstory and history of Arcane and the people who made it possible. The work they’ve put in for years, each single step in their journey and the care and dedication that has been poured into the creation of this new world. It has been lovely to gain an insight into the visual development of the series, as well as the character building, and the considerations awarded to all the small things that make them the characters that they are and the characters that we love. I may have never played LoL but I absolutely loved the show. Though even if I hadn’t seen it, from the perspective of a graphic designer, I can certainly appreciate the beauty of Arcane and this book still. And if like me, you are new to this world, then I suspect the book will make you love it even more. It’s worth it.

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anakinstwinklebunny · 3 months ago

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PAIRING: dilf!mafia!anakin x younger!f!reader

PART ONE; 1,924 words

author's note: I recommend listening to this song while reading this. It really inspired me and gave me further ideas on how to continue this story (it's very important that it will be this version‼️‼️)

You didn’t really know your life.

Yes, when your fingertips traced over each covered photo, some thread of familiarity tugged at you—but it was always fog, always out of reach. A smile in the background, eyes filled with warmth as they gazed at yours, arms linked with yours like they belonged there, you clearly laughing with…right..Who? There were no names, no voices. Just a dark, hollow void without any meaning.

So who were you?

If ANAKIN SKWALKER saw the soft furrow of your brow, the way your lips parted like you were chasing a memory, he’d always step in.

“It’s okay,” he’d say softly, brushing your hair behind your ear with calloused fingers. “It was a long time ago. Some things just... fade.”

And when you asked about someone in a photo, he’d give you answers. Not lies. Not really. Just… altered truths.

“Oh, they moved to another city. Must’ve changed their number.”

“He took a job in Vietnam—said the future was better there.”

“She…” He'd pause, watching your eyes with that devastating softness. “She died, sweetheart. Two years ago. Car accident.”

You remembered her voice, but it was faint, melodic. A song you couldn’t place. A face that made your chest ache. But why? You had no idea. When you tried to dig deeper, when you pressed your mind for the details—it shut down. A black hole. A Panic. Silence.

Still, Anakin was calm. He never got angry with you for not remembering much. He just pulled you closer. Told you you were safe. And you believed him. Because with him, you felt safe.

Even if you didn’t know why.

Who were you?

The question echoed in your bones. Clawed at the inside of your skull like a scream that had nowhere to go.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” the voice cut through the haze, soft yet sharp. Like velvet over a dagger. His gaze caught yours in the mirror—icy, unreadable for you

You blinked. Forced a small smile. Smoothed the red satin over your thighs. “Nothing. Just..my head... playing tricks again.”

His expression faltered. Coldness slipped in. Something else, too—fear, maybe. You couldn't really tell. Reading emotions wasnt your greatest talent. Or maybe was it simply possession? Or that darkness you weren’t supposed to see?

You swallowed.

“I mean… maybe it’s just the weird girl that bumped into me earlier,” you added quickly, laughing too softly, too nervously. “I did tell you about her, didn’t I?”

His jaw twitched. Just a little.

The wind kissed your skin as you walked, soft, a little chilled. It felt like it was forcing itself against you, like it was trying to stop you. Like it knew something you didn’t. Like it tried to stop you from making a deadly mistake

Your scarf danced in the breeze, catching in the air like a ballerina. You didn’t notice much of the possible 'warnings' the weather was forcefully pushing towards you. You were already crossing the street, already pushing through the heavy doors of the boutique Anakin told you about.

He rarely let you go out alone.

“It’s not safe, sweetheart,” he’d say, brushing your cheek with gentle fingers, voice calm yet firm. “People out there… they’d do anything for what they want.”

You never questioned it. Not when he knew your moods before you did. Not when he always knew your location, your thoughts, your fears. It felt… right. Like he deserved to know all of those things.

The shop welcomed you with warm lighting, elegant displays, and too-bright smiles.

Too perfect. Too rehearsed.

You wandered through the aisles, fingertips brushing over fabrics you knew Anakin would like—deep crimsons, rich navy blues, colors that made your skin glow and your heart beat up a littlte faster from the excitement. From imagining him simply being breathtaken over your beauty. But the dresses your eyes caught made you feel… familiar. Like maybe you’d once worn them before. Like maybe you’d been someone else once. Like you were here before

But the second you tried to chase that memory—

Blackness. Emptiness; like falling into a hole with no end, no floor, no past.

You barely noticed the eyes on you. At first. Until it felt like they were sinking into your skin. Until the back of your neck prickled. Until the red dress in your hand felt like it was soaked in blood.

“Y/N?”

Your heart froze. Familiar tone; familiar melodic voice. You turned slowly.

Blonde. Familiar eyes. Average frame. But something about her face hit you with a shiver of déjà vu. You knew her. Somehow. Somewhen.

“I thought you were dead,” she breathed, eyes wide. “We thought you were dead.”

We? Who were we? After all, Anakin knew you were alive. He dropped you off. He told you—

“I—I'm sorry… I don’t… I don’t know who you are.”

The girl blinked. Scoffed. A paint of hurt crossed her edges; like the words cut her deeper than you could understood.

“Now you don’t remember me? After everything?”

She stepped closer. You stepped back. Something itched under your skin. A bone-deep discomfort.

Fear. So familiar, so foreign.

“You disappeared. No word, no message, no call. Nothing. We searched for you. Benji went crazy after you vanished.”

You could barely breathe.

Your palms were slick. Your throat suddenly dry.

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” you whispered, holding the dress like it could somehow anchor you. “I—I don’t remember… anything like that.”

She looked at you like you were a stranger, like she wanted to slap the truth back into you

“I’m sorry,” you said again, trying to be polite. Trying to calm the storm building behind your ribs. “I’ve had… memory issues. After my car accident. Maybe we could talk sometime? Grab a coffee? You clearly know me and I—”

“What accident?” her voice was ice. "I’ve never seen you in a car. You hate them. Ever since your dad killed your mom in one.”

Your heart stopped.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink.

Images—feelings, connection —something flickered in the back of your mind. Screams. Metal. Blood. Rain on glass. A woman’s voice. A man shouting. And nothing again.

Pain. Real pain bloomed in your chest.

“You don’t remember anything, do you?” she smiled then. But it wasn’t kind. Her gaze fell from your face down to your toes, going right back at your new hair, expensive jewelry, clothes, shoes, dress dress dress “Well, at least its good to know one of us are living their best lifes. Enjoy the princess fantasy while it lasts, Y/N. Because everything—everything—comes to an end.”

After the last words died in your throat, giving birth to a scared, still-shocked breath, you dared to look at him.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Because his eyes—those eyes you once thought held the sky in them—looked at you like he didn't see you at all. Like he was staring right through your skin, straight to something else. Something you didn't even know existed inside you. Cold. Dangerous. Like meeting a devil in the skin of someone you thought loved you. A chill wrapped itself around your spine, squeezed, stayed there. You knew those eyes from somewhere, from another life, another reality—but now they were foreign. Empty of softness.

Your hands began to sweat again. Just like they had earlier, with that girl. Your palms clammy, clutching onto the soft cherry crimson material like it was some short of a lifeline.

For a second—just a split moment—you thought maybe he was mad. Maybe this was what the beginning of his fury looked like. Not screaming. Not throwing things. Just… silence. Cold and echoing and sharp as broken glass under bare feet. And all you could think about was how he always warned you. How he told you the world out there wasn’t holy anymore, how people had ripped the wings off angels and dressed up as gods. That they’d hurt you, take you from him, corrupt you into something you weren’t. He told you he saved you. That he saved you from them. That only he knew the truth. And you believed him. You had to.

...Or did you?

His voice cracked through the air like thunder in a quiet chapel. “Did she say anything else?”

You flinched. Just a tiny jerk of the shoulder. Barely noticeable—but not to him. Your eyes dropped. Your throat felt like it was being squeezed by invisible hands. Pressure pushing and pushing until the breath left you entirely. Something whispered in your head again. Softly. Distant.

Protection. Love. Sacrifice. Adoration. Beauty.

You swallowed.

“I—I don’t think so,” you whispered. It wasn’t even a lie. Not really. Just a safer version of the truth. “I’m sorry.” The words came out without a thought. Like muscle memory. Your lips just moved and there it was, hanging between you two. Sorry for being outside. Sorry for being seen. Sorry for not remembering—or for remembering just enough to ruin everything.

He moved. Not fast. Not slow either. The sound of his footsteps felt louder than they should’ve been against the black tile, echoing like something from a dream you didn’t want to remember. Fingers touched your arm—warm, soft, reverent. Like worship. Thumb stroked your skin with the kind of care that should have comforted you, but instead made your stomach twist into knots you couldn’t untangle. Lips brushed your ear, your neck, with breath so warm it almost melted the ice building in your chest. And through the mirror, his eyes found yours again.

“Remember the story I told you? About the people who look like everyone else, but they’re not? Monsters don’t grow horns, sweetheart. They smile. They lie. They plant things in your head and wait for you to rot.”

You nodded slowly. Like a puppet on a string.

His lips pressed another kiss to your skin, soft, slow "She’s one of them,” he whispered, as if mourning her. As if mourning you. "She wanted to twist you, baby. Make you believe lies. She wanted to take what we have and burn it. Right here—” his hand moved, finger trailing slowly up your stomach, until it pressed against your chest. Your heart thudded against his fingertip. “—right in your heart. She wanted to plant seeds of doubt in it. Let them grow. Let them ruin you.”

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. "But… Ani, I knew her. I knew her from somewhere. I’m sure I did…”

His entire body tensed behind you, just for a second. His hand never left your heart, but his voice dipped—lower, darker. “And that’s what evil does, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It makes you think it’s familiar. That’s how it gets in. That’s how it breaks you.” he kissed your shoulder. Gentle. Steady. Like a vow whispered to your skin. "I won’t let that happen. I’d burn the whole world before I let anyone take you.”

You nodded.

Because what else could you possibly do?

Yet the doubt… it was already inside you. Curling into your bones like smoke. And even though his touch still made your body flush with warmth, you couldn’t stop thinking—

Was it all completely true? And who the hell was that girl?

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl

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thydungeongal · 10 months ago

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There's this idea floating around the general TTRPG space that's kind of hard to put one's finger on which I think is best articulated as "the purpose of an RPG is to produce a conventionally shaped satisfying narrative," and in this context I mean RPG as not just the game as it exists in the book but the act of play itself.

And this isn't exactly a new thing: since time immemorial people have tried to force TTRPGs to produce traditional narratives for them, often to be disappointed. I also feel this was behind a lot of the discussion that emerged from the Forge and that informed the first "narrativist" RPGs (I'm only using the word here as a shorthand: I don't think the GNS taxonomy is very useful as more than a shibboleth): that at least for some TTRPGs the creation of a story was the primary goal (heck, some of them even called themselves Storytelling games), but since those games when played as written actually ended up resisting narrative convention they were on some level dysfunctional for that purpose.

There's some truth to this but also a lot of nuance: when you get down to the roots of the hobby, the purpose of a game of D&D wasn't the production of a narrative. It was to imagine a guy and put that guy in situations, as primarily a game that challenged the player. The production of a narrative was secondary and entirely emergent.

But in the eighties you basically get the first generation of players without the background from wargames, whose impressions of RPGs aren't colored by the assumption that "it's kind of like a wargame but you only control one guy." And you start getting lots of RPGs, some of which specifically try to model specific types of stories. But because the medium is still new the tools used to achieve those stories are sometimes inelegant (even though people see the potential for telling lots of stories using the medium, they are still largely letting their designs be informed by the "wargame where you only control one guy" types of game) and players and designers alike start to realize that these systems need a bit of help to nudge the games in the direction of a satisfying narrative. Games start having lots of advice not only from the point of view of the administrative point of view of refereeing a game, but also from the point of view of treating the GM as a storyteller whose purpose is to sometimes give the rules a bit of a nudge to make the story go a certain way. What you ultimately get is Vampire: the Masquerade, which while a paradigm shift for its time is still ultimately a D&D ass game that wants to be used for the sake of telling a conventional narrative, so you get a lot of explicit advice to ignore the systems when they don't produce a satisfying story.

Anyway, the point is that in some games the production of a satisfying narrative isn't a primary design goal even when the game itself tries to portray itself as such.

But what you also get is this idea that since the production of a satisfying narrative is seen as the goal of these games (even though it isn't necessarily so), if a game (as in the act of play) doesn't produce a satisfying narrative, then the game itself must be somehow dysfunctional.

A lot of people are willing to blame this on players: the GM isn't doing enough work, a good GM can tell a good story with any system, your players aren't engaging with the game properly, your players are bad if they don't see the point in telling a greater story. When the real culprit might actually be the game system itself, or rather a misalignment between the group's desired fiction and the type of fiction that the game produces. And when players end up misidentifying what is actually an issue their group has with the system as a player issue, you end up with unhappy players fighting against the type of narrative the game itself wants to tell.

I don't think an RPG is dysfunctional even if it doesn't produce a conventionally shaped, satisfying narrative, because while I do think the act of play inevitably ends up creating an emergent narrative, that emergent narrative conforming to conventions of storytelling isn't always the primary goal of play. Conversely, a game whose systems have been built to facilitate the production of a narrative that conforms to conventions of storytelling or emulates some genre well is also hella good. But regardless, there's a lot to be said for playing games the way the games themselves present themselves as.

Your traditional challenge-based dungeon game might not produce a conventionally satisfying narrative and that's okay and it's not your or any of your players' fault. The production of a conventionally satisfying narrative as an emergent function of play was never a design goal when that challenge-based dungeon game was being made.

#long post

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steelheart-redux · 1 month ago

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Steelheart Redux: Year 1 Retrospective

I meant to post this yesterday but forgot. Oops. Anyway, June 1st marked the official first full year of Steelheart Redux! For me, at least. While the comic didn’t go public until September, those who have been here since the start remember that I uploaded all of chapter 1 at once. That work started in June, so I consider that the comic’s effective birthday.

With that disclaimer out of the way: what a year it’s been! In 365 days, I drew 153 comic pages. That’s about 0.4 pages a day— a little shy of a page every other day. Granted, those numbers aren’t an even spread. I made all of chapter 1 in three months (68 pages) and then had to take a break for a while because of wrist strain (wonder how THAT happened…) and then the amount of backlog I had fluctuated wildly for a while. Some days I have more time and motivation than others. It happens.

Quite honestly, I’m mainly happy that I’ve stuck with the project. My worst fear was that I’d get a month or two into Actually Doing The Thing, then get bored, demotivated, and give up. Luckily, my brain has allowed me to stick with Redux with a level of consistency that is frankly unforeseen from me, and I’m just as motivated as I was a year ago, if not more, thanks to people's interest. I’ve said it before, but the reception to the story already regularly blows me away. I went into this with the expectation that it would take years for the comic to gain any real traction, if it ever happened at all. But here we are, a year in, with tens, if not hundreds of regular readers across multiple platforms. It’s an honor I don’t take lightly, and as I’ve said, I’m so, so grateful for the trust and support.

Looking back, the comic started on wobbly feet. That’s something I knew even at the time and had to make my peace with. Steelheart Redux is my first original story project, first long-form comic (first colored comic longer than a few pages, tbh), and first time I've ever really left the title of "fanartist" behind for longer than a month or so. I knew I was entering uncharted waters and that whatever I made, I'd later come to see as 'bad', or at least, not executed as well as it could have been. Unfortunately, the only way to get that experience and improve is to do it bad. So I did it bad!

STRUGGLES:

Chapter 1 is way too long. Not in terms of content, but in terms of page count. For some reason, I was utterly allergic to the idea of putting more than four panels on a page. While I do like the pacing of it, and the sort of slow ease-in to the world and the setting, I made way more work for myself than I needed to. I definitely could have cut at least 10 pages by compressing things without seriously hurting the pacing, and it would have saved me a lot of trouble. Figuring out how to "trim the fat" and get to where I'm going as fast as possible without making things feel rushed is still something I'm working on, but I'm a lot more intentional about things now that I know it can cost me time and physical strain. You can see the font size slowly shrinking throughout the comic's run as I pack more in, lol. Honestly, it kind of works.

I have various other nitpicks. I'm sparing myself from the general "I don't like how I drew that"s in terms of anatomy and such, as those are just an inescapable result of improving as an artist and not worth getting in the weeds over. I will raise my eyebrows over some lighting choices-- I went out of my way to plan out a way to make the nighttime section of early chapter 2 read as "night, but not dark", and then the entire bit was annoyingly dark as hell. Trying to get the purple DRACO to visually stand out from the concrete there was obnoxiously difficult. I don't think it's bad-- I like the 'scribble background' gimmick I came up with to save myself from having to do backgrounds there, for one thing-- but I don't think it would have killed me to brighten up that section a bit. Something to keep in mind for later.

Speaking of backgrounds. Maybe it's too early to say, but at least right now, changing the background style was a game changer. That was one of the largest time sinks of early pages, adding 2-3 hours to every page that had at least one or two backgrounds. They were doable, but tedious, and as time went on, I found myself enjoying them less and less, instead of more and more as I'd hoped. You can see details start to disappear as a result, as backgrounds stopped being a "fun worldbuilding element" and "visual element of the page" and became just "something I had to draw to get the page done". Changing the style to a much looser one has brought the fun back, and made it much easier to pack in all the details I actually enjoy drawing without getting bogged down in "is the perspective exactly right". I've written posts before about making things easier for yourself if you're doing a long-form project; this is honestly my best example.

GROWTH:

I feel like, looking back, I can see myself become a lot more confident with drawing various things. Steelheart Redux is filled-- intentionally and not-- with things I'm bad at drawing, which has forced me to improve at those things sheerly through unavoidable repetition. Mainly, this includes backgrounds, mechs (still can't get me to draw cars though LOL), full bodies, and profiles.

It's also interesting to see the way I draw characters change. Going into the comic, I'd already been drawing Arthur for years, but making pages forced me to really lock in his design and get comfortable with drawing it. While it's not too different in terms of content, it has a different 'feel' now. This, too, I know is inevitable, and honestly something I look forward to.

I've become a lot more confident in doing these things, which makes making pages less intimidating and lets me experiment more with layouts and angles I might have otherwise been afraid to try. It's nice! It shows in a lot of the end of chapter 2, which is one of my favorite parts of the chapter. I was worried about hitting those emotional beats, because they're setting up for a lot and really needed to feel meaningful, but I think I landed them alright. My character writing is still something I worry a bit about-- there's a lot of subtlety to these guys and this story I worry I won't be able to get across in a more visual story-- but that's something for me to increasingly focus on going forward.

Away from the comic, I've also improved a lot as a 3D modeler. My robot rigs have improved, and I have much better human bases to work off. I can also slam out a layout for a scene much faster, which is a nice time boost to my workflow.

Overall, despite the hurdles and rough edges of some of the early stuff, I'm incredibly proud of everything I've produced. This is the first time I've ever put my heart, body, and soul so thoroughly into a project like this, and I'd like to think it shows.

While we're still in somewhat of the early stage of the comic's story, I'm hoping I've made a solid foundation for myself. I'm so excited for what's to come, and hoping I can execute it even better, year by year.

#steelheart redux #behind the redux #retrospective #long post

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gothyanki · 2 months ago

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Thinking about gender roles or lack thereof in Rauatai again (with a side of thinking about gender roles or lack thereof in the Deadfire). Rambling and headcanons behind the readmore:

It only comes up a handful of times in Deadfire, but I’m so fascinated by the idea of Rauatai as a matriarchal-leaning society where “hard” power (military might, sailing ships, guns) is gendered feminine. The Biha quest in the Gullet hints at this - if you’re playing a female character, she thinks Sedūzo will take you more seriously. She also points out that pretty much all the highest-ranking Rauataian military officials are women, which seems to be borne out by the game. (Karū, Sedūzo, and the hazanui from Tekēhu’s story are the only people of that rank we see or hear mentioned, and they’re all women.) Atsura also has an incredible turn of phrase where he refers to something as “like a child picking up her mother’s pistol” [might be paraphrasing a bit].

So if “hard” military power is seen as feminine in Rauatai, does that mean “soft” political power is seen as masculine? Maybe! There’s the divide between Karū and Atsura as the most obvious example; she’s the head of the operation who gets to be very blunt and straightforward about her intentions, while Atsura is the power behind the throne influencing events much more subtly. The ranga nui himself is a man, though I don’t think the gender of a ruler holds much weight without knowing the genders of previous rulers. It’s 100% headcanon, but I’m imagining that high-ranking politicians skew male the same way high-ranking military officers skew female.

It’s worth noting that I don’t think Rauatai has strong gender roles; absolutely nothing about their society or the characters we meet suggests that. There are plenty of men in military careers (including among the higher-ups) and they don’t seem too concerned with gender as a whole. If this divide exists, it’s more like mild background radiation that influences the way people view themselves and each other. I do feel like it adds something to both Maia and Kana’s characters if this is yet another pressure they had to deal with growing up. Some of Maia’s bluntness and in-your-face approach to life is just personality, but another part is her trying to be a Proper Rauataian Lady! Kana has to be skilled at playing politics whether he likes it or not! He talks about his mother pushing his sisters hard to succeed aaaand all three of them ended up in a military/sailing career. There’s a lot going on there!

This led me to thinking about gender in Huana culture(s), because I’m also endlessly fascinated by the similarities and differences between them and Rauatai. Gender doesn’t seem to matter to the Huana at all, not even in a very minor sense; caste is the main determiner of your role in the community. Tekēhu refers to Ukaizo as the “land of [his] mothers”, which is a friendly little reminder that There Is No Patriarchy Here (no legal marriage, no nuclear family, no tracing the bloodlines of children or differentiating between “biological” vs “adopted” kids in a household, children aren’t seen as “belonging” to their parents…) but aside from that, very little is gendered. We do see more women in leadership than men (Ruānu is the only male ranga I can think of, and he’s quite easily displaced by Nairi), but the sample size is small enough that that’s probably a coincidence. I feel like this is what enables Ahimi to shrug off Durance’s misogyny - it does bother me that the Watcher can’t answer back, but in her case, I don’t think she even sees it as worth acknowledging. She’s never had to deal with any kind of shame around or restrictions based on gender/sexuality, so he’s just saying words. (This is a point of friction between her and Pallegina, whose experience of godlike-ness is inextricable from painful gender expectations.)

…this headcanon also makes a minor in-game sequence infinitely funnier to me. There’s a moment where Onekaza and the Watcher can get into this little political back-and-forth which Karū clearly has no patience for; she’ll eyeroll at them and be all “If we’re done comparing cocks…” I like to think Rauataians use this phrase when people are diplomatically faffing around, being overly subtle, or arguing verbally without accomplishing anything. Stop using your words and punch her in the nose like a WOMAN!

#welcome to the first annual Rauatai/Huana gender roles ramble #I wanted to talk about how trans/nonbinary identities might be viewed in both societies as well #but am saving that discussion for another post because I realised it was going to get LONG #this is more “bundle of headcanons” than “actual meta” but there’s a splash of meta in there as well #Rauatai #Huana #Deadfire #pillars of eternity #rian plays poe

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zosin-ya · 8 months ago

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11 - ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴ

Summary: It had been weeks since you had talked to Law, feeling drained from the past events. You needed time to figure the relationship out, which caused you to run away from talking completely and be confronted with a storm, none of you were ready to face.

tags: Law x Reader, Modern AU, angst, a lot of tears baby, confessions,

a/n.: I wanted to write about Law expressing more intense emotions, hope all of you enjoy this cuz I rewrote this so many time ;; (i fkn cried writing this omfg send help;;)

[ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴᴅᴇx]

The last two weeks had passed in a haze. You couldn’t quite put words to it. Somewhere between numbness and exhaustion. Since that incident at the ceremony, you kept your distance towards Law, hoping time might help you make sense of things.

Slowly however, you started to question whether this thing with him was worth pursuing. You knew being with Law wouldn’t be easy. You were ready to face any storm he was battling. But the way Law kept you at arm’s length—never letting you in, yet exposing you to his world without a warning—cut deeper than you’d expected. The idea of ending things twisted painfully in your chest; you didn’t want to let him go. But maybe it was for the best… or maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t.

“Miss Y/N!”

The sharp voice jolted you back to reality and ripped you out of your thoughts. Startled, you looked up to see the clinical professor staring you down through her thin glasses, an impatient expression on her face. You felt the eyes of your classmates on you as well, and even the patient in the hospital bed, a faint trace of amusement in his gaze. Your stomach twisted with embarrassment as heat crept up your neck.

“I asked you a question,” the professor said, her tone laced with disapproval. “If you’re serious about becoming a doctor, you don’t have the luxury of drifting off in your head.”

The comment stung, and you forced yourself to hold her stern gaze, giving a small nod of acknowledgment.

“Apologies, Professor,” you replied, quickly gathering your focus. “For a Pseudomonas infection, kanamycin.”

The professor’s expression softened slightly as she nodded, and a flicker of approval crossed her face. You’d gotten it right—barely.

Clinic hours were proving to be tougher than you’d expected. Instead of simply memorizing facts, you were constantly moving from one department to another, shadowing doctors, working alongside nurses, and having to think on your feet with real patients in front of you. Every case was a test of your knowledge and intuition, and every question was a reminder that this wasn’t just theory—it was real.

And there was clearly no space to be distracted by personal matters.

With a quiet sigh, you finished up your tasks and left the patient’s room together. The professor gave you a few last-minute reminders, her voice fading into the background as you fought off the wave of fatigue. All you could think about was going home, collapsing onto the couch, grabbing something to eat, and letting your mind go blissfully blank.

As you made your way back to the lockers to hang up your white coat and grab your belongings, a flash of movement caught your eye.

You paused, squinting down the hall, and felt your stomach twist. Just for a second, you thought you saw him. Law.

He passed by with a group of students, their chatter filling the hallway as he trailed a few steps behind. You couldn’t see his face, but his posture told the story—you could tell he was drained. You’d come to know him well enough to notice the subtle signs.

You felt a pang of concern. A part of you wanted to walk over, to stop him, maybe even say something. But then the memories from the ceremony flooded back, bringing with them a surge of tension, of unresolved words and feelings. You hesitated, torn between the impulse to reach out and the instinct to keep your distance.

In the end, you turned away, your heart heavy as you continued down the hallway. The hospital doors closed behind you, a finality that sank in as you stepped into the cool evening.

The walk home was uneventful, the same routine of passing streetlights and faded storefronts. By the time you reached your apartment, you felt like you’d run on autopilot the whole way. You kicked off your shoes, let your bag slide off onto the floor, and grabbed your phone to order takeout. Cooking was out of the question tonight.

The moment you hit the order button, a thought flashed through your mind: there was a chance Law could be the one delivering it. You were pretty sure he still worked that job. For a brief, dizzying second, your heart skipped, a mix of nerves and anticipation stirring in your chest. But you quickly suffocated the feeling, refusing to let your thoughts linger on him. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that it was just an order—nothing more.

“Ah, fuck it,” you muttered, flopping onto the couch with a heavy sigh. You weren’t about to change your plans just because of the awkward, unresolved tension hanging between you two. You knew a conversation was inevitable, but for now, avoiding it seemed easier.

A few quiet minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last, until the doorbell rang, making you jump. You cursed under your breath—maybe you weren’t as good at pretending as you’d thought. The thought that Law might stand in front of your door made you freeze at the spot. The seconds dragged as you sat there, heart pounding, almost daring yourself to ignore it. But the bell rang again, sharper this time, each chime pulling you closer to the reality you were trying to ignore.

You took a deep breath, got up, and crossed the room, your pulse hammering louder with every step. What would you say if he was there? Would he say something, or ignore you completely? Each footfall seemed to echo the questions swirling in your mind, but you shoved them down, focusing on the task at hand. With one last inhale, you gripped the handle and pulled the door open.

...it wasn’t him.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over you as you started at the stranger, hitting harder than you’d expected. You let out the breath you’d been holding, managing a polite smile.

The delivery person gave you a confused look, irritated by how you had just swung open the door and seemed relieved.

Weird chick, he thought, yet stretched out the warm paper bag of food towards you and waited for you to pay.

You took the bag and handed over the money with your usual tip before closing the door. For a moment, you simply stood there, as your heart was slowly settling back to it's calm rhythm. Did you actually want him to show up? You’d been so anxious about it, and yet… here you were, feeling let down that some random guy brought you your food.

Why hadn’t you reached out to him, did you want things to end like this? Law had tried more than once, always patient, until you’d finally told him you needed some time. And, true to his word, he’d respected that boundary, hadn’t pushed or chased after you, as if he understood you better than you understood yourself.

Setting the food on the coffee table, you absentmindedly grabbed your phone and opened your chat with him. The last message was from Law, two weeks ago. Just a single word: "Ok."

Nothing more.

You bit your lip, staring at the empty message box, fingers hovering over the keys. Before you could think about it, your fingers moved on their own.

You typed a simple “Hey,” then deleted it. Typed a different message, something longer, only to erase that too. You could practically feel the weight of the unsent messages pressing down on you, the silence between you two growing louder.

Avoiding him had only made reaching out harder. Now here you were, caught in a web of your own hesitations, unable to even send a god damn text. The thought of finally talking it all through tightened its grip on you, a knot of anxiety you couldn’t shake. You stared at the empty message box, frustrated with yourself, wondering when—if—you’d ever find the words.

“Fucking hell…” you muttered, letting your head drop, shoulders sagging under the weight of this shitshow. You were on the verge of losing him, and that thought scared you more than you’d allowed yourself to admit. You didn’t want things to end, not like this. But you needed answers—an explanation that only Law could give you. And you’d never get it if you kept silent.

A flicker of courage rose within you, shaky but determined.

You typed out a simple, “Can we talk?” and hit send before anxiety could tighten its grip on you again. The message was out there, hanging in the ether between you, irreversible.

Staring at the screen, your heart pounded in your chest, each beat growing louder, more urgent, as you waited. You couldn’t stop your leg from bouncing, a nervous twitch you couldn’t shake. Your eyes stayed glued to the phone, biting your nails, praying he wouldn’t leave you hanging.

A minute passed. Then another. Five minutes.

This was torture.

Frustrated, you tossed your phone aside, hoping the noise of the TV would drown out the growing anxiety. But it didn’t. Your appetite had vanished, and the food sat untouched on the coffee table as you mindlessly flicked through streaming services. Every few minutes, you glanced at your phone, your stomach sinking each time the screen remained dark.

An hour passed, then another. It was getting late, and the hope that he’d respond had dimmed. You were just about to turn off the TV and drag yourself to bed when your phone finally lit up.

"When?"

The message startled you so much that you almost crashed against your coffee table as you reached for your phone. Heart pounding, you unlocked it, fingers hovering as you processed his reply. Before you could reply, the typing bubbles appeared, and you held your breath, leg bouncing in anticipation.

"I have time if it’s not too late."

“Now?”

A pause. Then, simply: "Yea."

You felt like your heart was going to jump out of your chest as you stared at his response. This was it. The nerves churned in your stomach, but you felt a small spark of relief—he was willing to talk. You didn’t know where this would go or if it would make things any clearer, but at least you wouldn’t be sitting in silence anymore.

“I'm home. Come over.”

Law arrived quickly. You opened the door, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt heavy, thick with all the words that lingered but hadn’t yet found their way out. His eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he looked down.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“...hi."

He slipped off his shoes with a familiar ease but without his usual energy, and you gestured toward the couch. He nodded, moving past you, the faint sound of his footsteps almost disappearing into the silence. You followed, sitting down beside him, both of you careful, leaving a strange, deliberate space between you on the cushions.

Now that he was here, you saw him more clearly. Law looked… rough. Dark circles sat under his eyes, his hair was disheveled, and a stubble cast a shadow over his jaw. His eyes were dull, as if they couldn’t bear the weight of whatever he was holding inside. His shoulders slumped, the tension in his frame draining him.

A tense silence stretched between you, filling the room with a charged stillness. Law’s gaze was fixed on his lap, his fingers tracing slow, restless circles on the back of his hand. At first glance, he looked calm, almost still, but a closer look revealed the tension woven into his every movement.

Finally, he drew in a shaky breath, the silence cracking as he let out a heavy sigh. He forced himself to look up, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry…” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “For what happened. For all of it.”

You stayed silent, arms wrapped around yourself as you pulled your legs close. The memory of that day crept back, clear and sharp—the way he’d exposed you to his family’s turmoil without any warning, leaving you to navigate a situation you hadn’t been prepared for. As much as it pained you to see him like this, you still needed answers.

“I’m sorry about…” Law continued, his voice faltering. “...about leaving you alone in that situation.”

You tilted your head slightly, absorbing his words. It wasn’t quite what you’d hoped for. Law, who seemed to understand others so well, still struggled so much with his own emotions. You’d expected him to say more—to address the actual issue.

“...That’s it?” you asked, voice soft but pointed.

Laws eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost hurt, like he hadn’t realized how his apology might come up short. He blinked, seemingly searching for what else he could tell you, but for once, he was at a loss. He had two full weeks to think what to say, and the only thing he came up with was a cheap sorry.

“I know what I did was wrong. Just… give me some time to work on it. Please.” His voice softened, almost pleading, his gaze searching yours for a sign of forgiveness.

More time? You bit your lip, hesitating, and the silence seemed to weigh on him, making him sink even deeper into himself. Everything depended on what he had to say, and the start of this conversation wasn't convincing you yet.

“I’ve been patient with you, Law. But … I’m not sure. I don’t even know what we are.” You gave him a sad, brittle smile that faded almost as soon as it formed.

He leaned forward, desperation flickering in his eyes. “You know I care about you,” he said, his voice thick, as if willing you to understand. But his words felt hollow in the face of everything that had happened. This wasn't what you wanted to hear. It was the same answer you had gotten at the ceremony.

“Do I?” Your voice starting to quiver as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The frustration of him being so emotionally dense was finally catching up to you. “Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. You left me to fend for myself, in a situation you knew I wasn’t ready for.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t look away, holding his gaze steady with a simmering mix of pain and defiance.

Fuck.

He was making it worse. Law closed his eyes and let his hand run over his face as if the weight of his own mistakes pressed down on him. Why couldn't he get this right? He wanted to fix this, truly, but he couldn't find the right words to convince you. “I know,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I messed up, alright? But it’s not easy for me.”

"Easy for you?" Your voice trembled as you took a shaky breath, forcing the words out even as anger and hurt fought to spill over. You couldn't believe what you just heard. Was he serious?

"You didn't tell me how fucking crazy your ex was, so crazy that she'd put me into danger just to make sure I was out of the picture. Or that your parents didn’t even know I existed, that they’d look down on me and my friends. And then there’s...,” you said, voice wavering. “There's the way your family looks at Yuki, like she’s everything I’m not. You threw me into all of this without a warning, without even a way to defend myself!"

Law’s expression crumpled, torn between guilt and helplessness as he slightly flinched at every point you made. Valid ones, he had to admit. He looked away, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles went white. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly wrestling with himself before muttering, “I never wanted it to happen this way.”

“If you actually cared about me, you could have just told me!” You threw your hands up, unable to hide the frustration building inside you, the desperate feeling that no matter what you said, he was refusing to hear you. “If you would have told me I could have prepared myself! I wouldn’t have followed Yuki blindly, I wouldn’t be so fucking hurt at what your parents said! Non of their behavior is your fault, but you made it worse by hiding this from me!”

“Okay, what if I fucking tell you, huh?” Law’s voice rose, the edge sharp, almost dangerous. His eyes flashed, but you didn’t look away, holding your ground. “Tell you how fucked up this whole situation is?” He let out a bitter laugh, almost scoffing at the thought. “You think I’m going to drag you into this shit? This is my burden. I carry it. Not. You.”

His words hung in the air, a raw, jagged tension between you two. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, as if he was trying to push you away—to protect you, or maybe to protect himself.

As much as his words made sense to him, you could see right through them. You knew the damage he was causing by holding onto this alone, and you aimed your response straight at the heart of it.

A scoff escaped you as fresh tears welled in your eyes. “You didn’t drag me in, you threw me into the fire for fucks sake! Multiple times! You are hurting others by trying to handle it alone, can’t you see?“

Your words seemed to knock the wind out of him. His whole posture shifted—his shoulders sagged, his jaw unclenched, and the fire in his gaze softened as he looked at you, stunned, as if he’d never considered this before.

He was hurting you. He’d done this to you.

You could see it—how torn he was. He didn’t want to hurt you, but something deep inside kept him from letting you in. His eyes flickered around the room, as if he could find the answer somewhere in the empty spaces. But there was no escape. He was trapped, caught between the fear of losing you and the fear of letting you get too close.

Swallowing hard, you pushed on. “Why?” you asked, desperate, the question trembling as it escaped. “Why is it so impossible for you to let me in?”

Law stayed silent, but you could see him tense up, his composure unraveling with each word you spoke. His leg bounced restlessly, and his brows knitted together in frustration. It was as if every sentence you spoke struck a nerve, pressing him closer to a breaking point he clearly wasn’t ready for. But you didn’t give in.

“Seriously?” You let out a bitter laugh, a shaky, painful sound as tears streamed over your face. “You’ve had two weeks to think about this, and you still can't tell me?“

He exhaled sharply, looking anywhere but at you, as if his mind was already miles away, trying to escape the conversation. His fingers dug into his knee, and his jaw clenched, but you didn’t waver.

„Why even try to fix something if you can't give me an answer! Why are you even here, Law?”

“Because I fucking love you, okay!”

It ripped out of him like it hurt to say, as if every syllable was dredged up from some dark place he’d kept locked away. His chest heaved with labored breaths, and the walls he’d held up for so long were suddenly, violently crumbling.

You froze, his confession hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. For a moment, you were lost. Completely speechless.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, pulling at it, as he struggled to contain the overwhelming emotions. His voice, now quieter but still shaking with intensity, softened, almost pleading.

"I love you...," he repeated, barely a whisper now, but the words were filled with so much pain it felt like they could break you. "And I can’t… I can’t let you drown in this with me. I can’t watch you suffer with me."

Law took in a shaky breath, you could see tears forming in his eyes, before he hid his face in his palms.

"I don't want you to see me like this-” He broke off, his voice thick with self-loathing, muffled as he whispered, “I didn’t want to drag you down with me. I can barley handle it, how are you supposed to?”

He was unraveling, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Every word seemed to crack something deeper within him, and he looked up, desperation spilling over.

The look he gave you was everything—so broken and vulnerable, that you knew, it would be burned into your memory forever. You saw it then, in his glassy eyes, the battle he was fighting, the fear he couldn’t outrun, the love he didn’t know how to handle nor believed he deserved.

“I want to protect you not hurt you, I-” He shook his head, not able to speak as choked sobs left his throat.

You moved closer, hesitantly reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. Law stiffened, the tension practically vibrating from him, his shoulders hunched, fists still clenched. But he didn’t pull away.

“Law,” you said softly, feeling your own tears slipping down your cheeks. “This isn’t handling it. This is letting it destroy you.”

He looked at you, eyes wide and filled with an almost childlike vulnerability. There was no resistance left, no armor, only the shattered young man he was.

“Let me help you carry it. I can’t stand by and watch you tear yourself apart, just because you think you have to go through it alone.”

He closed his eyes, tears still slipping down his cheek as he let out a broken, shuddering sob. Your words hit deep, right where it hurt the most. He hid his face in his palms again as shame washed over him. He never wanted you to see him like this. But Law couldn't control it any longer. It was too much.

You pulled him into your arms, holding him close as if anchoring him to solid ground.

“Hey… I’m here,” you whispered softly, one hand stroking gently through his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

Seeing him like this, so raw and vulnerable, hurt to witness—but it also felt like a bittersweet gift, a piece of him he’d never shown anyone else.

You held him close for what felt like forever, letting him pour out everything he’d kept buried, everything he’d held back for so long. His broken sobs, the way his breathing came in ragged gasps, and the warmth of his tears soaking into your shoulder—all of it shattered your heart. Every sound and shudder cut deeper, each one a reminder of the weight he’d been carrying alone.

But you knew you had to hold steady, to be his anchor. Right now, he needed your strength. So you tightened your grip, pressing a gentle hand against his back, letting him know without words that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere.

As Law’s breathing finally steadied after a while. You loosened your hold on him and slowly pulled away, giving him some space. He rubbed his eyes as he glanced down, a flicker of shame shadowing his gaze. His vulnerability lay bare, and you could tell how uncomfortable it made him, exposing himself like this.

But to you, it was anything but uncomfortable. You reached up and gently cupped his face, your thumbs brushing softly over the rough skin of his cheeks, grounding him. You gave him a small, reassuring smile, letting him see the love in your eyes—the acceptance, the gratitude that he’d let you into this part of him.

“Hey…” you whispered, your voice gentle as you held his gaze, unflinching. “I love you too.”

He looked back at you, and slowly, a weak but genuine smile broke through his exhaustion. He gave a small nod, leaning into the warmth of your touch, his shoulders finally relaxed. And as he let himself fall into the moment, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his in a kiss so soft and tender, it made your heart ache. It was a promise, an unspoken vow to stand by him through whatever storm lay ahead.

“I won't do this again...I promise.” Law’s voice was tentative, a hint of vulnerability still lacing his words. He knew he owed you more—a real explanation of the tangled mess of his past relationships and complicated family. He couldn’t risk putting you in another situation where his silence hurt you.

You nodded slowly. The weight of the conversation hung between you, leaving both of you visibly drained—but Law looked even worse. His eyes were bloodshot from the tears he’d shed, and he was still letting out soft, stifled breaths. He seemed calmer now, the tension in his shoulders released, but he was unmistakably exhausted.

For a while, you both just sat there in silence, staring at the blank TV screen.

“Wanna go to bed?” you asked quietly, your voice soft and reassuring. Law’s gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, something like relief washed over his face.

He couldn’t believe he’d almost lost you because he’d been too closed off, too guarded. His head was still a mess of thoughts, spiraling in countless directions, but he was too worn out to follow any of them. He just nodded and got up with you.

He followed you down the hall, each step heavy and slow, and the confidence he usually carried seemed to be missing. You knew that tonight’s talk hadn’t solved everything—far from it—but it was enough for now.

When you reached the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed as you rummaged through your closet. You found a pair of his spare clothes and tossed them over to him.

Law caught them, looking almost… surprised.

“What?” you asked, a little confused by his expression.

He shrugged, looking down at the clothes in his hands. “Just… kinda thought it was over between us. Figured you’d thrown my stuff out by now.”

You let out a sigh, sitting down beside him. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it,” you admitted. You weren’t holding a grudge against him; you were just hurt. Seeing his things around the apartment while there was so much tension between you had been painful, but even then, you hadn’t wanted to let go completely.

Law twisted the fabric between his fingers, seemingly a bit lost in thoughts as you watched him. His shoulders rose and sank as he let out a sigh.

“Guess I’m just… used to different shit,” he muttered with a short, bitter laugh.

You scooted closer to him, your hand lightly touching his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t rare for me to have to grab my stuff off the street after a fight… with her.” He kept his eyes fixed on the clothes in his hands, as though they brought back memories. He wasn't sure if mentioning his Ex was the right thing to do, yet after the conversation he was so drained it just slipped out of his system.

You blinked in surprise. You’d heard bits and pieces about his ex—never anything good.

“Why?” you asked softly, not accusingly, just… curious. “Why did you stay with her?”

Law’s gaze drifted, his shoulders slumping slightly. Though he wasn’t one to open up nor understand his own feelings too well, he seemed to have thought about this one a lot, maybe even rehearsed the answer to himself. “I met her when someone in my family got sick,” he murmured, a distant look in his eyes. “Guess it was… desperate times.”

You swallowed and didn’t press further. Instead, you watched as he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head, folding it with that meticulous care he always had. Then, to your surprise, he went on, as if talking helped ease the ache a little.

“It was my sister,” he said, his voice softer now. “There was no cure. And I’d just started uni, miles away from home. I met her around that time. She was…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “She was a distraction. Gave me comfort when I was too far from my own family. But things… fell apart after my sister passed.”

You felt the weight of his words settle in, understanding now just how much he’d been carrying. The realization hit you hard, and you understood what he meant with not wanting you to drag you down with him.

This was heavy, and you felt it.

“Law…” you whispered, voice choked. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

He nodded and sat back down beside you, running a tired hand through his hair. You deserved to know, especially after what happened moments ago. Even though, exposing himself like this, twisted his gut.

Silence between you settled. Law couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret. He hadn’t meant to leave you speechless. He wanted to tell you about his sister one day, but not like this. Seeing you at a loss for words was exactly what he feared.

Fuck, why did I tell her this out of nowhere?

His teeth grazed the inside of his cheek as doubt crept in. He was starting to feel uneasy about opening up. He could see the empathy in your eyes, the way you seemed to feel even a small piece of his pain—he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to pull you down with him or make you feel sorry for him.

But then, you placed a gentle hand on his cheek, pulling him back from that spiral of doubt. “You should tell me more about your sister sometime." Your touch, light and reassuring, calmed him, and your smile—warm and unwavering—let him know that you could handle this. You weren’t going to pity him or wallow in his grief; you were here to help him bear it, to remind him that he didn’t have to carry it alone.

It was like you were telling him that his memories could stay, just as they were—the good ones to cherish and the bad ones to heal from, but not to hide.

A soft, almost shy smile crept onto his face, the edges of his mouth lifting in a way that was both loving and grateful.

>>ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 12 - ɴᴇᴡ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (n.sfw)

taglist: @mars-mizuko , @tadomikiku , @hopelesslover06 , @loraleiii @mwhahahalasagna , @ttalgi , @metonimia-de-bellota , @parkquimin , @ephemeress , @not-a-glad-gladiator , @littleleelee , @chillerkiller

(Let me know in the comments and I’ll add you)

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livwritesstuff · 3 months ago

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finally posted that alternating steve/mike-pov fic i've been teasing for ages (at 10pm last night like a lunatic)

In the Spring of 2002, Steve finally gets an answer to a question that has been floating in the background of his brain, the background of his life and the Party’s life like a distant storm cloud for almost fifteen years.

It’s 2002, and Steve is thirty-five, and, for the record, he really had no idea when he woke up that morning he’d be getting any kind of answers to any kind of questions.

This one (the floating one) is about Mike Wheeler, because Mike has been operating like a living question-mark ever since 1990, when he wrapped his car around a tree one night and skipped town before the next morning’s sun could rise, and then he spent the years that followed popping in and out of the rest of their lives like some kind of traveling ghost.

Honestly, Steve has kind of learned to live with it at this point, which sucks, obviously, but Steve’s also spent many years figuring out how to at least partially unlearn his tendency to dive headfirst into other people’s problems without at least considering what might be at stake for him.

“You know, you’re more than just the guy that shows up and helps people get out of shit, right?” Robin had told him once, “You deserve to, like, chase the things that make you happy, or whatever.”

So he did, and thank fuck for that, because now, years and years later, he gets to spend a lazy Saturday morning at home with Eddie, his partner of almost a decade now, and Moe, their eight-month-old foster placement they’re currently in the process of adopting.

Steve has said it before, but Moe has brought a kind of happiness to his world that he hadn’t known existed, and the fact that he and Ed have already had eight months with her is kind of baffling to him.

Eight months isn’t that long, Steve had thought, but then he looks at photos they’d taken all the way back during that first month of Moe’s life and can’t believe how little she’d been, can’t believe how big she’s gotten. She’s even started crawling over the past few weeks, which is totally bonkers because, hello, wasn’t it just yesterday she was this teeny little being, all fragile bones and pink skin and squawking cries? And now she’s crawling?

(Nancy gave him all sorts of shit when Steve recounted that milestone to her and Robin – “She’s not crawling backwards, though, right?” she’d said, the bastard).

So, yeah, long story short, Steve woke up this morning content with the idea of spending the entire weekend hanging around at home with Ed and Moe.

Now, Moe has just finished breakfast (she’s just started to eat solid(-ish) foods, which has made meals their own kind of adventure), and they’ve all migrated into the living room, Steve working on a puzzle and Ed poking around at the pieces, one eye on the Star Trek rerun playing on the TV, while they decide if there’s enough time before Moe’s nap to go on a walk.

And then the buzzer sounds.

And then the buzzer sounds again and again and again.

“The hell?” Steve mutters, looking towards the door with a perplexed look on his face.

“Robin?” Ed ponders, because she’s the only person he can think of who would find that kind of behavior acceptable.

“No…” Steve says slowly, “She and Nance are up in Montreal right now.”

“Alright…” Eddie replies, and still, their buzzer continues to ring over them unrelentingly, “Well, shit, I guess I’ll go see who it is.”

Ed, as Steve is more than well-aware, used to take the fuck around and find out approach to life more often than not. Eight-and-a-half months ago, Ed probably would have just let whoever’s outside into the building first and asked questions later, but that was eight-and-a-half months ago, and now they have Moe, and while Steve won’t speak for Ed, he’ll say for himself that the world seems a hell of a lot scarier now that it includes Moe. The way Ed leaves their apartment, closes the door firmly behind him as he heads down to see who could possibly be outside, instead of…well, any other course of action, speaks for itself better than Steve could that Ed might be feeling something like that too.

Now, it may be true that Steve is a worrier by nature, and it may also be true that those tendencies have skyrocketed ever since they met Moe, but right now he’s not actually all that worried. It’s probably Robin, back home from a work trip earlier than expected, or guests of a neighboring condo who’ve found themselves at the wrong building. It’s probably fine, but Steve still scoops up Moe from where she’d been playing on the rug with a plastic cup (surrounded by toys, Steve will add, but why play with colorful baby toys when her Dada’s abandoned dishware is available?).

Moe points to the door Ed had just locked behind him, then looks back at Steve like she’s making sure he’s looking too.

“Did Dada go outside?” he asks her, “Can you say Dada?”

(She can’t. Eight months is a little too early for first words, but it’s worth a shot).

Moe just continues to look back and forth between Steve and the door Ed had just vanished behind.

“He’ll be right back, sweet pea,” he tells her.

Indeed, Steve hears footsteps and voices out in the hall only a minute or two later, and then Ed is letting himself back into the apartment, and when he does, when he steps through the doorway, it’s with a look on his face like he’s just seen a ghost.

And then Ed steps to the side so Steve can see who'd been ringing their buzzer and he understands that Ed sort of has seen a ghost.

Because Mike Wheeler is standing in the doorway.

read the rest on ao3

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #mike wheeler #liv's steddie dads verse #cw: bipolar disorder #-> it's like half diagnosed and wholly untreated

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netherfeildren · 2 years ago

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Greener Memories of Better Men

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Best Story of the Day! South Austin elementary school started a “Breakfast With Dads” program but many dads couldn’t make it and several students didn’t have father figures. The school posted fliers at the local YMCA for 50 volunteer fathers… 600 different people from all backgrounds showed up…

Joel Miller is one of them.

-OR-

Sarah’s gone and Joel wants to feel close to her again. He reconnects with someone he used to know along the way.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Grief; Child loss; Emotional hurt/comfort; Angst; Fluff and smut; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Size Difference; Size kink; Dirty talk; Truck sex; Praise kink

A/N: This was planned for a long time, and then just happened all at once today without prior thought. Enjoy! :)

Word Count: 10.8K

Read on AO3

When she got very sick, towards the end, they used to listen to “The Weight” by The Band all the time. He’d sit at her bedside playing it for her over and over again, and he’d watch her breathe. For hours, he’d sit there and watch the rise and fall of her chest, the slow, weak thrum of her pulse in her neck beneath the wan and clammy skin, listen to the sound of her fight to continue existing. Sometimes, when she was a little more on this side of lucid, when she’d let him look at those gorgeous green eyes, she’d mouth the words at him through cracked, parched lips. Hey, mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed? The still beautiful sound of her laughter, not made any less lovely despite its weakness now, when she adapted the lyrics to suit herself, take a load off, daddy.

And sometimes, when she was keen on showing that superior and tremendous wit, that intelligent mind, the eye she had for seeing within and through him, she’d say that Fanny was the friend they’d always needed, but had never had. Like she knew, she knew there were times, only sometimes, where there was something missing, an imaginary figure that would have been nice or helpful, that was sometimes wished for. A mother, a wife, a partner, a friend, something they might have both needed or liked to have, perhaps, even especially, now, at the end.

It had been a slow crawl towards death, for a long time, and then, suddenly, a mad dash to the finish line she’d seemed desperate to win.

At times he’d been angry, angry and resentful and so fucking filled with a rage so deep it terrified him at the unfairness of it all. Sometimes there were parts of Joel that wished it was him lying in that bed, rotting away from the inside out by that invisible poison crawling through his little girls veins, but then the idea of Sarah being the one left behind, the one left alone, seemed an equally terrible fate, and he could not discern which was the worse of the two evils. And so he was left with nothing but this terrible impotence warring inside of him against his equally terrible anger.

If he could have carried the weight of her illness for her, he would have. If he could have bore the pain and suffering of it, he would have. He would have eaten his own heart, cut off his own limb, forsaken everything he’d ever known, to have taken her suffering from her. He’d told her they’d be brave together, that they’d get out of it together. Eventually though, that mad dash had ended, and after it was all done, she’d been the only one to be brave, and he’d been the only one to get out of it. If that’s what it could even be called. Sarah had died and Joel had been left with nothing more than whatever half life he pretended at now.

It’d been a year and a half since then, five hundred and sixty seven days since he’d put his only child in the ground. Days of living his life as if a thousand raging gladiators screamed and readied for battle in his mind while he lay limp and motionless in their midst. While he lay limp and motionless as the rest of the world went on around him. He failed all the time now, it seemed. Failed at being a father, a man, a brother, in his waking hours and in his dreams. And sometimes he wondered or worried at what she’d think of him now, if she saw what he’d let himself become. A limp and useless thing in the shadow of the memory of what he’d always been or wanted to be.

But he remembered love, he remembered loving her, and he thought that if he held onto that, perhaps, he could be something again. Certainly not himself, or who or what he’d been before, but he could find the wherewithal or the strength or the conviction to be something, surely, he could be something again. How could death have the ability to touch such perfection? He could not understand. So, if he could no longer be a father, Sarah's father, then he could find it in himself to at least be alive, couldn’t he? For her, at least, for that memory of loving her.

He sees the flier at the YMCA one evening, after he’s finished his workout. For months he’d gone from work to bed and bed to work. Gotten soft and lazy and horrible, half dead, but he’d had a dream a few weeks ago, a memory of them at Lady Bird Lake when they’d go and feed the ducks. She’d wanted to burst into the water after them, catch one for herself. Skinny little arms and legs flailing as he caught her around the waist, stopping her from rushing in after the poor things as they paddled madly away from the lovely little terror that she was. The thing he was now was not the man, the father, he had been before, not even a fraction. And he’d felt disgusted and ashamed and frightened with himself at the thought of her ever seeing the creature he’d become. He’d gone for a jog that evening after work. As exhausted and beaten down from the day as he’d been, he’d tied on his sneakers and forced his body to move. It had felt terrible and cathartic and he’d thrown up in his front yard afterwards, pathetic, heaving sobs wracking his body as he emptied the contents of his stomach in the overgrown grass and tears dripped down the tip of his nose, right there for the whole world to witness. But he’d gone out again the next day and the next and the next, and then he’d gone and gotten a membership for the Y, paid the thirty dollars and promised himself he’d make it there a few days every week. Pushed himself week after week to exhaustion and tears, even, sometimes. Wilting into bed at the end of the day like a felled weed, but he couldn’t stop.

Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream.

So he tried to not think, and he tried to keep going.

They used to walk down there all the time before, to the Y, Joel, Sarah and Tommy. She loved to swim, and the three of them would jump in the pool together and play for hours every summer. They were good memories he knew he needed to keep fresh in his mind, like a muscle that needed to be exercised constantly. He couldn’t, didn’t want to lose them.

The flier called for volunteers to show up for an event at Sarah’s old elementary school, “Breakfast with Dads” requesting fathers who could show up for those children who didn’t have a father figure in their lives. He’d stood still as a statue, reading the poster over and over again for almost ten minutes there, in the middle of the bustle of the busy gym around him. He could still remember the last time he’d picked her up at school with perfect clarity, the way she’d looked, curls bobbing around her, green eyes shining, shooting out the double doors towards him. She’d always been good in school, smart and lovely and friendly. He’d had to make the difficult decision to pull her out almost a year before she’d died, when she’d started getting too weak from the treatments to continue going in person. He’d not been back to the place since. Didn’t know if he was capable of walking through those halls she used to walk through, where she’d been happy, had friends, been a kid.

He thinks about it for days afterwards, afraid and unsure and awkward with himself. Worried the children will be able to smell the deceit on him, the fact that he isn’t really a father anymore, lying on the soft purple rug of her perfectly preserved bedroom. A mausoleum to her memory that he meticulously cleans every Sunday to maintain exactly as she left it, staring up at the stick-on stars of the ceiling. He thinks that perhaps it would be good for him, that perhaps he would like the chance to feel like a father again, to remember what it is to have some spunky little kid talk at him for hours on end the way Sarah used to. And if nothing else, he thinks that there might be some child out there without the commodity of a father, the way he is without the blessing of his daughter, who would appreciate the fact that he’d shown up. Perhaps, he can make some kid not feel as alone as he always feels now.

The morning of the breakfast dawns bright and warm, but with the faint scent of impending rain in the ether. She’d died on the same kind of sunny, tremulous day, and Joel’s hands shake as he walks up the steps of the elementary school. Flashes of the memory of her running out of these same double doors, skipping down the steps, curls flopping and gap toothed smile more luminous and sillier than any sight he’d ever beheld before. His heart beats like a hummingbird in his chest, hands clammy and shaking and ridiculous. He cries all the time now, at any and everything and it embarrasses him but is also so strangely freeing. He’d watched that ridiculous, but not really, movie Uptown Girls last night and had wept like a child at the end of it, all throughout it if he’s being honest. Huge mistake for the night before he was supposed to show face bright and early and have some kid inspecting him. Tommy’d shown up this morning with coffee and burritos and told him his face looked swollen, fucking asshole, and he’s once again ridiculous and embarrassed and awkward and shaking with nerves as he takes a few deep, calming breaths, before stepping into the Sarah’s old cafeteria.

The large room is loud and chaotic, the bright sound of children’s voices and laughter and commotion, and people, there are a lot of fucking people. Two different lines of men, traversing the entire wide room, starting at a long table on one end and snaking through the lunch tables. It seems he wasn’t the only one who’d seen the posters, who had felt the need to come here today. He’s inspecting the lines, deciding which one seems to be moving faster when he hears his name, soft and breathy and incredulous, voice like a fucking angel: “Joel?”

He turns and there you are. “Joel Miller?” You almost stumble towards him, hand almost outstretched, eyes almost swimming. The last time he’d seen you was the last time he’d picked Sarah up here, and there’d been real tears in your eyes that time as you got to your knees, and his daughter buried her face in your neck, your soft hair, as she cried and told you how much she’d miss you, how much she didn’t want to go. You’d been her last teacher before she’d had to leave school – she’d never gotten to finish the year with you, and it had been a painful and difficult parting for the both of you. One he’d not appreciated fully in the moment, but now, looking at your shocked face, like you’ve seen a ghost, the memory rears its head in his mind, the sound of your voice trying to soothe her, trying to remain strong, stifle the sound of your own tears. You’d gone to the hospital once, near the end, the nurses had told him, in the quick hour he allotted himself to go home and shower every day, to say goodbye to her. Had sat at her bedside and laughed with her, brought her a card and a bright bouquet of yellow daisies in a pretty, blown glass vase from her entire class. It had been near the end of the school year, what would have been the end of Sarah’s second grade year, and he’d been glad, after the nurse had gushed about the pretty young woman who’d come in, made Sarah laugh and smile, perked her up for even a few brief moments, he’d been so fucking glad he’d missed you. He hoped he’d never have to see you again, could avoid the memory of his daughter in your care, the way the two of you looked at each other, like you shared a secret, a friendship, a connection, that of pupil and teacher, but also just two girls, something special and sacred. He envied it and resented it and was glad he’d missed you and grateful he’d not had to see you, but he was also grateful for the fact of you, that you’d been able to give her something she’d needed and he could not provide.

He whispers your name, and you finally reach him, hand fully outstretched now, not an almost anything anymore, and your small, delicate fingers grasp at his thick forearm. The soft touch burns.

He places his big hand over yours, completely engulfing you, and when he whispers your name back he feels a tremble in your limb. “Joel, I’m so glad to see you,” said with so much sincerity he feels the backs of his eyes pinch. He did not think the hardest part of this day would be seeing you again, a person who’d known and cared for his daughter so deeply.

“I– I’m glad to be here,” he chokes, coughs, tries to take a steadying breath. “I saw the posters– just thought… I just thought it’d be nice for me to come around.”

“Yes,” you squeeze his arm gently, “Yes, of course. Welcome, please, I’m really so glad to see you here. There are so many great kids here today–” you cut yourself off, and your face does a funny sort of uncertain thing, you shake your head, try and give him a small smile. A deep breath, and then: “There are so many kids here that need someone. It’s a real good thing you came.”

“Yeah, well… I just wanted to– to feel– to remember–” he shakes his head too, unable to continue, but he sees that you understand. You slide that small hand into his, wrapping around two of his thick fingers and pull him around and further into the room. Nodding your head and smiling back at him like you’ve got the best sort of secret you’re about to let him in on. “Of course. Come on, I’ll show you to your seat. I know just the person for you.”

“Joel, this is my niece–”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” All the sass in the world and a scarred eyebrow to boot.

“Ellie,” you say nice and slow, voice soothing as if trying to calm a wild banshee on the verge of revolt, it makes him smile a small smile, “We’re gonna be nice. You promised this morning.”

“Ugh, fine,” she drops her head back on her neck, and he can see the whites of her eyes flash as she rolls them as far back as they can surely go. “Stick me with the dinosaur, what do I care?” Christ, he mutters under his breath, trying to hide his scoff of a laugh with a rough cough. He turns his head to rub his chin against the hill of his shoulder, running a hand over his whiskered face.

“Ellie– Mom said you can’t go to the sleepover tonight if you aren’t nice. Right?” You try and reason with her.

“Fine. Whatever – nice.” And she flashes a big old, saccharine grin, wagging her eyebrows at you.

“Okay,” you turn back to him, bringing your hands together in a soft clap beneath your chin and giving him a small and painfully sweet little smile – worried and probably a little afraid for him. He shakes his head, “It’s alright, we’ll be okay,” he says low, distracted by the sight of your small hands, fine and delicate looking, and the dainty gold necklace that sits at the hollow of your throat, a little golden pendant of your initial.

You nod your head slowly, turn back to give the kid, Ellie, one more stern look, and then turn to walk away, leaving him to face her alone, and no, he most definitely does not glance at your ass as you walk away from him.

He turns back to look at the kid, and she rolls her eyes again, turning back to flip open the book she’s got infront of her on the lunch table, a one Will Livingston’s No Pun Intended: Volume Too.

He snorts a little, sighs and settles into the cramped bench made for a child, thick thighs barely squeezing into the space between the table’s edge and the seat, knees bumping the underside. “Well aren’t you a pleasant one.”

“Yeah, a ray of fuckin’ sunshine. What’s your problem?”

“Jesus, kid. How old are you?”

“Thirteen. How old are you?”

“Forty eight.”

“Old.”

“Yeah.”

“So, why'd you get stuck with the leftovers? Where's your kid?”

He clears his throat, “Uh well, she– she’s not here anymore. Or I mean– she doesn’t go to school here anymore. She died. A while ago.”

“Oh, shit.” She’s quiet for a beat, looking down at the open page of the book, It doesn’t matter how much you push the envelope. It’ll still be stationary. “That sucks, man. I'm sorry.”

He supposes the correct response is: “Thank you,” he nods his head awkwardly, still unaccustomed to going through the motions of having to tell people and accept condolences. He doesn’t think it’ll ever be something he gets used to.

“I think…” she tilts her head side to side, letting the thought slide between her ears, flips to the next page, I walked into my sister’s room and tripped on a bra. It was a booby trap. “That my dad is dead, or at least a dead beat or something,” she snickers. “Don’t know. My mom never talks about him.”

Dead or a dead beat, he mutters, shaking his head, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s hard– being a parent, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah… hardest thing in the world–”

“Is it like – like weird… to not be one anymore?”

He feels his stomach drop out from under him, coughs roughly, “Dunno… I guess– I guess in ways I still feel like a parent. Think I’ll always feel like that. But in other ways, yes, it’s… weird.”

“Yeah… I guess that makes sense. You don’t forget how stuff feels, right?”

“Yeah, you don’t forget how stuff feels.”

“Do you like space?” she asks suddenly, very seriously, knocking her head to the side, looking up at him with big, baleful, hazel eyes. His heart twists in his chest.

“Sure, yeah. Space is alright.”

And then another seeming one eighty: “If you could do anything you wanted, where would you go? What would you do?”

“Don’t know, never really thought about it. Maybe… an old farmhouse, some land, a ranch.”

“Cool. What kind?”

He shakes his head, Jesus, I don’t know… “Sheep. I would raise sheep.” She nods, doubtful, unimpressed look on her face, and he frowns at the look, “They’re quiet, do what they’re told.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. So, just you and a bunch of sheep. Romantic,” she says sarcastically.

“What about you? What would you do?”

She points a single finger up towards the ceiling, ah, space… “Probably because I’ve always been here, never left Austin, single mom and all, ya know– I’ve read everything I could in the school library… Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Jim Lovell. But you know who my favorite is?”

He could understand her on this. He felt, too often, like he was still right where she’d left him. “Sally Ride,” he says, of course.

“Sally fuckin’ Ride!” She slaps her hands down on the table, “Best astronaut name ever,” Shakes her head, whistling through her teeth appreciatively.

He nods his head, yeah, figures. “So, your aunt…” and he feels a hot flush spread over the tops of his cheekbones, real smooth, Joel. At least he’d waited this long.

“She’s my mom’s sister. She’s great. The three of us live together – kind of like my second mom, I guess. Or like they take turns being mom and dad. We’ve always been together.”

“That’s great, kid. She’s great. She– she was my daughter’s teacher, I’ve known her for a while now.”

“Yeah, she really is. I punched this girl last year,” she says way too excitedly, “Bethany,” rolls her eyes, “For being a huge dick, man, like seriously, she was. And she got me out of it. Backed me up with the principal, Mr. Kwong. No one else would’ve stuck up for me that way.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Seems like her style–”

“Protective,” she snickers.

“Yeah–”

“And good. Her and my mom, they’re a unit, the three of us. Don’t know, I’ve never seen anyone take care of each other the way they do. Sometimes…” she looks away a little shyly, “I misbehave,” she says slowly, “Like the fighting. For no reason, I guess. And I know it worries them. But I’m trying to be better, not fight as much. My friend Riley, she’s a good influence. She stops me when I get too riled up.”

“I reckon it’s a lot easier said than done, but the fact that you’re trying to be good is what counts, is what I’d say. I’m sure being thirteen is difficult,” he says a little sarcastically, but giving her the approximation of a small, warm smile.

“Fuck you, man,” she laughs, “It’s difficult as shit.” It hits him then, suddenly, that the kid just needs someone to talk to, someone other than perhaps her mother or her aunt who she knows love and worry for her so much. A third, impartial party. Joel had come here today and been able to be that for her, and as inconsequential as it may seem, after all he’s lived through, it’s everything to him.

The teachers and school administrators begin the process of handing out the breakfast: pancakes and bacon and sausage and fruit, and Ellie tells him about her book, full of terrible puns he pretends to frown at but also can’t really help but laugh at with her, and about a comic she loves Savage Starlight. Endure and survive, she tells him, is the motto, and he can’t help but think the idea is far reaching and significant in its truth. They sit and talk and laugh together, and it’s easy, this surly kid who pretends at being angry, hiding her charm with a potty mouth and a scowl, but who’s really nothing but sweet. It makes his chest ache and his throat go tight. So much so, that after a while he needs to excuse himself. He tells her he’s going to the restroom and runs off like a coward, the devil and his memories on his heels to take a few deep breaths, a moment alone to collect himself.

He rushes out of the cafeteria, bursting through the double doors and out into the hallway, scurrying to find a lone corner to hide himself and his shame and grief away in. He makes it to a shadowed alcove at the mouth of an empty hallway of classrooms and presses his hands to the concrete blocks of the wall, painted a soft blue color. He stares at the pockets in the aggregate and tries to take deep breaths, feels the air pass through his lungs, inflate his belly, and then back out, transformed into the world as something else. Sometimes he wishes he had the ability to transform his grief into something else – a non-memory, perhaps. Sometimes he wishes he could forget the whole thing, a terrible, selfish, disgusting thought. But pain makes terrible creatures out of us sometimes, and Joel has existed in a pool of such pain these past five hundred and sixty seven days that sometimes it’s difficult to recognize himself anymore, his desires, his goals, if he even has those anymore. Like he’d said to the kid, it’s a lot easier said than done, but the fact that you’re trying to be good is what counts, and he was trying so very hard to be good, better.

“Joel?” That soft voice again, a shiver claws its way down his spine, and he shakes his head at the wall, letting his hot, pinched eyes fall closed.

He coughs, trying to clear his throat, “M’fine. Just needed a second–” Coughs again. And then he feels that small hand from before, at the small of his back. You rest there, gifting him that brief, comforting touch, and he reaches behind himself to clasp you around the wrist, keep you there with him, silent for a moment while he tries and fails to collect himself. His fingers wrap entirely around your wrist and something different and hot and alive flutters deep in his belly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it. I’m just– It’s overwhelming being here. I’m sorry. I’m okay,” he rambles.

“It’s okay, Joel. Just take your time.” Your voice is too soft and gentle for a hard and broken thing like him.

“She’s a good kid,” he tries and fails to keep his voice steady, comes out all hiccupped and cracked instead, and he feels you step closer, not touching him anywhere else, but he can feel the heat of you against his back.

“She is,” you whisper.

“S’got a fuckin’ mouth on her.”

“Yeah…” You try and laugh, fail.

He cracks and splinters: “I didn’t think it would be like this coming back here… seeing you,” voice breaking, “She was sick for so long, and I knew she didn’t want to leave me. I knew she was so fucking tired, but she kept holding on just for me. And I told her it was okay, I told her to go and that I’d find her again one day, and now I don't know who I am or what I’ve become, and all I can think about every single day is that if she saw me now I worry she wouldn't recognize me anymore.”

“You’re trying, Joel. That's all that matters. I know you are. I can see it now even just here today, you being here–”

“I wish I could see her smile again, just once–” he cuts you off, not really listening. His ears filled with static noise, chest heaving. Your other hand comes to his flank, and it’s too much: this place, your touch, the kid, all of it, all of his memories and all of his grief, and he shouldn’t have come here today. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and for a second, right before he pushes you away, he squeezes your wrist tightly, as tight as he can without really hurting you, lets the heat of your skin burn him, and then lets go of you, harshly shaking you off.

“I’m fine. I shouldn’t have come here today, I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

“Joel–”

“Tell Ellie I’m sorry, but I have to go.” And like a fucking coward, like a man his daughter’d be ashamed of, he leaves, runs away from you and the memory of her and another child who needs something he is not equipped to give.

He listens to the sound of your voice calling after him, and he is nothing but sorry and nothing but too much of a man he wishes he’d never been made into.

You’re on your second margarita when he walks in. Trailing his brother, serious, sullen look on his handsome face. When you’d seen him this morning, after all that time, after the last time which had been so painful and so sad and so full of regret for the circumstance of it, you’d felt like your heart was about to burst through your chest. You thought about him so often, about her, more often, probably, than was warranted or healthy, but the experience of having a child such as that in your care, such a special little person, and having to witness the extinguishing of such a bright flame… Well, calling it a tragedy was entirely inadequate in the face of all it truly was.

Anna was kind of dating the bartender that worked here, and with Ellie away at a slumber party tonight, the two of you’d decided to have a girl’s night out that you were almost certain was going to turn into a slumber party for Anna with her bartender, Ben, as well.

You eye the two brothers as they find their spot at the far end of the bar, watch as Tommy, you remember she used to talk about him all the time, flags down Ben to order them two beers, appreciating the way Joel pulls on the glass bottle with that soft, frowning mouth of his.

He’s so sad. There’s no other word for it. Sad and hurt and made into a sort of tragedy of a man that you wish desperately, and even though it’s not your place, that you could do something to help. The sound of him choking back tears this morning, the sight of him laughing with Ellie, she’d warmed to him immediately which was a miracle all on its own, and he is, you think, a man with so much tenderness to give that has nowhere to go now. And it is nothing but the gravest and saddest sort of tragedy.

“Hi, Joel.” Eventually, you muster up enough courage, after one more margarita, to approach him. You think that, perhaps, he’ll be annoyed to see you again, another reminder of his past and the difficulty of the morning, but you need to just talk to him one more time. To thank him again for being so brave, to reassure him that he’d done good. Tommy’d abandoned him to brave the waters of the bar a while ago, and he turns in his stool at the sound of your voice to peer over his shoulder. You love his beard, thick and lush and so soft looking, his thick, dark curls, slightly threaded with silver at the temples, and his ridiculously broad back. He’s wearing a dark green button down that brings out the colors in his eyes, tight around the swell of his thick biceps. He’s gorgeous and so fucking hot, and he makes you feel silly with nerves and fizzy bubbles deep in your belly.

“Hey–” he clears his throat, says your name softly, with a hint of apology. “Hey.”

“I saw you come in earlier, and I– I just wanted to come over and say hi and thank you again for this morning. It was a real nice thing of you to come today.” You try and swallow the shyness and nerves in your voice, but you’re pretty sure you fail spectacularly, can just picture Anna’s mocking giggles as she watches you twist your fingers and fidget in front of the man.

“You already thanked me,” he says gruffly, “And besides there’s nothing really to thank me for.”

“I know, but again, or anyways,” you stutter, “And there is.” There’s absolutely no reason for these nerves, you know this man, have known him for years, “It was a good thing of you to do. Ellie really liked you–”

“You gave her my apologies, right?” He cuts you off, a thing akin to desperation and worry coloring his tone.

“I did, don’t worry. She understood.” He looks like he wants to ask what excuse you gave her but forces himself into silence, looking down at his hands in his lap sullenly. “I don’t know… I just wanted to say thank you again.”

“Alright. And I’m sorry too, about earlier – after. I was an ass.”

“You weren’t. I shouldn’t have gone after you, should’ve given you your privacy. I’m sorry. I was nosey.”

He shakes his head, looks up at you with those hazel eyes, “No, I wanted you to come after me.” His voice is rough, like it costs him something to admit this truth to you, “Thank you.”

You have to look away, glancing back at Anna who gives you a wide, cheesy grin and a thumbs up, followed by a much more inappropriate hand gesture. You roll your eyes at her, a hot flush burning your cheeks. “That’s your brother, right? Tommy?” You turn back to him.

“Yeah, it is… You wanna sit?” He gestures to Tommy’s empty stool.

“She used to talk about him all the time.” You take the offered seat, nervous for a second that he’ll resent you bringing her up, react badly, but he gives a soft laugh, looking after his brother. “Yeah…” he says slowly, “They were real close.”

“That’s really nice,” you say sincerely. You catch Ben’s eye, and he nods his head at you, turning to get the two of you another round. “You two having a boys night out?”

He gives a short laugh, bringing his beer to his mouth again, pressing the lip of the bottle to his smile, “Guess he was just trying to do the same thing you are right now, distract me, make sure I’m alright or somethin’,” a quick shake of his head, and then takes another drag, and you watch the thick muscles of his neck work as he swallows. You have to look away from the sight, cross your knees together tightly, pulling down the hem of your wrap dress to keep it from riding too high.

Ben comes around at that moment to place two shots in front of the two of you. “Here you go, baby girl,” a wink and that smarmy little smirk that makes Anna lose her head, for some inexplicable reason, “Tequila for you and your friend here.”

“Baby girl?” Joel eyes you, as you push the shot towards him.

You roll your eyes, “Ignore him.” He takes the shot from you, fingers brushing yours briefly and you swear you feel a slight jerk move through him. You want him to want you so badly, you think suddenly.

“Shall we?” you wiggle your eyebrows at him, and he gives you a soft laugh.

“Seems I don’t got much of a choice,” before clinking his glass against yours, touching the base of it to the bar’s surface, and then shooting it back, not even an insinuation of a grimace as he swallows the strong alcohol, while your face puckers ridiculously.

Gross. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut and sucking on the lime Ben had left also. “He sweet on you or somethin’?”

“No, not at all.”

“Huh, not so sure about that,” he eyes your sister’s boytoy almost sourly, and you get brave or reckless or something, all of a sudden, when you press right up to his ear, your breasts against his arm, emboldened by the liquor or the soft hazel of his eys, or the breadth of his shoulders when you whisper right into the peach fuzz covered shell of his ear, “He’s fucking my sister. Not me.”

He freezes, a soft, masculine sound rumbling deep in his chest before he clears his throat. He sets the glass down, and then slowly turns to face you, gripping your knee briefly as he spins on the barstool to bring your legs between the space of his spread thighs. He’s so thick everywhere.

“Is that so?” The place on your legs where he’d gripped you burns and throbs and the other, softer place between your thighs drips and aches. You nod your head at him, temple resting in your palm propped on the edge of the bar. Ben walks by again, snagging your attention from Joel’s molten gaze, “Gimme permission to come over tonight?” he says as he passes.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh after him, and you swear you feel the whisper of Joel’s touch on the curve of your bare knee again. When you turn to look back at him he’s staring down at you, a flush sitting high on his cheekbones.

There’s something slightly bold or desperate or sad stirring inside of you, and you need to hear the sound of his voice. You wish you could make things better for him. You wish that perpetual look of grief didn’t sit so deeply embedded in his gaze all the time now.

“You know that feeling of knowing someone, but not knowing them?” He asks you suddenly. “You and I, we’ve known each other for years. You were Sarah’s teacher, and she talked about you all the time – her last teacher – and I felt like I knew you, even though I didn’t really, not in a way that mattered, not in the way I would have liked, if I’m bein’ honest, but we knew each other peripherally. And I wanted you, all that time ago,” he laughs a boyishly shy little huff of laughter interrupting the rush of his confessed words, the crests of his cheeks flushing bright, “In that way you want someone you don't know but see all the time and want to know better. And now, it’s like… like we’re meeting again for the first time, but in a different way, in a way we’ve never met before, and yet you know so much about me already. You knew my daughter, spent time with her, you cared about her – it’s… I don’t really know what it is I’m trying to say, to be honest. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, another unsurely shy laugh, and you reach out to set your hand softly on his knee, rubbing the thick, muscular ball of it. It’s okay, you nod and shake your head at him at the same time. Confused also, with what you’re trying to convey, but knowing you want him to continue anyway. “You knew me before in a different way, and I’m not that man anymore. And I don’t know who I am now, or I’m beginning to relearn, but I’m not there just yet,” He trails off, and then softly: “Have you ever not known yourself?”

You tilt your chin slowly, watching the slow rove of the leftover tequila in the glass as you roll the base of it along the grain of the bar. “I’m… I’m not sure. Would it be very naive or arrogant or shallow to say, no? That I’ve always known myself, that even when I was lost or afraid, I was still certain of who I was, or at the very least, who I wanted to be? Like… like sometimes when you’re uncertain of the next step, or– or of what it is that you want to do next, but you still know the direction, maybe? Or what ending you’d like?” You give a brief huff of laughter, not really meaning to laugh, but expelling the air anyway, glancing down at where you’re still gripping his knee. He lays his own large paw over your much finer hand, calluses on his palm that you can feel on the back of your knuckles. “I think now we’re both, maybe, not making sense. But I think that sometimes happiness is only the peripheral thought, the peripheral ending, like obviously we all always want to end up happy. I was always open to the journey, open to the different avenues my life could take, but all I’ve ever wanted was for me and Anna, and then later, Ellie, to be okay, to be happy. Nothing else matters after that. The way I get there, the way I’d make it happen never mattered. Only that, in the end, we’re okay.”

“No… I know exactly what you mean.” His brow caves in on itself, “I know exactly what you mean because I failed at that. That was all I ever wanted too, and look at what I ended up with. She’s gone, I failed her.”

“But you didn’t, Joel,” you say with all the fervor you can pull from your heart, all the certainty you absolutely know that he’s wrong with. You bring your other hand to his other knee, leaning forward to make absolutely sure he’s understanding. “You can’t honestly say that. You’re right, I did know her, and that little girl was an exceedingly happy child. If anything, you were nothing but a triumph, and you need to hold on to that, and think of it every single day for the rest of your life. You were triumphant in that girl. Never forget it. There is not even a shadow of failure in the memory of that child and the life she led.” And this does not seem like the appropriate environment to be having such a conversation, but you push on. His hand tightens over yours almost painfully, his blunt rough nails digging into your soft skin. “When she died – was she scared? Or peaceful?”

“She was so fucking brave,” he chokes. “She was so fucking brave. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in that heart. I’d swallowed all of it. I’d swallowed all the fear either of us could ever carry. She’s the one that held me while I fell to pieces. While I lied through my fucking teeth and told her it would be okay, that I’d be okay, that she could rest, she could go. And held me and tried to soothe me and told me she’d see me again one day, but not too soon. Eight years old, dying and comforting her father, cracking jokes. She was so fucking brave, and I’d promised her that we’d both be – that we’d both have courage and both get out of it, and in the end, I ended up being nothing but a goddamn liar.” And there are tears in his eyes, and maybe you shouldn’t and maybe you’re overstepping and maybe it’s the alcohol, but you lean forward in your barstool, that boldness and that desperation and that sadness pushing you along so that your knees are sliding further between his spread thighs to wrap your arms around his neck to hug him tightly to yourself, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, big hand coming up to cup the back of your head.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, even though you know the words are redundant. Even though he’s probably heard them an antagonizing amount of times. You are so sorry, and you have to tell him that you wish you could help him in some other way, that he’d not have to bear this alone, that he’d never have had to live it at all. I’m so sorry, Joel. I’m sorry that you lost your daughter, and I’m sorry you’re alone now, and I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better before, but maybe we can know each other now. I’d like to know you now more than anything else.

You feel the rattle of his wide back as he takes in a shaky breath, and you slide your hand soothingly up the broad expanse to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he laughs wetly into the warm space beneath your jaw, rolling his forehead against your shoulder, “I’m killing the mood,” and you feel the wet press of lips to the soft spot beneath your ear, right at the vulnerable hollow. Your heart stutters, and you shiver a syrupy sweet little jitter down the line of your vertebrae in the clutch of his arms, letting your head fall to the side to open yourself further to him, you smell good, whispered into your skin, but the two of you are sitting at the center of the crowded bar, industriously dedicated patrons hooting and hollering around you, and you can feel Anna’s nosey gaze zeroed into the back of your head so you pull away, letting your hand on the back of his head drag around along the edge of his jaw, fingernails pulling through the soft whiskers of his beard so that you can feel the snick, snick, snick of each bristle beneath your nail.

“Let’s go outside,” you whisper, made only of boldness and desperation and want now. Wetness pooling at the center of you.

He pulls back, and his hand slides to grip your jaw in his wide, rough hand. The architecture of you feels inconsequential and without strength or steel in his grasp. “For what?” Voice serious but also knowing, also provoking.

“I wanna kiss you.” Might as well be honest now that you’ve got his hands on you.

“I think that if we go out there, I’m gonna do more than just kiss you. You prepared for that?”

“Yes, let’s go,” and you’re already pulling him out of his barstool before the words are even fully out. His hand goes to your elbow to steady you as your feet meet the ground, and you can’t help but give him a small laugh. “Are you okay?” Just making sure.

“Yeah, I’m okay, sweetheart. Are you?” His gaze is so warm.

“Yes.” And you can’t help but smile widely up at him. He gives you a huff of laugh through a half crooked smile that looks a little bit like the sliver of the moon when it’s nothing but a silver crescent in the sky, hand wrapping entirely around your bicep to tug you closer. You feel a little bit out of control when you slide your hand over his belly, and his eyes go immediately dark and molten, rubbing slowly up his chest. He makes a deep, rough sound, low in his throat. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He pulls you along behind him, and as you’re making your way together out the door, you hear the sound of Anna whooping and whistling loudly behind you right before the bar door slams shut.

He tugs you along behind him, and then passes you gently in his hands to walk in front of him as he weaves through the crowded parking lot, his wide chest, smoldering hot through his clothes, pressed up against your back, big hands wrapped around the soft of your hips. You feel him nosing into the curtain of your hair, smelling you and humming appreciatively, and you realize that he’s steering you towards the back of the parking lot, his familiar truck tucked into the far dark corner, and you twist, suddenly, in his arms, walking backwards and reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. His hands go to the small of your back, bunching your dress in his hands tightly so that you feel the humid night air against the uppermost backs of your thighs. The look in his eyes is so dark, so wanting, and he presses you tight against his chest, your breasts squished up against the hard planes of him. He’s not even looking where he’s going, and your feet are barely touching the ground anymore as you tiptoe backwards, guided by his embrace. One of his hands comes up to grip the curve of your jaw, and then you feel the side of the truck against your back. He hoists you higher up towards his mouth, “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, and before you can even think about saying yes, yes, please, finally, he’s swallowing your breath in his mouth, eyes still slightly open to watch you as he does it, pushing his tongue into the wet gleam of you to taste everything you so desperately want to offer him. He nips at your full bottom lip, then laps at it soothingly, and you moan for him, head falling back on your neck to open further for him, cradled now in the palm of his hand. Your hands smooth down the sides of his neck and then curl to scrape your nails down his stomach, and he groans into you, one thick thigh shoving between your knees. One of his palms slides over your hip to grip the curve of your ass, the other coming up, gentle yet unyielding, to circle your throat and tip your chin up to him as he pulls back to look down at you. The hand on your ass tips your pelvis into his and pulls your core along the broad expanse of his thigh so that your pussy slowly rides the hard muscle, once, twice. “Joel–” you gasp.

“Back seat,” he orders, tugging the truck door open and hoisting you inside. Are you really about to let this man fuck you in the back seat of his truck in a crowded parking lot? Yes, yes, you are. He follows in after you, and then slams the door shut behind him, encasing the both of you in this quiet, paused moment before he’s pulling you forward to straddle his lap, spreading his legs wide to widen your own stance perched atop him. You listen to the sound of your panting breaths as he runs his hands over your curves, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you plant your palms on his strong chest, smoothing them down over his belly, reaching the line of his belt to tuck them inside, he growls low, leans forward to lick at your throat and you feel the tug of his fingers at the tie of your wrap dress, then the pull of the fabric as he bares you for his eyes. You pop the first few buttons of his shirt as his wet mouth moves down the thrumming line of your neck, over the wing of your clavicle to the tops of your breasts where he pulls back to take you in. You’re wearing a soft pink lace bra and a matching thong, and as his eyes move down the length of you, the fire already smoldering within seems to ricochet up to a burning inferno. There is something about the look in his eyes, compared to before, compared to the usual look, that is even more thrilling than just the fact of him gazing upon your naked body. He’s always so serious, melancholy and sad and straightforward, in a way. But taking him in like this, the way he’s looking at you now like he wants nothing more than to devour you, to push inside of you, it makes it all the headier. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, look at you,” he murmurs, smoothes his hand over your breasts, thumb catching and flicking at your nipple, down the soft swell of your belly, stopping at the little bow at the front of your thong. He pushes the sleeve of your dress over one shoulder and tugs you forwards, you feel him lift the back of your dress over the curve of your bottom, his hand following the path of bared skin, taking in the tiny scap of lace disappearing between your asscheeks, and he makes a breathy, desperate sound, “Where the fuck are the rest of your panties, little girl?” He pinches the lush of your ass, smoothes his hand down and around to cup you between your legs, and you’re sure he can feel the soaking wet there because you listen to the sound of his gasp, and then he’s pressing there, seeking out your clit and rolling gentle circles to the swollen, throbbing nub. You run your hands up his chest into his hair, gripping there, pressing your nose into the thick curls to take in the scent of him and then running them down the heavy swell of his biceps. He’s so masculine, hard in all the places you’re soft, and wet, for him. His other hand grips your hip to pull you closer, rolling you onto the thick line of his erection, and oh God, he’s big. You can tell just like this, thick and long. Your hand moves to his belt buckle, pulling at the leather and the zipper of his jeans, and then you’re slipping your fingers beneath his boxers and wrapping around the thick heft of him. “Jesus, fuck–” he gasps.

You fist him tightly, squeezing at the thick root of his cock and sliding up to the fat head to twist there gently. His fingers move beneath the line of your panties, finally making contact with your bare skin.

“Fucking wet little cunt. Shit, you’re soaked for me, baby.” All you can do is moan as you pull him out of his jeans. He’s heavy in your palm and your mouth waters as you take in the sight of his big cock. Thick and long, wide, drooling head an angry red verging on purple. He hooks the gusset of your panties to the side and slides the underside of the shaft through your swollen lips, pressing the fat tip to your clit, and then sliding along your slit to catch softly at your opening. “Joel, please–” you moan. The head of his cock catches again and again, and you’re so wet, coating his thick length in your slick. He reaches to pull both cups of your bra down, exposing your breasts to his gaze and when his mouth latches onto one peaked nipple, sucking sharply, his other hand wrapping around the heavy weight of your other breast you cry out, fingernails digging into his thick shoulders. You use your grip on his shoulders to drag yourself along the length of his shaft while he sucks and nips at your breasts, pulling back to gently slap the full side of one, sending a jerking shiver through you while he watches how it jiggles and sways for him. “Shit, you’re too fuckin’ pretty,” he groans, and you’re about to come just from this, just the feeling of his thick cock sliding through the lips of your sex, and you tell him so, wet mouth presses to the arch of his ear, you tell him you’re about to come, but he changes the angle, presses his hips up and then the tip of his cock is breaching the dripping mouth of your cunt, stretching you wide to take him and you both pant and gasp, burying your face in his neck as one wide hand presses at the base of your spine, forcing you to take more of that impossible length. You feel the pinch and snap of your thong around your hips as he rips the scrap of lace off of you, and you think you must shake your head or something, make some soft sound because he tuts his tongue in a gentle reprimand, “All of it, baby. The whole thing.” He squeezes your breast, strums at your nipple, presses a feather light kiss to the hinge of your jaw, and you feel your cunt flutter around him, sucking him deeper so that he can wedge that thick cock further inside of you. “Yeah… Fuck, yeah. Just like that, good girl. You asked for this, sweet girl.” You hitch and sob into his neck, clawing at his shoulders as he finally forces you down all the way onto him, buried balls deep in your weeping, fluttering pussy. “Now you’ve gotta take the whole thing, no cryin’” He sounds like he’s spitting the words through clenched teeth, struggling to get them out despite the demand of them. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, “Taking my big cock in this tiny little cunt.” He kisses your ear, your throat, pulls back to suck on your nipples, all while his hands on your ass start to rock you on his length, working you loose and wet and pliant.

“Fuck– fuck, Joel–”

“I know, I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? But you can take it– deep breath, you can take it.” He fucks up into you, holding your hips steady as he feeds you his cock over and over again, and you drip down onto his balls and the leather seat beneath. “Does that feel good, sweet girl? Tell me–”

“It’s so– it’s so good. Wanted it so bad–” you slur, wet cheek pressed to his shoulder, you mouth at his neck, little teeth digging into the thick line of muscle so that he’s growling, thrusting up quick and a little painful into your cunt, tip punching right at your cervix.

“Lemme see you– I’ve gotta see you,” he says suddenly and presses you back. You reach back to plant your hands on his spread knees, arching your back to present yourself to him. His gaze is almost manic, licking over your skin, your bouncing tits as he fucks up into you, the swell of your tummy glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, down finally to the place where he’s fucking in and out of your swollen, blushed cunt, stretched obscenely around the base of him. “You’re so goddamned lucky we’re in a car right now,” he growls. He jerks you back into him, both hands squeezing your ass in each palm and rolling you hard and fast onto his impaling cock, your swollen clit presses into his pelvis on every thrust in, and you feel your cunt pull tight and then go loose as you start to come around him. Yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes – just like that. His cock kissing your g-spot with every press inside. You sob into his neck, pull at his hair, scratch at his shoulders and neck as you gush around him.

He surges up then, orgasm not entirely abated, and flips you over onto your back, laying you down on the truck’s bench. He pulls his dripping cock out of your still grasping clutch to kneel down on the floorboard, hulking form entirely too large to fit in the tight space, and drags the broad, flat of his tongue through your drenched sex, tasting the echoes and throbs of your climax, sucking your clit and your come into his mouth while you sob up into the roof of his truck. He pushes your knees up to your chest, displaying you for himself entirely and devours you. “Fuck, there ain’t enough room in this fuckin’ truck to eat your cunt the way I need to,” his accent suddenly heavier, a sharper twang cutting off the end of his words, lost to the taste of you and the feel of you and the scent of you. You lean up onto your elbows, sweaty face burning bright hot with shyness as you take in the sight of his mouth wrapped around your clit, lapping at your leaking sex. He looks up at you, reaches up to wrap one hand around your breast, one of your legs is hanging down the length of his back over his shoulder, the other hooked at the bend of his elbow to keep you open and spread wide for him, and the two of you hold gazes for a moment. His eyes flash with something… different to desire or lust, something more in tune with whatever it is that’s happening here between the two of you right now, something more than just a quick fuck. You whisper his name, and his eyes flash again, predatory and desperate, and he’s pushing up, the wet sound of his mouth unlatching from your pussy and crawling back up onto the seat bench, pressing his slick wet mouth to yours and licking into you, sloppy. “Taste–” he orders, he pulls back, fists the root of his cock and feeds it back into your gaping cunt, “That’s what it tastes like when you come for me.” His voice is a growl, something like a commandment or a promise, something else that hums beneath the mere words, something that says this is happening again, I need this to happen again, I’ve wanted this longer than I can say. He fucks into the very end of you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, let him maneuver and manhandle you to his liking so that both of your ankles lay limply over his shoulders, pressed entirely in half for him to pound into you.

“Open your fucking eyes,” he pants. “Look at me,” he begs. You do, and you watch a bead of sweat roll slowly down his temple, over the curve of his jaw to the point of his chin, and then drip and splash down onto the swell of your breast, seep into your skin.

He’s so deep like this, right at the heart of you, and it hurts and it feels good and you can’t help but think about the next time already, hope that this can happen again. “Yes, Joel,” you gasp, “Please, don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” He grits, lifting one hand to hold on to the edge of the window above your head, the other gripping at your ass to pull you onto him harder. “Yeah, just like that– Taking me so well, baby. Taking the whole thing like such a good girl.” He’s so big, maybe too big, and he pounds into your cunt, forces you to take the entire thing, thick thighs bracketing your frame, cock punching at your womb over and over again. You feel cock drunk, Joel drunk, and you turn your face to press into the back of the seat crying, telling him you’re about to come again.

“God, yes, yes, you’re such a good girl. Come on my cock again, one more time for me.” His thrusts speed up, harsher, stronger and he’s saying your name while you sob out his, while you leak around him. “Hey,” he grips your jaw, gives your head a little shake, “Hey, baby– you gotta tell me where. Where can I come? Inside? Can I come inside?” It sounds, a little bit, like he’s beginning.

You nod your head, yes, gaze delirious, unfocused, the swell of his anchoring bicep is so thick and distracting, and you start to milk his thrusting cock inside of you, muscles squeezing tight, fluttering loose – please, please, please, come inside of me, please, I want it so bad. He groans, grits a curse, your name, something that sounds like gratitude, and then he’s filling you, thick cock kicking and jerking and spitting his come right at the mouth of your womb, inciting your own orgasm to throb again, again, harder, deeper.

He drops his head to the damp crook of your shoulder, takes in the heady scent of your sweat and sex, licks a path up the side of your throat. He’s careful not to ask you to bear the full, heavy weight of him, and he pulls his hips back, shivering at the sensitive slide of his spent cock falling from your wet cunt. He sits back, grasps your knees to keep you spread and watches the flutter and clench of your hole as the thick white leak of his spend starts to drool out of you. He gives a low, appreciative hum, and then bends forwards to press his face into your tummy, nuzzling there softly. Your hands come to his hair, panting chest heaving, and he mouths and sucks at the skin of your stomach, the undersides of your breasts as you both catch your breaths. He looks up, then, suddenly, a thought occurring to him, “You’re going to have dinner with me, right?” Voice a little frantic.

You give him a slow, lovely smile, eyes sparkling, “Think we’ve gone and done things a little out of order here, haven’t we?”

He frowns in mock severity, then presses his face back into your tummy, another soft kiss, and shakes his head slowly, “No,” another kiss, this one to your hip, “Not at all. This morning counts as breakfast together.” He looks up to give you a quick, boyish grin. “How I see it, that’s actually an extreme dedication to order. Breakfast, sex, dinner.”

You sigh, laugh softly, “You know… I’m actually a little hungry right now,” you say contemplatively.

“Burgers? Fries?”

“Milkshake?”

“Well, we’ve gotta have somethin’ to dip ‘em in, right?”

“Of course.” Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him up towards your mouth, “You’re so smart.”

“Very true. You’ve gotta stick with me now, I’ll teach you everything I know.” A kiss, another and another.

He rests his face back on your belly, looking up at you, and you run the pad of your thumb over the fan of his lashes, and he feels so happy.

It’s been months since then… and still even now, when he looks at you, all he knows is that he’s sure you saved his fucking life.

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