#yellow pearl voice

[xluverihu]

coco was so underrated. still mad she didn t get a proper song

[surprise-its-polls]

Best Yellow Magical Girl - Round 1

[we-dont-talk-about-potato-nonono]

Blue Pearl & Yellow Pearl! 🩵💛

[outerspace-iiinnerspace]

~ pour some sugar on me ~

[collector-noceda-clawthorne]

Mrs. Deer Teacher, has YP voice but Pearl’s personality.

[vultbae]

negroni ✩

art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer. 

OR

Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.

↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.

↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance

word count: 4.9k

✩

"Excuse me, no smoking."

The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.

The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.

Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.

He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.

✩

Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting. 

"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-

"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."

Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.

Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course. 

After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.

✩

An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again. 

"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it. 

Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.

He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.

"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.

Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side. 

But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...

The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match. 

As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap. 

Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—

Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night. 

Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.

"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."

"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog. 

The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.

Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?

"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.

Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink? 

But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?

It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!

Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her. 

Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?  

He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.

Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it. 

Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.

"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.

Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning. 

Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.

"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically. 

Her voice is too harmonious for his ears. 

Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."

"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"

"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.

Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-

"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."

Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning. 

"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.

"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"

He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."

For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.

"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."

She giggles.

"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.

Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus. 

But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni. 

She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.

Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.

Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."

Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"

"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.

Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates. 

She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.

Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.

Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."

"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."

Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.

She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.

"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips. 

His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline. 

Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.

From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her. 

Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink." 

"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation. 

Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson." 

Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.

"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-

"I can drive you." 

✩

The drive is around twenty-five minutes. 

Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside. 

"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.

Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."

"Did you do anything fun around the county?" 

"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.

Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—

Red light.

When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say. 

In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.

"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects. 

A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."

A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.

"I don't think this is appropriate."

"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore." 

It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—

Green light.

"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."

That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.

Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops. 

It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.

Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.

And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.

She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him. 

The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected. 

Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.

Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips. 

"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."

Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.

It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.

It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.

Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.

He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.

It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.

He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.

A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.

The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.

If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-

"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.

But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.

"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.

What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin,��right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing. 

"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy. 

Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth. 

As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts. 

But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers. 

In fact, the man has a whole wife.

"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless. 

And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.

"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.

Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?

After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.

Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.

"...So?" she questions.

He remains silent.

"I don't have condoms." 

"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.

The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.

Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.

"I can't. Sorry." 

Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"

Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-

Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."

It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.

"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."

In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.

She had fucking slapped him.

With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.

"Hey, hold on..."

She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain. 

But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.

"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut. 

As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness. 

✩

[kingkatsuki]

— sleepy

I’m still deciding how to characterise him because I feel like he’s got so much depth😫

Togame hates having his naps interrupted— unless it’s by you.

Pairing: Togame Jo x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, dirty talk, established relationship, handjobs, cockwarming, lazy sex, one spank, dick riding, creampie.

Word Count: 2.1k.

Togame Jo is handsome like this. Thick brows softened behind circular glasses as his dark lashes tickled the lenses, eyes shut softly as his chest rose and fell steadily with the rhythm of his breathing. His yellow Shishitoren jacket is strewn over the back of the couch, sandals are kicked off on the floor as he spreads his thick thighs.

You’re happy to feel him half-hard when you settle yourself on top of him, plush thighs on either side of his hips as you press your weight against his crotch. You’d expect him to wake with a jolt if you didn’t know him any better, so used to having to stay alert to avoid the conflict from Furin or any other rival gangs that may filter into unknown territory. But Togame already has you mapped out like the back of his hand, warm palms immediately smooth along the exposed skin of your thighs as his lashes flutter. Staring up at you through half-lidded eyes as he stifles a yawn.

“You ain’t ever lettin’ me nap, huh?” His voice is laced with sleep as calloused fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, shifting slightly beneath you as he feels the warmth between your thighs press against his crotch from the motion. The way you tighten your grip around his shoulders at the contact doesn’t go unnoticed. He slides his outstretched legs back in as he shifts you on his lap, bringing you closer to him.

“You can nap later” You tease, pressing a kiss to his lips as his tongue juts out to taste your lipgloss, “I missed you today.”

You loved having Togame like this— soft and vulnerable, a side of him that no one else got to see.

“I missed you too.” He hums, tilting his head against the back of the couch to get a better look at you as you grind yourself against his crotch again, “Oh? You missed me like that—” He feigns ignorance— he knows exactly what you want.

“Been thinking about you all day,” You admit, feeling your skin flush as the heat inside you continues to rise, a neglected throb pulses between your thighs as your cunt begs for attention.

“Ah, so that’s the real reason you woke a sleeping man up, hm?” He pretended to grumble, his fingers already dipping into your thighs in response, “Tell me what you need?”

“Need your cock, Jo,” You mumbled, leaving glossy kisses against his jawline, “Please?”

“Take whatever you want, sweetheart.” He goads, “It’s yours.”

You love when he indulges you, leaning back just enough to pull his pants down as he mutters complaints under his breath as he’s forced to raise his hips just enough to leave the fabric nestled around the curve of his ass. A soft pout appears on his lips that you can’t help but kiss away before you take in the sight of his cock, hot and heavy as it lays against his pelvis.

Gently taking him into your hands as you pump him softly, your thumb swipes at the bead of pre that pearls at the tip as you smooth it along the length of him. Togame is so pliant when he’s like this, allowing you to take the reigns and use him how you see fit.

“You’re such a tease,” He chastises, his head strewn against the back of the couch as your eyes follow the column of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs when you press your thumb against his slit, swallowing thickly as his hips jerk into your grip.

“I dunno,” You smile back, “You seem to like it.”

“Your hand’s wrapped around my dick, what’s not to like?” He drawls, squeezing your thigh gently.

“So why don’t you wanna fuck me?” You press, and you feel his grip tighten against your plush skin.

“Believe me, sweetheart,” He yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth as he flashes sharp canines, “I always wanna fuck you.”

“So why don’t you?” You pout, running your thumb along the underside of his cock.

“I just like seeing you needy,” Togame grins, and it has your brows furrowing in annoyance.

“I’m not needy,” You gasp in mock offence as you jab a finger against his chest, “You’re the one that’s been out fighting all morning.”

“You always need my cock to shut you up, yeah?” He ignores you with a dull smirk, staring at you with half-lidded eyes.

Togame his calloused palm along your thigh to the curve of your ass as he pulls your body against his, your face buried in the apex of his neck as he grips his cock steady. Giving himself a languid pump with a flick of his wrist as his other hand pulls your panties to the side, too tired to even attempt to undress you. His slender fingers curl around the fabric as he helps guide the tip of his cock towards your drooling hole, holding you steady as you meet resistance and begin to drop yourself down on his cock.

“Fuck,” You sigh as you feel the delicious ache of him stretching you out. Grinding your hips against him as you feel your body begin to relax and mould to him, taking inch after inch as he finally bottoms out inside you.

“Jo,” You murmur against the column of his neck, feeling him shift beneath you as he palms the swell of your ass, “Pay attention to me.”

“You always have my attention, sweetheart,” He replies, smoothing a palm along your spine as he holds you to his chest, “But it’s bedtime.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Your lips curl into a grin against his pulse point as he delights in the saccharine tone of laughter that tumbles from your lips.

Togame breaks off into a guttural groan that rumbles deep in his throat when he feels your tight heat clench around him from the rhythm of your laughter, a sound that vibrates all the way through his neck as you feel it against your lips.

“Yeah, see—” He agrees, tightening his grip around your frame to prevent you from grinding yourself down on his lap, “Bedtime.”

He tries to resist the urge to rut into you like this, to feel the blunt head of his cock carve away at your insides as you pulse and whine above him. Your fingers tease through the short hair at the back of his neck as you wriggle your hips in defiance.

“You never let me nap, woman.” Togame grunts.

“We can’t fall asleep like this.” You coo, warm breath fans his ear as you try to find purchase against his broad shoulders.

“Sure we can.” He counters, “Just close your eyes.”

Togame was certain he could quite happily die like this— the last thing he feels as he takes his dying breath is the sensation of your perfect walls wrapped tight around his cock. What better way to go?

“You’re so silly,” You scoff, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you continue to roll your hips above him, lifting yourself before dropping yourself down on his length as you deliberately press against his pelvis with each forward motion to add some friction to your clit.

You think he’s maybe falling asleep until he strokes his palms along your waist, mapping a path along your sides until he finds the curve of your chest. Pushing your shirt over your breasts as he palms them through the thin cups of your bra. The corners of his lips curl into a content smile when he feels you clench around him in response, your pace faltering when his thumbs graze your nipples. Feeling them pebble beneath his touch as he pulls the cups of your bra down to settle below your tits.

“You’re so pretty,” Togame mumbles, rolling the stiff peaks between his thumb and forefinger as you scoff.

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I don’t have to look to know.” He shoots back, catching you off guard with a rough smack against your ass.

“Oh,” Your hips jerk, velvety walls clenching around him in response as you feel your skin begin to prickle under his touch.

“You’re always pretty.” He parts his eyes into a tired squint, just enough to adjust to the afternoon sunlight streaming into the room as he watches you. Using him for your pleasure as you keep a sloppy pace, hips rolling as his cock moulds you into the shape of him.

You reward him with a kiss— a slow sensual one with tongues clashing and swallowed breaths as a groan rises in his throat.

“Jo,” You mumble against his lips, “I’m tired.”

“Oh?” He goads, “You’re tired? When you woke me up to do this.”

“Please, Jo.” You plead, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth.

“I suppose I’ll have to do the work, huh?” He rasps, squeezing your ass playfully.

“Fuck me, please?” You whine, and Tokgame feels it. The way your walls tremble around him with desire, desperately trying to milk him of his seed as he feels your slick drool down to his balls. His eyes are still shut behind circular glasses as he moves his fingers to where your bodies are connected, stroking along the length of him that pokes out of your tight cunt to feel how wet you are.

“Fuck.” He groans, and you can tell that’s his final piece of resolve wavering.

You’re the only thing that makes him want to go fast— the pulse of your warm hole coaxing him further as he expels a deep breath. Togame’s grip on you tightens as he holds you steady, fingers dig into your hips as he starts a rough pace. The sound of skin against skin echos the room as he fucks up into you with vigour. The harsh movement has your breasts bouncing as you scramble for purchase, clinging onto the back of his neck near the base of his skull as you rest your forearms on strong shoulders.

He loves you like this— so pliant and at his mercy as his balls slap against the swell of your ass with each rough rut. Pulling the prettiest sounds he’s certain he’s ever heard from between your lips as you begin to crescendo, feeling yourself teetering on the edge of your climax as your walls clamp down around him.

“That’s it, baby,” He grunts, as his hips snap roughly, “I know you’re close.”

Pearly tears clump in your lashes as your nails dig into his scalp, the coil inside you dangerously close to unravelling as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each pronounced thrust, “Give it to me.”

And you do. Crying out his name as your toes curl and your eyes roll into your skull, euphoria washes over you as it’s all you can do but bask in the pleasure as a mind-numbing orgasm surges through you.

“That’s my girl,” Togame is quick to prolong it, his eyes open and intent on you through polarised lenses as he moves his thumb to rub at your puffy clit. Ignoring your pleas that it’s too much, you can’t— when he knows you can, and you will, “That’s my good fucking girl.”

Your body trembles against him as your second climax hits that much harder than your first. Convulsing against him you pull your face back from his neck, sitting upright as the pleasure wracks through you, flowing through your veins like an addictive drug as he watches you ride it out. Clenching around his cock as your cunt eagerly begs him for his release, wanting to feel every drop of it.

“Fucking hell,” He pants, holding you steady as he begins to use his grip on you to bring your body down to meet his thrusts. Forcing you onto his cock with each rough snap of his hips, “You’re so needy.”

It’s all you can do but sit there and take it as he uses you for his own release, barely managing a handful of thrusts before he reaches his peak. Holding your hips flush with his as he pumps spurt after spurt of warm, white cum inside your velvety walls. Coating you with his spend as he leaves you seated on his cock, basking in the afterglow as he feels your walls continue to pulse and throb around him as he keeps you plugged with his spend.

You whine when you try to pull yourself off him and his harsh grip stops you, leaving you positioned on his cock as he wraps his arms around your body to press you against his chest. Tucking your head onto his shoulder as he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” He hums, his hands back to tracing lines against the curve of your spine, “You got what you wanted— now we’re takin’ a nap.”

[lurukifennecfox]

The spirit of Amity Park and Lady Gotham

Amity was a strong spirit. stronger than any city her size or age had any right to be, but she was, and she was going to make it matter.

Gotham was old, she was strong but sick and cursed so she couldn't do much but make her shadows that much darker, enough to be unseen, make her sounds that much louder enough to be unheard, guide the debris or a stray bullet a little to the left so that it would only graze not kill. even sick and hurt she was stubborn and she would make it matter.

Amity was younger than Gotham, most were, but Gotham was impressed with her. just like her Protector Amity was way too strong and way too young and very ambitious and protective of Hers.

they had that in common, Gotham was protective, Possesive. Her people were hers and hers only if they weren't Amity's first she couldn't take them, she would.

Amity was like her people, she was adaptive, sceptical but friendly, hard to gain trust from but loyal if you did. Amity was like her Protectors, she was determined and protective, she was fun but serious.

Gotham was like her people, she was a survivor, untrusting and brash, stubborn but flexible. Gotham was like her Bats, she was curious but secretive, protective to the point of possesivnes, calculated but quippy.

Amity was young and her form reflected that, she looked like a pre-teen like most her Protectors, her wheat blonde hair in star clipped twin-tails, a replica of the Ops Centre for a hat, eyes bright green and glowing freckles dusting her cheeks. her clothes were bright like her houses, always having funny accents and accessories and teared holes, her nails were painted but always chipped.

her laughter was loud with explosions and honking of cars and her voice was chipper and cracking.

Gotham was mature and so was her form, her hair black, iridescent and dripping like an oil spill, her face sickly pale(or ashen) and eyes solid yellow with bat shaped pupils (they were blood red before, just like her lips are) she is always dressed in black, blending with her shadows, clothes elegant but ripped and dirty, bloody pearls on her neck, black claws dripping oil like her hair, breath fogging with smog.

her laughter had clanking of weapons and banging of shots, her voice was raspy and strangled.

Amity looked up to Gotham, her determination and stubborn persistence to protect Hers, her funny quips and sarcastic comments.

They weren't too far by city spirit standards, they were on the same continent after all. And Amity could be that much farther, that much closer, just on the other side of the veil. Amity was in the Realms once, she knew the way back.

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter three ♡

Summary: Life seems to smooth out with Travis, but an encounter with another Miller stirs your feelings again. Joel comes home at night, and a box waits for him at the kitchen. Word count: 4.8k A/N: Here is a shorter chapter (compared to the previous ones lol) while we're waiting for part 4… Can't wait for the Hoffman's barbecue. Joel isn't usually enthusiastic about it, but something tells me he's not going to miss it this time. ALSO, I have tried to tag all of you, but for some reason some tags don't work, if anyone knows how to fix it please let me know <3.

October 17th. The first thing you discovered was a black sweatshirt, crumpled and forgotten, stuffed in the back of your closet among old clothes and memories. You tossed it into the washing machine and set off to search your house for more of Joel’s things. It didn’t take long to find remnants of him: an old Pearl Jam T-shirt, a white mug bearing his initial that you’d pilfered a few months prior, a couple of CDs with his eclectic taste in music, a well-worn paperback novel, and a screwdriver—the very tool you had used to assemble the small piece of furniture for your bathroom, a testament to your attempts at domesticity.

You placed the T-shirt beside the sweatshirt in the washing machine, feeling a bittersweet nostalgia wash over you as the machine began to spin, the water swirling like your thoughts. The rest of his belongings you carefully set aside in a wooden box, considering when and if you would return them to him. Maybe it would be a gesture of goodwill, a way to close a chapter, but the thought of confronting him felt daunting, like standing on the edge of a cliff.

Three weeks later, the distance felt like a weight in your chest. You hadn’t spoken since that last conversation, and every accidental encounter with him had turned into a delicate dance of avoidance, your eyes darting away as if to shield yourself from the unspoken pain. You suspected he was doing the same—his awareness of your schedule precise, his movements deliberate. You didn’t blame him for it; there was a strange gratitude in the space he had created between you, a sanctuary that allowed both of you to breathe.

Sarah, on the other hand, was a constant presence in your life, her visits frequent and welcome. You couldn’t decipher what Joel had shared with her, but she was unequivocal in her understanding that something had shifted between you and her father. 

“Dad said I can come see you as long as I don’t ask too many questions and I don’t fall asleep,” she announced brightly the first afternoon she bounded into your home, just two days after your last exchange with Joel. “But I want you to know I won’t say anything if you want to tell me everything.” 

Her offer was a balm, and despite the lingering pain, you found yourself laughing, the weight lifting slightly as you embraced her. In that moment, you felt relieved to know that Joel had managed to compartmentalize, that his daughter was not to bear the burden of your heartbreak, nor was she responsible for the fallout. You wanted to continue seeing Sarah, and thankfully, she wanted to keep coming over, a small beacon of normalcy in a turbulent time. That connection remained untainted by the rift between you and Joel.

The clock ticked on, and now it was five o’clock on a crisp afternoon. You stood in your front yard, the late autumn sun warming the back of your neck as you surveyed your plants. Closing your eyes, you savored the gentle warmth, the way it wrapped around you like a familiar embrace. Your lawn and those of your neighbors glowed with the fiery hues of orange and yellow, leaves fluttering like confetti in the soft breeze. It was, as always, your favorite season.

Suddenly, a voice broke through your reverie, calling your name. You turned to see Travis crossing the street, his smile brightening the drab fall afternoon. You waved back, unable to suppress a smile of your own as he approached.

“Enjoying the sunshine?” he asked, stopping beside you, his hand settling on your waist as he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on your cheek.

“As much as I can,” you replied, a warmth spreading through you that was both comforting and surprising. Your gaze dropped momentarily to your feet before lifting back to meet his. “Going somewhere?”

“On a quest for dessert,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “Care to join?”

You hesitated, considering for a moment. “I’d better stay and get some work done,” you replied, gesturing toward your front door with a tilt of your head. “But let me know when you get back; I’d love to help with dinner.”

He nodded, a flicker of disappointment passing across his face before he masked it with a smile. After a brief goodbye, he left, giving your waist a gentle squeeze that sent a flutter through your stomach, leaving you feeling both elated and unsettled.

Two weeks prior, you had watched him run past your house, clad in sports gear, hair damp with sweat. There was something magnetic about him; he looked so effortlessly good that a rush of something—determination? Recklessness?—had surged through you. You couldn’t let your past with Joel hold you hostage any longer. It was absurd to keep Travis waiting, simply because you hadn’t been sure of what you felt, or how you should feel. So, you had gathered your courage and knocked on his door, your heart racing at the thought of stepping out of the shadows of your previous life.

When Travis opened the door, his surprise morphing into delight had made your resolve solidify. You’d admitted to him that you were navigating a rough patch, and to his credit, he seemed to understand without pressuring you further. That night, he whisked you away for dinner, and in the weeks that followed, the ease of your time together became a welcome reprieve. 

He was everything you needed—funny, honest, and refreshingly straightforward. He laid his feelings out without demanding anything from you, giving you space to breathe, to recalibrate. You had shared meals together, enjoying his company, indulging in laughter and sweet treats that he always brought, knowing they were your guilty pleasure. 

With him, everything felt uncomplicated, and the more time you spent together, the more you sensed your feelings beginning to shift, like the autumn leaves around you. That night, you resolved to let him make the first move, ready to embrace whatever came next.

*

“What did you think?” Travis asked, his gaze lingering on you, as if the answer might reveal something bigger.

You let out a laugh, the kind that builds in the chest and escapes before you can decide whether it’s actually funny or just absurd. “That was… utterly ridiculous,” you said, watching the movie credits roll up the screen. “Ridiculous and completely unbelievable.”

He grinned, sinking back into the couch beside you, his eyes meeting yours with a glint of shared amusement. “Right? It’s like... a marvel in chaos. Terrible, but in a way that you can’t look away.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a mix of disbelief and fondness for his strange taste in movies. Zombeavers. He’d made you watch Zombeavers—a movie so bizarrely nonsensical that you couldn’t help but laugh half the time, its zombie-beaver puppets meant to be terrifying but only succeeding in being bizarre. He’d assured you beforehand that it was purely for fun, the kind of film that didn’t demand to be taken seriously, and you’d been dubious but willing.

As your laughter softened, you shifted just a little closer to him, that familiar but thrilling nervousness making your heart flutter. Travis had turned his attention to scrolling through movie options, his fingers lightly tapping the remote as he concentrated. For a brief moment, you hesitated, wondering if it was obvious—how close you were, how much you wanted him to notice. Gathering your courage, you rested your head on his shoulder, letting your gaze drift up to his face just as he glanced down, his eyes softening.

“Are you sleepy, pretty girl?” he murmured, and his voice had that gentle, familiar warmth that made you feel like a teenager again. Your cheeks flushed, and you wondered if he could feel your pulse quicken against him.

“No,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper as you smiled up at him. Tentatively, you lifted a hand to trace the line of his jaw, your fingers grazing his skin as you tilted his face closer. “I just like being with you.”

Travis’s smile deepened, and he leaned in, his hand cradling your face with such tenderness that it nearly broke something in you. His lips met yours softly, a gentle touch, unhurried and respectful, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. You sank into the kiss, letting it ground you, feeling cherished and safe in a way you hadn’t for a long time.

But there, at the edge of your mind, was Joel. Joel with his intense, almost possessive hunger, the way he’d kiss you as if he were afraid he’d never have the chance again. That rawness, the recklessness—it was such a stark contrast to Travis’s gentle control, his restraint. And part of you hated yourself for even thinking about it, for craving something so reckless, for missing what you knew wasn’t good for you.

You pulled back slowly, afraid that your eyes might betray the swirl of conflicting feelings inside you. Travis’s gaze lingered, his hand still on your cheek, and he seemed almost reluctant to let you go, waiting for you to guide him back in. His patience was admirable, though you felt a strange frustration at the lack of urgency, the careful distance he maintained.

“I’m actually a little tired,” you said, giving him a quick peck on the lips, hoping he wouldn’t see through the slight restlessness in your eyes. “But I’d love to see you tomorrow. How about dinner at my place?”

He nodded, his face brightening. “Sounds perfect.” He stood, reaching out a hand to help you up. “I’ll walk you to your door, and that's just an excuse for another goodnight kiss.”

You laughed, reaching for his hand and letting him pull you up, feeling the warmth of his arm around you as you leaned against him. Outside, the air was brisk, the night cool against your skin, and you wished you’d thought to bring a jacket. Not that it mattered much; Travis lived just across the block, a short walk away, but close enough to Joel’s house that the proximity always felt strange. 

Crossing the street, you noticed Joel’s truck wasn’t there, and you willed yourself not to dwell on it, tuning back in to Travis’s voice as he asked, “Are you going?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Going where?” you asked, your voice apologetic. “Sorry, I zoned out for a second.”

“To the Hoffmans’ barbecue,” he said easily, unbothered by your momentary distraction.

Ah, the Hoffmans’ annual Halloween gathering, an event known for Brenda’s culinary enthusiasm and Ian’s grill mastery. Last year, Brenda had baked an array of spooky treats—eyeball jellies, spider cupcakes, you name it. Sarah had devoured at least ten jelly eyes, and you’d indulged in an uncountable number of chocolate spiders. The evening had ended with a viewing of Nightmare on Elm Street, and everyone had left buzzing with laughter and sugar.

“Yes, of course,” you replied, nodding with more enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t miss it. Brenda is amazing at baking. Have you tried her red berry cupcakes?”

“They’re dangerous,” Travis agreed, grinning as he walked you up to your doorstep.

A flicker of movement caught your eye, and you glanced over to see Tommy, Joel’s brother, sitting on the front porch of Joel’s house, a cigarette hanging lazily from his fingers. He watched you with a friendly, knowing smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back, though you quickened your pace slightly as you reached your door.

“So, what time tomorrow?” Travis asked, tilting his head.

“Eight?” you suggested, feeling an odd mix of excitement and unease.

“Perfect,” he replied, and once again his hand lifted to your cheek, thumb tracing the curve softly. But as he leaned in to kiss you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of invisible eyes from across the street, watching. Your mind lingered, unbidden, on Tommy’s piercing gaze.

Travis leaned down, and you met his kiss, brief, almost rushed, pulling away with a small, nervous smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you whispered, glancing up at him before stepping back. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he murmured.

You stood watching him leave, distractedly thinking about the evening you'd spent. You were annoyed that you hadn't accepted his date earlier, and at the same time, you didn't blame yourself too much. 

When Travis walked into his house and closed the door, an involuntary sigh escaped your chest.

"Everything okay over there?" Tommy’s voice jolted you out of your thoughts, sounding like a splash of cold water. He was sitting on the front steps, watching you with a casual curiosity that somehow felt entirely too knowing.

You approached slowly, glancing toward the empty entrance of Joel’s house.

"Hey, Tommy," you greeted, a hint of melancholy coloring your voice. It was strange, seeing him here alone—another Miller, but not the one who lingered in your mind. "How are you?"

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette on the step, shrugging with a small grin. "Well, currently on a break from babysitting duty," he joked. "What about you? It’s been a while—what’d Joel do now?"

A chuckle slipped from your lips, the irony of it all making your stomach tighten. He probably didn’t know anything, yet he’d been part of Joel’s carefully built wall of deception. It made you feel odd, but you brushed the feeling aside.

"I've just been busy," you said, knowing how unconvincing it sounded.

Tommy nodded, understanding the subtext without question. "Right," he said, an amused smile forming, "So, Dunn got the girl?"

You couldn’t help but smile back, though you realized too late that your openness might be ill-placed. "Yeah. He’s a good man. I really like him."

It felt surreal, sharing this with Joel’s brother, but somehow you didn’t mind.

"Sarah’s asleep?" you asked, changing the subject, hoping for some distraction.

He nodded, his smile softening. "Out like a light right after dinner. Poor kid didn’t even try the ice cream she begged me to get for movie night." He chuckled, shaking his head.

You smiled at the image, letting yourself savor the thought of Sarah, the cozy living room, the quiet warmth that had always drawn you to this house. It felt bittersweet, like glimpsing a life you no longer fit into. The last time you’d been there flickered in your mind, and any warmth vanished.

When you glanced back at Tommy, he was watching you, brow furrowed slightly, as if trying to read what you weren’t saying.

"I don’t mean to pry," he began cautiously, his tone gentle. "But Joel’s been… well, intolerable lately. Can I ask what happened?"

You raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile creeping onto your lips. "Sure, Tommy," you replied, a touch of sarcasm bleeding through. "He hasn’t told you anything?"

"Are you kidding?" He laughed, shaking his head. "I asked him once, a couple of days ago, and he practically bit my head off."

You let out a dry sigh, crossing your arms. "He lied to me, pretty sure you know about that," you said, feeling the weight of it again. "We argued, and… things just happened."

Tommy’s eyes widened slightly, but the look of surprise faded quickly, replaced by a knowing smile. He stood up, crossing his arms as he stepped closer, his gaze amused and unrelenting.

"I knew it," he said, his grin widening. "You two slept together."

Your mouth fell open, and you dropped your arms, an incredulous laugh escaping.

"Shut up," you muttered, taking a step forward, cheeks flushing.

Tommy laughed, as if this moment had been a long time coming. "I always knew it would happen," he said, his tone only half-joking. "Ever since Joel introduced you, I swear, the guy had heart eyes and all. Poor guy looked like he was about to carve your name into every tree from here to the city limits. It was almost embarrassing."

You shook your head, a pang of sadness pressing on your chest. "That’s not it, Tommy. That’s not… it’s not true."

He studied you, unconvinced, his brow furrowing slightly, though the amused glint remained in his eyes.

"Joel doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want… us," you continued, your voice quiet but certain. "And honestly, I don’t think I do either." The words tasted bitter even as you said them, yet you held his gaze, determined to mean it. "I think I might actually like Travis."

"I see." Tommy’s nod was slow, his eyes searching yours as if detecting the truth you weren’t quite hiding.

“Where is he?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you almost wished you could take it back. You shouldn’t be concerned about where Joel was spending his nights. But curiosity itched at you, demanding answers.

Tommy hesitated, rubbing his hand over his mouth, glancing off as if debating whether to answer. The pause made you anxious, and you shifted under his gaze, feeling exposed. "He, um, he went to see—"

"Sienna," you finished, the name coming out like a blade you hadn’t prepared for. Tommy’s nod confirmed it, and you felt it cut a little deeper than you’d anticipated.

The thought of Joel being with her after being with you twisted something fierce and raw inside. Yet, a part of you was oddly grateful for the pain; it reminded you just how little he’d been affected by all of this, how seamlessly he’d returned to life as it had been. Why should he have changed anything for one night? That didn’t mean enough to make him reconsider Sienna, his plans, his life without you. It was unbearable and somehow clarifying.

With your voice steadier than you expected, you looked back at Tommy. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Come with me for a second." You spun on your heel, heading toward your house, and you heard Tommy’s footsteps fall into step behind you. Inside, you gestured for him to wait in the foyer, then climbed the stairs, your heart pounding. A rush of resentment, of something close to fury, washed over you. You had to rid yourself of everything that still held you back to him, everything he’d left behind.

When you came back down, you were carrying a box, simple and impersonal. Tommy glanced at it, lifting an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

"A couple of Joel’s things. Be a dear and save me the trip of bringing them back to him." You smiled tightly, the effort to stay composed nearly exhausting you.

Tommy laughed, clearly amused by the defiance in your expression.

"Yes, ma’am," he said with a grin, giving you a small salute as he took the box. You watched him step over the threshold, the box in his hands, feeling a strange mix of relief and something hollow.

"Thank you, Tommy," you said softly, closing the door as he left. Alone in the quiet of your house, your shoulders slumped, and all the strength you’d gathered felt like it was leaking away, leaving behind the ache of realization. Joel wasn’t just far from you; he was unreachable, a memory already fading, three weeks stretching like an eternity between you and the friend he’d once been.

*

Joel opened the door slowly, shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the floor before he even stepped inside. The house was dark and quiet, as if it were waiting for him to finally fill it. He glanced around the empty living room, feeling the stillness of the space, then checked the time on his wristwatch: 11 p.m. It felt later than that, somehow.

“Tommy?” he called, his voice breaking the silence as he moved into the kitchen, where he found his brother, casually leaning against the counter with a bowl of ice cream, looking like he’d been waiting all night.

“How was your night?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow, his tone almost amused, as if he were privy to some unspoken secret.

Joel exhaled, the kind of tired sigh that settled deep in his chest, and dropped heavily into one of the wooden chairs at the table. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, dragging it down over his mouth before resting it on the table, the weariness of the day palpable in the lines of his face. His eyes met Tommy’s probing gaze, and he tilted his head, frowning slightly.

“Fine,” he replied, his tone clipped and a little defensive. “How was Sarah?”

“She conked out right after dinner,” Tommy replied, a smirk beginning to play at the corners of his mouth, his eyes narrowing with that look of brotherly mischief. “And how was Sienna?”

Joel rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair, shaking his head as if he could shake off the whole conversation.

“Are you staying over?” he asked after a few beats, redirecting, his voice carefully casual.

Tommy chuckled. “Only if you, sir, will permit me,” he replied with a mock salute.

“Fine,” Joel muttered, getting up from his seat. “Do what you want, but don’t be a pain in my ass,” he added, half-serious, half-amused, as he walked over to the counter beside his brother.

He pulled open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. Tommy watched him, saying nothing, but his gaze lingered, curious, perceptive. Joel poured water into a glass, bringing it to his lips, pausing for a long drink before turning to face his brother. He could feel Tommy’s gaze boring into him, the silence thickening between them.

Joel looked up, his own gaze steady.

“What?” he asked, the word flat, all pretense of patience gone.

“Nothing,” Tommy said, drawing the word out, clearly testing the limits of Joel’s patience. Then, almost too casually, he tilted his chin toward a box resting by the wall across the kitchen.

Joel followed his gaze, his brow furrowing as he walked over. He lifted the box, feeling the weight of it in his hands, then set it down on the counter. With a cautious look at Tommy, he placed his hands on the lid, hesitating.

“What’s this?” he asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

Tommy leaned back, watching him with a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Your girl next door gave it to me,” he replied, each word almost too measured. “Said it was yours.”

For a few moments, Joel just stood there, as if frozen, processing Tommy’s words. He looked down, finally lifting the lid and peering inside. There, neatly folded, was his sweatshirt—the one he’d handed you one chilly evening when he picked you up from work. Beneath that was his old Pearl Jam t-shirt, the one you’d borrowed after a swim in his pool last summer. His favorite coffee mug sat tucked in the corner, along with a few CDs, a dog-eared paperback he’d loaned you weeks ago. Each item seemed to carry its own little echo of the time he’d spent with you.

After a few seconds, Joel placed the lid back on the box, sliding it away from him with a muted thud. He kept his expression steady, but his jaw was set, and his eyes remained fixed on the counter.

“When did she give it to you?” he asked, his voice strained but steady.

“A few moments ago,” Tommy said with a shrug, holding back a smirk as he noticed the tightness in Joel’s expression. “Saw her walking back from Dunn’s house, actually.”

Joel let out a dry, sardonic laugh, a smile twisted in disbelief. "Right. Of course."

"Actually," Tommy said, savoring another spoonful of ice cream, "he walked her to the door, all sweet-like. Gave her the whole mushy goodnight routine—kiss, movie shit." His gaze stayed fixed on the bowl, though Joel could see the glint of mischief there, Tommy barely holding back a grin.

Joel’s fingers drummed on the counter, his gaze hardening. “Good for her,” he muttered.

Tommy didn’t look up, just continued with his ice cream, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Sure she looked that way to me.”

“Like I care,” Joel muttered, his gaze fixed hard on the box beside him, fingers curling against the edge as if steadying himself. “I can bet everything I’ve got she doesn’t even like him that much. That guy isn’t worth it, and she knows it.” 

Tommy’s mouth quirked with amusement as he leaned back against the counter.

“Too bad that’s not up to you,” he said, casually pushing Joel’s buttons, almost like he enjoyed watching his brother’s patience fray. “She looked happy. And for what it’s worth, in her own words, she does like him.” 

Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Tommy, as if by sheer force he could undo his brother’s last statement. “Wait—you asked her? Tommy, you better not be going around—” 

“Relax,” Tommy cut in, hands raised in mock surrender, though there was still a hint of smugness in his expression. “We just had a small conversation, okay? Didn’t even mention you.” 

Joel let out a sharp, bitter laugh, though his face betrayed a flicker of something raw. His fingers tapped the box, restless and resentful, as if it were the box’s fault for bringing up everything he didn’t want to admit. Then, his voice low and clipped, he gestured to the countertop. “Clean this up when you’re done,” he said, his tone rough. “And don’t piss me off.” 

Without another word, Joel turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, each step heavy and quick, like he couldn’t get away fast enough. The tension in his back, the way his shoulders held too much weight, said enough. Who did Tommy think he was, coming in here with all that, telling him things he didn’t need to hear? He didn’t care about any of it. As far as he was concerned, you could date Travis, marry him if that’s what you wanted. None of it mattered to him. 

But as he climbed the stairs two at a time, his mind raced against his will. You’d been clear, hadn’t you? You didn’t want him in your life. No friendship, no connection, nothing. The words echoed, hollow and yet heavy. And as he reached the top of the stairs, he wondered how many more nights he’d have to wrestle with that idea, struggling to wrap his head around a life where you were nothing more than a memory he had to stop revisiting.

The sooner he accepted it, the easier it would be to see you with Travis, to manage the surge of irritation at the thought of his hands on you, to ignore the image of his arm slung casually around your shoulders. If he could accept it—if he did accept it—it would get easier, right? At least that’s what he told himself. He didn’t care. Obviously, he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that you’d decided to shut him out. Didn’t care that you were so resolute about it, that you barely seemed to miss him. He certainly didn’t care that he’d rearranged his mornings and evenings so he wouldn’t have to see you by accident. It wasn’t as if he still glanced at your door every time he came home, half-hoping he’d see you there, offering a smile and some easy excuse to stay. No, he wasn’t dwelling on how long it had been since he’d heard your voice or felt the comfortable warmth of your hand against his. Nearly a month now. And he was perfectly fine with it, honestly. It didn’t bother him one bit.

So fine, in fact, that he ended things with Sienna over dinner without a moment’s hesitation. Her face had gone blank with surprise, but he’d brushed it off, even throwing in some lie about being “too busy” to make it work, anything to avoid her prying questions. She’d looked at him, confused but oddly resigned, as if she’d sensed his mind had been elsewhere for a while. He didn't care, he was fine with it.

But later that night,Travis Dunn had brought you to your door—walked you up, murmured something as he leaned close, maybe kissed you goodnight. Joel didn’t know the details, but the image of it burned into his mind anyway. He sat in his room alone, a bitter laugh escaping his throat, mocking himself for how easily he’d let the thought take root. You, wrapped up with Dunn. Pf.

In the darkness of his bedroom, Joel sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the empty space beside him, the silence amplifying every unspoken word, every unfulfilled touch. He was fine with it. Of course he was. He repeated it in his mind, willing himself to believe it, even as a hollow ache throbbed in his chest.

And as if the universe were doubling down on the irony, that night he dreamed of you.

-

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @cosmic006533-blog @doblasftcisco @maiyart @concrete-jungleeee @playboygirlsnextdoor00 @maryfanson @rosebuds-and-moonlight @the-universe-is-complicated @formulafun @chewie-bars @glizzymcguirex @pedroswife69 @ivoryandflame @dixonswingz @sarahhxx03 @mellymbee @dailyobsession @msmorningstaarr @mystickittytaco @xxreginaxx @marellabyr @spacegirl-3 @alrihhty @heheheilovepedro @svrgs-blog @94namkooksworld @puddles221b @cowboymcflurry @medusaandposeidonshead @stylesispunk @sweatpeakarolinaa @puddles221b @deansimpalagirl @jasminedragoon @lover-of-books-and-tea @whimsiwitchy @cuteanimalmama @theherothesavior @ivoryandflame @auteurdelabre

[mochinomnoms]

PTM Question: If Yuu were actually trying to make Jade short circuit, what would they do or say?

Alternatively, PTM Yuu gets nostalgic about an old S/O from their world and a certain eel happens to overhear. Is the result an angry eel, a sulking eel, or an opportunistic one?

Being able to read minds makes these sorts of things much easier, especially for someone as secretive as Jade. Luckily for Yuu, a lot fo Jade's fantasies are relatively easy to feed into, though the more explicit ones are not viable for them most of the time.

Jade's biggest thing is being able to take care of Yuu. I feel that I've stated it so often that it's becoming repetitive, but Jade does really like being depended on! And Yuu can very easily feed into this by giving Jade a sweet tone and asking, “Jade? I'm having trouble, can you pleeease help me? You're always super good at everything!”

It's the pretty sound of their voice and the way they almost give him puppy eyes that basically turn him into this:

I'm positive that someone even edit an image of him with these quote, and it's very correct because Yuu could very much just bat their eyes and get whatever they want from him! He lives to help and serve, just like the Sea Witch! And he just happens to like doing it most with Yuu!

However, if they want to specifically make him short circuit...

“Jade?” Said young man looked up, blinking in surprise at how close you were. Not that he was complaining.

“Yes?”

You shifted in your seat, leaning closer and pushing your notebook towards him.

“Can you explain this part to me? I'm having trouble understanding it, and my potion is coming out wrong.”

Jade's breath ever so slightly hitched, before clearing his throat and moving in to look at your notes. He could smell the citrusy body wash you used.

“Let me see...what flowers are you using? Dandelions and often be confused for cat's ear.”

You leaned over to grab at your materials, though Jade swears he saw you arching your back.

No, they wouldn't, no where other than my imagination...

Jade froze as he felt you place a hand on his arm, displaying a bundle of yellow flowers to him with an innocent expression.

“These, I found them outside Ramshackle since Ruggie always says he picks them for salads, are they not it?”

Jade shook his head, brushing over your hand to bring the flowers closer to him to inspect.

“Hmm, the stems are longer and the petals look hairier, see?” He pointed at a few spots on the flower.

“Oh, damn. I was hoping I wouldn't have to buy supplies...”

Jade chuckled before contemplating if he should offer his own.

Ah, I'm more than happy to help you, my pearl! No need to be cautious, I won't hold it against you, perhaps a kiss in exchange for the flowers, fuhuh~

In the back of his mind, he knew that you knew from experience it was better to struggle a bit than to owe someone from Octavinelle. In the back of his mind, he knew you wouldn't ask him for any sort of favors. You were scared of him, understandable, he admits—

“Do you think I could use some of yours? Do you have any to spare?”

Jade paused, blanking for a moment, before looked down at you. You were awfully cute, looking at him with a pout, and you tapped your fingers together.

“Please Jade? Pleeeease?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat and attempting to fight off the blush he knew was coming on, Jade simply nodded and reached under the table for his bag of materials. As he carefully dug through it, he failed to notice you shuffling closer.

“Here,” Jade reached up with three dandelions carefully wrapped in a cloth in his hand. He felt a spark run up his arm as you wrapped your hand around his, no doubt reaching for the flowers. “I have a few extra you can—”

The moment he turned his head, he failed to realize that you'd been leaning down and had your lips purse to press a kiss against his cheek. Instead, you'd brushed against the corner of his mouth, causing you to gasp and bolt back, Jade freezing.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I was—your cheek! And then you turned—I wanted to thank—GAH!”

You held the dandelions to your chest, rushing back to your desk, muttering to yourself. Jade thinks he heard you chastising yourself for not paying attention, but really he couldn't process much, still frozen with his hand hovering in place.

Kiss. That was a kiss. He slowly stood back up, turning to his desk and tidying it up.

Kiss. On my lips. Kiss. They practically kissed my lips.

Like a robot programmed to a schedule, Jade spent most of his day quieter than usual. He went to class, to his shift at the lounge, all without saying anything. Just repeating the scene in his mind.

Floyd was even getting worried at how quiet Jade was, poking and prodding at him for a reaction. His twin followed him into his room, still pushing at Jade to say something.

“Come on Jade! What happened? You're never this quiet unless something happened! Did something happen? Did Mama call about Nana? Did you lose a mushroom or something? Jade! You can't just—”

Jade let himself fall onto his bed, face first, burying himself into the soft pillow and covers.

“Jade?” He felt his bed creak as Floyd carefully crawled up and around him. His voice was much closer now as Floyd leaned down. “You okay?”

Floyd could barely hear Jade as he spoke into the pillow, voice muffled. Jade even started clenching his sheets and kicking his feet. Tilting his head and leaning his ear close to his head, Floyd listened.

“…Oh you fucking sap!” Floyd smacked the back of Jade's head, huffing as Jade finally turned his head and smiled up at him.

“You know I hate when you get quiet! All that over some accidental kiss, dumbass! I thought you broke!”

Jade sighed in bliss, ignoring Floyd's smacks on his side and back.

“I just wish I took advantage of it, but I just froze. How unfortunate...”

[birrdies]

'SUNBLEACHED' (1.6k words) Our collaboration piece for the Flowers in the Desert zine! writing by me (birrdies) art by @fishbloc

Sunflowers. 

Over the flat, endless plain they stretch as far as Scar can see. Roots and leaves branch like veins and arteries through the soil on the verge of something alive. The sunflowers face the limitless blue above— no beginning or end— the stretch so vast that time itself feels as inconsequential as a marble rolling around in his hand. 

Scar doesn’t understand it.

One second his feet had been on the stone where Pearl had fallen, where lightning had struck with finality, and the next he’s up to his waist in sunflowers. Each golden petal stands on edge. As if they know something he doesn’t. He reaches out to touch one of these petals; they tickle the pads of his fingers. Shy, pretty things. 

It’s quiet here and Scar isn’t sure if it’s a silence he finds comforting or damning. He thinks he should be afraid, but how can he be? It’s warm here. The earth smells of freshly fallen rain beneath his feet, despite not a single cloud in the sky above. The fresh, dewey scent that soothes him, almost convinces him that this is a good place to be. 

“You’re here,” a voice says behind him.

There, enveloped by the countless sunflowers, is Grian. His hair is pale, sunbleached, and his cheeks are pink. Everything about him has been touched by the light in some way, down to the faded red poncho draping his shoulders and the speckling of freckles across his nose bridge. 

He’s drowning in it— this light. He’s made of it. And Scar’s eyes fall to find the sunflowers around him withering and decaying quickly. The yellow petals curl and desiccate into gray husks, breaking off their buds and fluttering to the ground. They’re dying. Not by lack of sunlight, Scar realizes, but by an excess of it. Burnt to a crisp. 

And like the sun, his skin blisters. The skin of his hands and the redness slathering them have no beginning or end. Gashes and swelling bruises and split knuckles. The blood never clots, a constant red drip falling from the fingers held limp at his sides. A quiet drip, drip, drip the only sound across the windless field. Not even so much as the sound of a breath. Just that blood.  “Grian,” Scar says. “I’m here.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Grian’s here either. But he’s grateful he is. Their nightmare— or, had it been a dream?— ended long ago, the desert gone and buried several games past. The Grian in front of him now isn’t the Grian he’d fought with moments ago. This Grian was younger. More afraid. More capable of burning. 

“Where… where is here, exactly?” Scar asks.

Grian curls those bleeding fingers into the nearest living sunflower. As if he’s unsure whether he wants to caress it or yank it from the ground, roots and all. His face is twisted, it’s always twisted when Scar’s around. But he yearns for the days when that twist had been of wicked delight, the way green-lit eyes exploded into starbursts at the sight of their mutual destruction. 

“You won,” Grian says simply, taking a sunflower by the stem and starting to pluck the petals. One by one. “Congratulations.”

Scar falters. A victory. A bolt of lightning striking the earth, the loud thud of a gavel. It’s over Scar, he hears, a constant echo in the back of his mind. You won. Grian’s anger burns. A second petal falls.  “You’re upset.” Scar will do anything to make it stop, to untie the knot tied between Grian’s eyebrows, to take those cracked, bleeding hands in his own and mend them until the skin is whole again. To take away the pain, the regret, the guilt. 

Grian never left the desert, no matter how much he wanted to. And Scar could never go back. No matter how often he wished he could.

“This is your dream, Scar.” Grian turns his face away. “It’s been a long time coming— a victory.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve won anything,” Scar says honestly. A victory implies the heavy yet welcome weight of a crown, the fleeting yet intoxicating rush of excitement. But all Scar feels is the emptiness in his chest, the air around his crownless head. Blood on his hands that he can’t see, but knows is there all the same. The same way it stains Grian’s. 

Grian plucks a third petal. He barks a cruel laugh, but it sounds more like he’s about to cry. “How do you think I felt?”  Scar frowns. “It’s still about the desert? After all this time?” 

Grian plucks another petal. Four. It flutters to the ground to join the others, yellow petals torn and crumpled, slowly turning gray. The edge of his mouth tugs into a knife-like smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s all he can manage, though he doesn’t mean it. Nothing can make him regret that day, knelt in a cool pond with the weight of a diamond blade against the junction of his neck. The hand he used to hold onto it, digging it into his own skin— asking for it. “You deserved to win.”

“I deserved this? To be alone?” Grian throws his arms out to the sides, to the endless curvature of sunflowers drowning the both of them. Nothing to shield them from the unrelenting sun above. “Because that’s what winning means. You’re alone, Scar.” 

Scar’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You’re here.” 

“Am I?” A fifth petal. “Or do you just want me to be?” 

Scar stares at Grian, uncaring if the scalding brightness gives him sunspots, or if the pain of looking at the spoils of his own choices burns him up from the inside. You won, Scar, his voice echoes again and again in Scar’s mind, a scratched record. His fists curl up at his sides, into the black cloak sewn with lilacs and poppies along the hem. 

Is that what this is? A cruel illusion to make him realize what it truly means to be the man at the edge of the world, to be the last man standing? If this is victory— Scar grits his teeth and twists his fists into his cloak— then he doesn’t want it. He’s never wanted it. It was never about winning, it was about— 

“About what, exactly?” Grian snaps, plucking the through straight from his mind just as he does with a sixth petal. “Is it about this? Sunflowers? You can’t hide behind them forever. Not here. Not from me. Not from yourself.” 

“Stop it.”

Grian’s in front of him now, bloodied hands shoving him by his shoulders. Scar stumbles back and barely keeps himself upright. This isn’t right. This isn’t Grian— not the one he knows, not the one he needs. 

“Why aren’t you angry, Scar?” Another push. “After everything that’s happened to you. All the people that have betrayed you. All the times I left you behind.”

Scar grapples for self control, to reign in the flash of anger burning the back of his throat. “What are you trying to prove?” 

“Stop lying. For once in your life, look me in the eye and tell me you’re angry.” Grian yanks a sunflower from the ground and shoves it, decaying leaves and all, against Scar’s chest. “Tell me these are just a sham.” 

It’s on the tip of his tongue: the truth. A terrifying, bitter thing that burns crawling up the back of his throat. Because it betrays everything he’s worked so hard to build, the masks he’s sported like second skins, the confidence which he flaunts like a shield. Without it, what does he have left? He’s stripped clean, Grier’s hands against his chest burning like sweltering charcoal. Sunflower petals slip between his fingers. 

He opens his mouth to let it up, to tell the truth, and then—

The sky above him changes. Only slightly. If he had blinked he would’ve missed it. But clear as day he sees them overhead: clouds. Slowly rolling across a blue sky.  And he’s on his back, blinking spots from his eyes as breath rushes into his lungs. The air tastes fresh, crisp, like seawater. Eyes fluttering, he tries to remember what he’d just been about to say.  “Scar?” 

Eclipsing the sun beating down on him overhead, a head peers down at him. Dark, wide eyes, a slanted mouth. A sporting of freckles across dusty cheeks. 

Something knotted unravels in Scar’s chest. “Grian.” Grian’s lips wobble into an uneasy smile. He wipes sweat from his brow, and Scar catches a glimpse of his hands: dirty, packed with mud, but bloodless. “Whatcha doing down there, pal?”  Scar’s arms lie limp at his sides. He’s not sure he could move even if he tried. If he wanted to. Something about this peace is fragile, uncertain. As if simply breathing the wrong way will make the world shatter in two and send him back to that place. One wrong move and he’ll be alone again. 

“Dunno,” Scar says breathlessly. Stalks of wheat tickle his arms as the wind kicks up, ghosting over his body. A sunflower stands over him, waving in the breeze. “Appreciating the view. Clouds. They’re nice.”

“Come on.” A hand reaches out to him. “Stop trampling my wheat.” Scar has to stare at it to remember that it’s not covered in blood. That it’s just dirt from a long day tending to wheat and sunflowers. That the Grian smiling down at him is the real one. Not the one made to torment him. 

Scar reaches for that hand, allowing their palms to slot together. Grian’s skin is callused and warm. He’s there. He’s real. Scar isn’t alone.

[salemoleander]

Headed back to her base after the session ended, lack of speed weighing down every step, she really shouldn’t have stopped to chat with Joel. He asks about Gem, because of course he does, and she grits her teeth and charitably changes the subject.

He asks again.

Stupidly- because he’s her friend, because he was a Mounder, because she'd love for someone to not learn the hard way- she tries to explain.

“You can’t trust her, Joel. I know you won’t listen, because I’m evil and cursed and everything everyone says and she’s your family-” She spits family like a piece of flint. “-but I’d rather be outcast and know where I stand than pair up with someone like Gem.”

“You’ve got your group, haven’t you? I don’t see why you’re so angry at her for still not trusting you, it’s not like you’re alone. Scott and everyone have welcomed you back with open arms!”

Pearl snorts. “Yeah, to be the family pet. ‘Everyone come look at our bright red monster! Don’t get too close, she bites!’”

“Well, you did immediately start to change your skin to Scarlet Pearl,” Joel points out, dismissive. “Bit weird to do, if you didn’t want everyone to think you’re dangerous.”

“If they’re going to treat me like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I’d rather just be a wolf. At least then people know I have teeth.” She grins, canines jagged against her bottom lip.

He grimaces, and makes a shooing motion in her direction. “Okay, freaky wolf lady, time to get off my lawn. Go annoy someone else.”

She’s always impressed by how well Joel manages to project disinterest, when there’s a conversation he doesn’t want to be in. Pearl tilts her head, fixing him with a flat, yellow-eyed stare. “How’s the pretending to be family thing going, Joel? Still as much fun as you were hoping for?”

“We’re not pretending, and it’s going great,” he says, stone-faced, eyes trained on the horizon to the right of her shoulder. “Gem’s the best team- the best family I could ask for.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Pearl drawls. “I bet it feels nice right now! You’ve both got sooooo many lives- she isn’t even afraid of you, yet. No paranoia, not like crazy Pearlie and her team.”

Joel flinches - just a tiny bit, she’d never notice if she wasn’t so close to red- and then scoffs. “Well you’ve got one thing right, you are crazy.”

“I might be!” She agrees brightly. “But not about this. Gem’s too new to know how to see past the fear. She doesn’t know where you started, what you used to be.”

“What do you blumming mean, what I used to be?” He looks off-kilter, and Pearl lets that question hang for a moment as the possibilities spin around them: A king? A god? Her friend?

“She doesn’t know you were a wolf, Joel.” Pearl says in a hushed tone, gentle and honest. “Are a wolf, really, can’t change your spots! And when you start dying, when you get hungry, when she sees herself reflected in red eyes, Gem will treat you just like she treats me.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Pearl.” His voice is rough. “I’m not some lone wolf, I have friends now! I was with Grian and Jim, and- last season, even, we were in a group!”

“Some of us- a lot of us!- don’t care about wolves anymore. Especially wolves like you, pretending to be dogs, all loyal and helpful. But Gem is new, and at some point the threat is going to dawn on her.” She offers, voice smooth as glass, “If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll let you die like a dog for her, instead of putting you down herself.”

“You don’t- Get out of our base.” Joel’s knuckles are blanched, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’s angry - good. Maybe he’ll remember this, when Gem sends him on a suicide mission or cuts him down for the win.

Maybe he’ll learn, faster than she did, there’s no use pretending to be a dog.

[undiscovered-horizon]

[Mihawk prefers to keep work and his private life separate. On one rare occasion when these two have to comingle, Mihawk is rather upset at the attention you attract.]

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When Mihawk said "It will be just a moment, my dear", you didn't think the issue would take more than half an hour. Yet here you are, two hours after he had left you in a fussy lounge in the back of Midnight Grove...

...and not a Dracule Mihawk in sight.

You let out an exasperated sigh and take another sip of your mai tai. The band is playing yet another song that sounds vaguely identical to the previous one. Similarly, the mob of other patrons seems to be merging into one, murky background of blurry figures in your eyes. Being used to the peaceful yet refined companionship of Mihawk, the aura of Midnight Grove is beyond unbearable.

Mindlessly playing with a coaster featuring a howling wolf, you don't notice a Marine cadet approaching you.

"I'm afraid I have to arrest you, my lady."

The unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome comment makes you look up from the devilishly fascinating coaster. Your eyes fall on a well-built man with long hair and a smug expression. The glint in his brown eyes makes you tense up in discomfort.

"Excuse me?" you ask him, not understanding the meaning behind his words.

The cadet gives you a bad parody of a flirtatious smile. "You look too beautiful," he purrs out.

You can't help but laugh. Somehow, you're undecided whether his pick-up disgusts or amuses you or maybe both. Perhaps his audacity forced a laugh out of you - the ring on your fourth finger is neither modest nor simple. Considering how the large gem in the golden band shone in the low light of the Midnight Grove, even a blind man could tell from a mile away that you are anything but single.

"Anyone waiting for you at home?" he continues his rather poor attempt at flirting.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you toss the coaster on the table. Feeling both curious and entertained, you decide to play along - for now, at least. "Why are you asking, sailor boy?" you question before taking another sip of your drink. The ice has melted and the diluted drink now tastes mostly of old freezer.

"He must be mighty jealous about you. And considering the gold you're wearing," he makes a point of staring at your cleavage, "a millionaire, too."

"Oh, this?" You look down at the necklace of jewels and pearls. A memory flashes before your eyes, suddenly remembering Mihawk's face, barely visible in candlelight as he clasps the jewellery around your neck, telling you sweet things only men in romance novels tend to say. "Yes, it's a gift from someone. I'm sure you know him," you tell the Marine cadet in a casual tone, already imagining how hilarious his face of terror will be when he realizes whose spouse he's been trying to woo. "Tall, yellow eyes, a rather large sword and...

"Awfully annoyed at your impertinence, boy."

The low, guttural voice laced with withheld anger makes both of you look away. There, standing right behind the cadet, is Mihawk himself. Part of his large physique blocks the scarce lighting, making him look significantly more insidious. In the twilight of the Midnight Grove, with fury burning in his eyes, Mihawk appears closer to a demon than a man.

Although the room is dark, you can clearly see the way the cadet's blood draws from his face and the way his eyes are suddenly bigger than an owl's. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling off his chair. Then, muttering apologies and promises of better behaviour, the young Marine runs off only to disappear in the crowd of Midnight Grove's patrons.

Mihawk's eyes follow the youngling for a moment.

"I should have him strung up and killed," he says more to himself than you.

"Or," you speak up, a playful smile curling your lips, "you could sit down, have a drink with your beautiful wife and gloat about the fact that you're the only man to undress her."

You might just be a witch because the change in his demeanour is instant. There is still something wild in his bright, yellow eyes but it's not bloodthirst or anger anymore. You notice how he glances at the ring and the necklace, admiring his own signs of "ownership". One would think they're big enough to send the message. Alas, some people just refuse to receive it.

"You have me convinced," Mihawk says as he sits down next to you.

[cobrakaisb]

curse of achilles

summary: luke is taking on the curse of achilles, and even though you left him two years ago, you're still his anchor to the real world 

word count: 543

BOOK SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

|||series masterlist|||set during the battle of olympus|||

cold water and the desperate need to breathe were the two things luke castellan could focus on. the river styx was brutal, and he was seriously debating letting the current wash him away. no more gods. no more war. no more mentally ill mother. no more deadbeat father. no more longing. 

“a tether luke, find a tether,” ethan shouted from above, but his voice was muffled by the sloshing of the water and burning in his throat. 

a tether, something to keep him attached to the real world. whatever, or whoever, it was would preserve the human side of him.

he tried to think of someone who still cared about him. thalia pushed him off a cliff and sent him to a death he wished came. annabeth could only look at him with pity and betrayal. chris was somewhere settling into his madness after the labyrinth. katrina tolerated luke at best. percy was a kid who he’d tried to kill multiple times. ethan was too into justice and that whole eye-for-an-eye bullshit. 

he had no one. 

you didn’t forget about me did you? 

his head turned, and his eyes opened wide as he squinted into the blackness of the current trying to pinpoint your voice 

i thought we were more than that, luke. 

he saw you then, standing in a grassy meadow, filled with white daisies, purple snapdragons, yellow cinquefoils, and wisteria. the sun is just setting, turning the sky a mess of light pinks and deep oranges. there’s a slight breeze, and the flowy white dress ruffles at your feet. you look so much like your mother, strong, confident, and beautiful. 

“i didn’t forget,” he whispers, hands falling at his sides as he watches your lips curve into a stunning smile. 

he wants to fall to his knees and pray at your feet, begging for forgiveness as he places kisses along your hip bone. he feels underdressed in khakis and a polo, but he always knew he’d never compare to your true beauty. 

good, you whisper, holding your left hand out towards him.

he catches sight of your engagement ring. the golden band still hugging your skin, the pearl nestled between your digits. he struggles -- unsure if it’s in the meadow vision with you or him fighting for his life in the river styx -- to pull out his silver chain with a gold band dangling from it. 

don’t keep me waiting luke, you know i’m impatient, you finish, watching and waiting for him to take your hand. 

he reaches out, and he feels it then: the tether. he imagines the golden string, starting at his armpit, on the side of his rib, and running across the meadow to your outstretched fingers. he wonders how he’s survived the past two years without you by his side, and decides that he didn’t. and he won’t survive. he realizes that now. he’s not taking on the curse of achilles to help his cause, he enduring the pain and suffering for a titan who will discard him like a broken doll at the end of all this. 

yet, you’re still waiting for him. if only the golden string would bring him to you, but he’s learnt now, there’s no room in his life for wishful thinking.

[odoraful]

𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄

during a gathering for the maisons in the court of fontaine, the newlywedded couple retire early to spend time at home together

⟡ content: neuvilette x fem!reader; introvert x introvert; calling each other husband and wife and other cute nicknames; reader saving neuvilette from social burnout; lots of kissing; very fluffy; possibly ooc neuvilette (still figuring out how to write him!)—he's much more open with his affections around reader; 2.4k words

⟡ a/n: craving some married couple dynamics and i thought neuvi was a perfect candidate for this :') i haven't written in almost a month so pardon my rustiness </3

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“It’s not like you to zone out Monsieur Neuvilette.”

Neuvilette’s gaze snapped back to the person in front of him—bemusement on their face. Whilst many others would have let their sheepishness show at being caught, Neuvilette’s features never faltered, returning a sensible smile.

He was conversing with someone from the Maison Cardinalice named Aimon. In fact, there were people from all four Maisons here at the ball. It was a semi-regular gathering held to promote friendly relations between the factions of the Court. Neuvilette believed he had a good grasp of the intricacies of political small talk among these events. The talks were cordial and productive, and he made his due diligence to circle the foyer of the Opera Epiclese enough times to be introduced, and reintroduced, to interested parties. However, mid-way through these rounds, he found that the ornament woven in his hair felt heavier than usual, and his thick robes seemed to drag his body down with each conversation he entered and left. Despite this, he maintained his composure. He had a role to fulfil after all.

“My apologies, I was simply taken by the view here.”

He glanced out again past the open doors of the Opera Epiclese.

White light of the foyer’s interior flooded into the darkness of the night, causing the streams of water in the Fountain of Lucine to shimmer like crystals. Near the doors, some members of the ball had taken to conversing in the cool night air.

The representative from the Cardinalice shook their head in astonishment.

“Even after all your time here, you still find such novelty in the landmarks of the city,” they sighed.

Turning to follow where Neuvilette had been looking, they tried to discern what beauty he saw in this place that they passed almost every day. Realisation hit them almost immediately at what, or rather who, had distracted the Iudex.

One of the people who had taken respite in the open night air was you.

It was hard for one to take their eyes away at the figure draped in gold fabric, hugging their body just so. The ruffled hem of the dress was long enough to hit the floor, leaving a small train of what appeared to be molten gold in the trick of the light. Carefully embroidered vines and leaves in yellow thread trailed from the bodice to the skirt. Tulle-like material lined the sweetheart neck, showcasing the pearl necklace at your collarbones and extending to drape delicately past the curves of the shoulders.

You were in the company of some of the gestionnaires from the Palais Mermonia, listening attentively. Your covered your mouth with a hand, laughing at something being said. Neuvilette could imagine the lilt of your voice as you spoke with the others around you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Aimon began, “how fares the move for Fontaine’s newly wed couple?”

Neuvilette hummed, a low timbre brimming with affection.

He was not one to announce personal affairs, but no amount of privacy could prevent the news of the Chief Justice getting married from going public. Of course, the people of Fontaine were captivated by the romantic story of someone finally catching the eye of the “solitary workaholic” (as many of the news articles released described him to be). It sounded exactly like something out of a play. Quietly, he enjoyed when people brought it up in conversation, since it gave him a chance to talk about you, after all. He loved the way the title rolled off his tongue when he called you his wife.

“My wife and I have been settling into our new home well,” he replied, revitalised by the change of topic. “We have finished with all our furnishings-”

“Ah!” the exclamation from Aimon almost made him jump. “Monsieur, I must introduce you to the latest addition to our Maison. I think you would quite like him.”

They flapped their hand at someone from outside, gesturing them to come in.

More introductions. Inwardly, Neuvilette sighed, though there was only politeness shown on his face.

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Unbeknownst to Neuvilette, his weariness had begun to manifest in the sky above. What had been a clear night had now turned overcast. Dense clouds obscured the moon. The people around you looked curiously at the sky.

“How fickle the weather can be,” someone tutted.

You knew that such a sudden change could only mean one thing.

Rather than look to the sky, your eyes instead sought your husband. At the entrance of the Opera, you could see Neuvilette speaking with two others, his silhouette back lit by light. Excusing yourself from the people you were with, you lifted the hem of your skirt and walked briskly over. The voice of Aimon grew louder as you drew nearer. You paid half an ear to their discussion, your attention directed at Neuvilette’s rigid posture and passive expression.

His senses tingled as you approached his side. The delicate sweetness of your perfume comforted him. After admiring you from a distance for much of the ball, his lips now parted seeing you up close. Even with how long you have spent with each other, he became more enamoured by you with every passing day.

“Apologies for my interruption.”

Your words cut through the conversation, immediately quietening Aimon. You lay a hand on Neuvilette, squeezing his shoulder lightly. You felt his body ease under your touch.

“But may I speak to my husband?”

“Mademoiselle.” Aimon tipped his head in greeting. “Why of course. We will take out leave.”

You curtsied in thanks, watching as the two Cardinalice members hurried away further into the foyer.

Neuvilette’s hand hovered over your waist. Momentarily, he thought about pulling you close, until he could trace every thread of the embroidered pattern on your bodice under his fingertips and memorise its shape. It pained him to resist an action like this, but he was a gentleman, and it would be improper to do something like that in a public space. Instead, he subtly gestured towards the edge of the room as a place to talk without, hopefully, being interrupted.

“My dear, is everything alright?”

The concern on his face melted your heart.

“Everything is quite alright with me, but I’m not sure I can say the same for you.”

You covered the side of your mouth that could be viewed by others. “It’s okay if you’re tired of this ball,” you whispered.

His face fell to relief that something bad had not happened to you.

“Thank you for your concern, dear, but as head of the Ordalie, it is my duty to be here and connect with the other Maisons.” The words came out of him almost robotically, betraying the tiredness that weighed his body and pleaded for him to rest.

“It may well be, but I don’t want to see you collapsing the next time someone wants to speak to you,” you insisted.

He rubbed his temple with his finger and thumb. Neuvilette couldn’t argue with that. It was true. How good of a Chief Justice could he be if he was too exhausted to properly fulfil his duties? At the thought of leaving early, his mind wandered to how the two of you would cuddle before bed, tucked beneath the quilts, enveloped by homeliness. Maybe it was best to listen to your advice.

“Are you alright to retire for the night as well, then?” he asked.

“Archons, yes,” you blurted out. “The gestionnaires are lovely company, but if I had the choice between hearing the amount of paperwork required to replace a keycap from them again, or to return to my abode with my husband, I think my answer would hardly surprise you.”

He laughed at your candour. “I will not let you say anything untoward about the Maison Gestion for I admire their tenacity. However, even I must admit that that may not the most riveting conversation to be apart of.”

Neuvilette extended a hand out towards you.

“Shall we depart then?”

You nodded fervently. Moving to his side, you both took a turn around the foyer, saying your necessary goodbyes to the heads of the Maisons. They gave saddened responses to his early departure, but respected the couple’s wishes. Though, you and Neuvilette considered being out at a quarter-past-nine at night to already be quite late.

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The two of you entered you home with a relieved sigh, slipping off your shoes and leaving them on the rack by the door. Though the slight clutter of your living room—pillows askew on the sofa, blankets draped on chairs, handmade ceramic trinkets dotted in spaces around the room—was far from the pristine foyer of the Opera, you much preferred it. Automatically, you and Neuvilette headed upstairs to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to unwind for the night.

Looking at your reflection, you took your necklace and earrings off, returning them back to their velvet boxes. Behind you in the mirror, your husband’s hair began to get tangled in the clip of his feathered ornament. He let out a frustrated huff. It was certainly cute to see someone as accomplished as the Iudex have such a sulky look on his face. Wordlessly, you walked over to his side and tapped his hands away. At your signal of aid, Neuvilette sat down on the bed, allowing you to reach his head. His eyes were glued to your focused expression, how careful you were trying to be to not hurt him. Your fingers delicately removed the hair piece, and you smoothed his hair to tidy it up.

As he stood up to take off his robes, he felt your hands tug at the sleeves, helping him to undress. Neuvilette opened his mouth to protest, to tell you that you needn’t worry about him, that you should go and wash up first. Knowing your husband for so long, you sensed these words and spoke before him.

”I know being Chief Justice is an intensive role, but please don’t push yourself too hard.”

Such a gentle request from his wife almost made him fall to his knees. It was act of care that seemed magnified now that you were married. Neuvilette managed to, incredibly, maintain his balance as you worked to unbutton his vest.

“You are not an unfeeling Gardemek who can stand for hours without tumbling over,” you pouted, fumbling at his buttons.

The Chief Justice took his position seriously, sparing no feelings in a trial. It was a job needed to be done faithfully to best help the people of Fontaine. That sense of responsibility he had was something you held great pride in, but not when it took a toll on his mind and body. Especially when the emotions he held like a still body of water began to ripple and swirl behind the curtains of the courtroom.

“I will heed your words,” he nodded. “In any case, you seem to be swooping in to my rescue a few times tonight.”

You grinned. “I would gladly rescue you whenever you need, party-related or otherwise.”

Neuvilette stared fondly at his wife, slipping off his vest and folding it neatly. Perhaps it was the after effects of the honeymoon period, but the domesticity of this moment flared something inside him.

Before you could move to the closet on the opposite side of the room, he circled a hand around your waist. His touch stopping you from walking away. You cocked your head to the side, curiously.

“Truly, you have my thanks.”

Swiftly, you were pulled close to him. Neuvilette ran a fingertip along the edges of the leaves stitched onto your bodice, finally feeling each thread. You squirmed slightly—each drag of his finger leaving a tickling sensation at your waist. The composed air he maintained for most hours of the day came undone before you. Left wearing only his loose white shirt and black pants, his tousled hair fell down his back and the glow from the bedroom’s lantern reflected desire in his indigo eyes.

Leaning closer still, his warm breath caressed your face as his lips met your forehead first. The movement excruciatingly slow. Each press of his lips lingered for a second longer that you could even feel the most minute shifts in his face. Continuing, he trailed feather-like kisses down your temples.

“Mm, what’s this for?” you asked, more breathless than you anticipated.

Neuvilette hummed for a moment.

“My intentions are two fold. One-” he accentuated the word with a kiss on your cheek, “-as appreciation for helping me tonight, and two-” he placed another on the opposite side, “-as recompense for not admiring you properly at the ball.”

There was always a flutter in your stomach when he kissed you, but the way your breath caught in your throat felt like this was the very first time. He was completely lost in his affection as he moved down to your jawline and neck—soft lips meeting your quickening pulse. A small gasp escaped you at the contact, and the smile that drew across his lips was unmistakable against your skin. The folded vest slipped from your hand and crumpled on the floor. He would deal with the creases in his uniform in the morning. For now, it would make a satisfactory sacrifice for this chance to cherish you.

Grasping at Neuvilette’s shirt sleeve instead, he switched positions, cornering you on the edge of the bed. He focused his attention on the dip in your collarbone—a sensitive spot that made you shiver at the contact. The sensation was too inviting not resist. Your legs could no longer hold yourself steady, as you tumbled down to sit. Hands opposite sides of your body, your husband had subtly caged you in as he pulled away to look at your face.

“You look divine, my dear.” His voice was low, reverberating in your ears.

“As do you. Though I believe that adjective is a given-” you poked at his cheek with a finger “-for a Sovereign such as yourself.”

Red tinged his ears, an obvious contrast against his pale skin. He breathed a laugh at your comment, always quick to return a compliment to him.

The clouds had long since dissipated, showcasing the moon in its clarity. The attendants at the Opera briefly paused their chatter to once again admire the twinkling sky. A few of them sighed, commenting disappointedly how the Chief Justice and his wife had missed the splendour of the night.

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[cosmicdahlias]

Can Bill Come Out To Play?

a ford x reader fic

MINORS DNI

You and Ford are cuddled up in bed when Bill takes over for a night of fun.

warnings: smut, possession, masochism, consensual torture, knife play, blood play, blood as lube, oral, spanking, choking, bruising, fainting, slapping, dubcon impreg, putting cigarettes out on you

okay y’all this one is supremely fucked up, i know i’ve written my share of dark fics but this one takes the cake if the warnings are any indication. it was a request by @thegrovesheart but i probably went way more overboard than what they were asking for. i’m sorry y’all are about to see how bad my kinks are, hopefully you’ll still enjoy the ride 🤞

It was late at night, you and Ford had just finished a long day of working on the portal. You were cuddled up in bed, him pressed up against you as the big spoon. He was lazily tracing his fingers over the curves of your body. You had been about to fall asleep, but the sensation of his hands on you was too arousing. You rolled over, facing him and slipped your hand to his cock.

You stroked him and he let out a soft moan, his eyes closed in pleasure. You kissed him deeply, when you pulled back he opened his eyes, they were different, wild and yellow with reptilian slits for pupils.

“Ford?”

He laughed, even his voice was off, higher, more sinister. He smiled wide, almost like the corners of his mouth were about to split open.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. The name’s Bill Cipher, I’m your good old boyfriend here’s muse. I figured if I’m gonna be in his mind I might as well get acquainted the little minx that occupies his thoughts when they’re not about me. That’s right, kid, the man’s absolutely obsessed with you, well, not more than me, but you’re a close second.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“Well, dollface, I’ve been taking a peek into your dreams and I gotta say, you are quite the freak. I’m honestly impressed, most humans don’t enjoy pain nearly as much as you do. Have you told Fordsy? I doubt it, honestly he’d be too much of a pussy to do any of the shit you think about. And that’s where I come in, you love fucking Ford, but he’ll never truly satisfy you in the way you want. I have no hangups about causing pain, hell I love it! If you agree, I’ll give you everything you want and more. What do you say?”

After your time researching things like demonic possession the idea of being fucked by a demon always excited you. And the fact that he’d hurt you in ways that Ford never would? Fuck the hell yes. You should have been terrified, but when you looked into those yellow eyes you only felt desire.

“Deal.”

“Ahahaha, perfect. Let’s get started.”

Ford’s hands traveled down your body, his grip rougher than normal. He put a hand to your neck and sank his teeth into your throat. You yelped as he drew blood, it seeped down your neck and Ford dragged his tongue over the crimson liquid.

“Fuck, I forgot how good that tastes.”

He got up, searching for something.

“I know sixer keeps one around here somewh- aha!” He said, pulling out a large hunting knife.

He walked back over to the bed, getting on top of you. He dragged the flat end of the blade against your skin, every so often testing the waters by poking you with the tip light enough to not slice into your flesh, not yet. Goosebumps formed from the sensation, no one had ever done anything to you like this, you were on cloud nine.

“I think you’ll like this.” He smiled.

He let the knife travel to your inner thigh and begin to cut the soft skin. You winced and moaned. Bill let out a cold laugh.

“God you’re fucked up, kid.”

He took his time carving the words “Bill’s slut” into your thigh, pearls of blood forming at the surface. Satisfied with his work he gathered your blood on his fingertips.

“Open that pretty mouth.”

You did so and his fingers entered, the metallic taste hitting your tongue. He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his lips aggressively to yours, tongue shoving its way into your mouth, searching for the taste of blood.

He pulled away. His wide smile hadn’t left his face since he took hold of Ford. He reversed his hold of the knife, gripping the sharp blade in his hand. He teased the entrance of your pussy with the hilt. You were dripping at the idea, inching yourself closer.

He shoved the handle aggressively inside you, fucking you with it. He didn’t let up on his grip, the knife sinking into Ford’s palm, blood trickled down the knife.

“Whoops, might as well make the best of it.”

He pulled the handle out of you and covered Ford’s blood in it before resuming fucking you with the hilt.

“Bet you never used blood as lube before have you? And judging by how wet you are I’d say you’re enjoying this.”

You whimpered, bucking your hips. Blood continued to drip from Ford’s hand, staining the sheets. He pulled the knife out and dragged you headfirst to the edge of the bed, tilting your head back back. He stroked his cock and thumbed your tongue.

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth and I’m not gonna stop even when you choke and gag on Fordsy’s cock, sound good?”

You nodded.

“Good, just try not to puke on his dick, I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

He lined the tip up with your open lips before violently forcing his way into your mouth, holding a hand to your throat the entire time.

He thrusted relentlessly and you began to gag, saliva pooling on the floor. He pinched your nipples hard, you let out a muffled moan.

“That’s right, moan on his cock.”

He carried on fucking your mouth. Savoring your desperate attempts to breathe. He debated on covering your nose just to make things harder, he loved to see you struggle.

He pulled out, you coughed and gasped for air. He picked you up and flipped you over on your stomach, shoving your face down into the pillow and raising your ass. Ford bent over and picked up his belt. He came up behind you and brought it down hard on your ass. You moaned as a welt began to form. He continued lashing you until your legs began to shake.

“Man you really can take a beating.”

He flipped you over again, this time on your back and slipped the belt around your neck then climbed on top of you, hand tugging on the leather.

“I’ve always wanted to know what pussy feels like, Fordsy makes it sound even better than pain with the way he describes it”

He didn’t waste any time preparing you, brutally shoving his full length inside you, pumping rapidly. He moaned loudly.

“Ah ahahaha, fuck, now I see why sixer fantasizes about this all the time. It feels fucking incredible.”

He pulled hard on the belt, choking you. You tightened around his cock. Capillaries in your neck started to break, you were going to be left with one hell of a bruise. He was ruthless, fucking you with cruel intensity.

He pulled the belt even tighter, you began to asphyxiate. Finding this insanely hot, but still valuing your life you tried to tell Ford to loosen his grip, but your windpipe was being crushed. All you could manage out was a guttural choking noise as you clawed at the belt.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I can’t quite make it out.” He said, ignoring your obvious attempts to breathe. He pulled as tight as he could, you couldn’t even gasp. “Oh well, must not be important.” He shrugged, continuing to fuck you.

Despite what felt like a threat to your life you found yourself incredibly turned on. Your vision started to go black. The last thing you heard was a maniacal laugh.

-

When you came to Ford was still fucking you.

“Whoa hey you’re back, thought we lost you for a second there.” He said with his twisted smile.

His hands found your hips, he gripped them, nails digging into your flesh hard enough to break the skin.

“Say my name, slut.” He demaned.

“Nnngh, Ford.” You moaned.

He backhanded you. “I SAID SAY MY NAME, YOU STUPID CUNT!” He shouted.

“B-Bill.” You whimpered.

“That’s better. Remember who’s really in control here, sixer will never fuck you like this.”

He pounded you into the mattress. He felt himself close to cumming.

“So you’re gonna find this hilarious, I’ve been having sixer switch out your birth control with sugar pills. That’s right, they do jack shit. I’ve always been fascinated by human pregnancy and I mean hey, you’re young and fertile. And it’s too late to stop me now. Ahahahaha!”

Before you could even think to push him off you he pinned you down by the wrists, cumming deep inside you. He bucked rapidly, ropes of hot cum shooting inside you. He grunted, refusing to stop even when his cock began to hurt. God he loved causing Ford pain. He didn’t know how humans got anything done or why they didn’t just fuck 24/7.

Ford took your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Well this was fun, but it’s probably time for me to give old Fordsy his body back, don’t yo- oh wait, one last parting gift.”

He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a lighter and pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it up, taking a long drag and puffing the smoke in your face. He grinned wildly, turning your head to expose your neck and putting it out on your skin. You screwed your eyes shut and moaned loudly. He bent down and licked the burn.

“Oooh wee, you sure are fun. I’m definitely coming back for more, but I think I’m satisfied for now. Okay byeeeeeeeee.”

Ford’s head snapped back. He shook his head, blinking rapidly, his eyes returning to normal.

“Ugh, wh- what happened? Did I black ou- “ He looked down at you and gasped in horror, backing away from you to the foot of the bed.

You were a shaking mess, you honestly looked like you’d been through a bear attack.

“Y/N! WHAT HAPPENED? WHO DID THIS TO YOU?” He started to hyperventilate.

You sat up and took his face in your hands. “Hey hey, it’s alright, I wanted this.”

“OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY? SHOULD I TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL? SHOULD I FILE A POLICE REPORT? DID I DO THIS? WHY AREN’T YOU SAYING ANYTHI-“ he froze. “D- did you say you wanted this?”

You kissed him.

“Look, I have been having some… fantasies and Bill and I both agreed that you wouldn’t be able to do them to me on your own.”

“You met Bill?”

“He was possessing you, but yeah I met him.”

He stared at you, looking terrified before attempting to fix his face to a more neutral expression, almost like he was afraid he would be punished for showing fear.

“That’s- that’s wonderful. I always hoped he’d let you meet him someda-“ now that the adrenaline had settled he got a good look at you. “Oh baby your neck.” He looked down. “Y- your thigh.”

Blood was trickling from both wounds. He looked at you with great concern.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Like I said, I wanted this.”

Without saying a word he got off the bed and left the room, he returned with a first aid kit. He sat next to you.

“Come here.” He whispered softly.

You leaned into him as he saturated a cotton ball in disinfectant.

“Now this is going to sting quite a bit.”

He applied the soaked cotton ball to your neck wound, you drew in a sharp breath at the sensation.

“I know, I’m sorry baby.”

“No it’s okay, I like the pain.”

He gave small chuckle. “So I’ve heard.”

He took a second cotton ball, wetting it with disinfectant, pressing it to the branding that Bill had left you. You winced.

Ford kissed your cheek. “Almost done, stardust. You’re doing so good.”

He pulled gauze and medical tape out of the first aid kit. He started with the bite, lining up the gauze to cover it and securing it in place with the tape. He then turned his attention to the words carved into your thigh, doing the same.

He got up and inspected you carefully from every angle until he noticed the cigarette burn.

“Ah, hold on.”

He left the room again, coming back this time with a soapy wet rag. He sat down next to you again and gently cleaned the wound.

“You can’t use disinfectant on a burn, slows the healing.”

He then dressed the burn the same way he had for your other injuries.

He had always secretly liked treating and bandaging your wounds, he found it to be quite intimate, not even in a sexual way, just that it allowed him to be close to you.

He cupped your cheek in his hand and went to kiss you when he realized he’d gotten blood on your face. He looked down at his hand and shook his head.

“Guess Bill got me too.”

“Don’t worry, I got it.” You smiled.

You took his hand, treating and dressing it just as he had done for you. As you finished wrapping is hand in tape you kissed his knuckles.

He laid back in bed and patted the space in front of him. You crawled up next to him, returning to spooning position. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck and sighed deeply. You were seconds from falling asleep when your eyes snapped open, remembering what Bill had done to your birth control.

“Oh yeah, so uh… Bill might’ve made you knock me up.”

“WHAT???”

-

In the morning Ford would make you stay in bed, insisting you needed rest. For the next few weeks he watched you like a hawk, secretly recording any possible pregnancy symptoms. He pretended to be nonchalant about you being knocked up, only entertaining the idea if you did, but deep down the thought of you pregnant excited him.

He had always imagined continuing his legacy, teaching his child everything he knew. One day he was going to be gone and someone was going to have to continue his work, and he wanted to keep it in the family. He spent his nights after working on the portal holding you, rubbing your stomach after you fell asleep, hoping, praying even that Bill had given him a miracle.