#[sits in a corner and weep...i love them...i love them man ;a;

[tojikai]

Sundered (Alt. Ending): CRUSH

Pairing: Gojo x reader - Toji x reader (this part)

• Part 1  |  Part 2   | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Alt. Ending

Sundered+ (COMMISSION)

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, babydaddy!gojo, babymomma!reader, motherhood, insecurities, arguments

word count: 5.8k

a/n: here it is! (it's late, sorry. not proofread too😭) im forever grateful to you all who waited and supported the sundered series and for supporting my other stories too. i cant do much but this means so much. ily.

If you never talk to him again, he will miss you forever.

“Do I not deserve it?” You asked him, almost flinching at your words when you promised yourself you’d never ask anyone that. Toji sighed, taking both of your hands and bringing them to his lips. “Not this. You deserve more than this. You deserve to be genuinely happy without sacrificing anything, without feeling spent.”

Your brows furrowed, trying to contain another flood of tears threatening to overflow from your already swollen eyes. Why does it always have to be so hard when it's you? When it was Satoru who tried to move on, he did with Naomi. You wouldn’t say it was a breeze for them but you just know it was never this hard.

Naomi and Satoru stayed together for a year, being the family you couldn’t give your child. And now you, you couldn’t even make it work with Toji. Why do you always have to feel stuck? Why does he refuse to take your hand and pull you out of this void that is slowly sucking you down?

Along with these thoughts, you felt a squeeze in your hand. “Y/N?” Toji called, “Y/N, it’s gonna be alright.”  No, it’s not, you thought. The roof of your mouth tastes bitter against your tongue; so bitter that it burns. “It’s not. But it’s alright. I just don’t want you to feel burdened with this, alright?” You reached up to his face, eyes wandering.

“I’m sorry.” You felt selfish. You felt so selfish for not thinking about how this void of yours could pull him down with you instead of him pulling you up. You felt so selfish for wanting him to keep hurting just so you could feel safe. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, I didn’t realize it would be this hard on you too.” Your throat feels tight all of a sudden.

You stepped away from him, sniffing as you wiped your tears away. You couldn’t remember what else he said, you couldn't remember how you ended up in that room alone, crying as you clutched your chest, blaming yourself for wearing out such a good man.

You couldn’t remember, or more like you chose not to carve into your memory how that day ended. The only image you can see in your head is how he cuddled you to sleep, woke you up to eat with him and the kids, and went home. You remember him saying that they could always visit. And you hated yourself for doubting him.

Now you smooth out the bed, rearranging the pillows and gaslighting yourself that you’ve been the only one sleeping on it all this time just so it wouldn't feel so unfamiliar. You changed the sheets and prayed you wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night, reaching for the man you love. 

And the fact that this wouldn’t be the first time that you would do so…

You remembered how you would wake up and break down at midnights during the first few months of your separation from Satoru, weeping as you ran to your daughter’s crib just to remind yourself to be stronger, locking your phone away to not call and embarrass yourself in front of him and his then-new girlfriend again.

You heard the sound of the video your daughter was watching as she sat on the bean bag in the corner of your room. “Mama, look it.” You heard her tiny footsteps tap the floor as she ran to you, holding the phone out. The screen flashed with Toji’s caller ID, “Thank you, baby.” You kissed her cheek as you picked her up to sit her on your lap. 

“Yeah?,” You answered, hearing a sigh from the other end. You pulled your toddler closer to you just as she started to move near the edge of the bed. You that your voice didn’t sound hoarse at all. You didn’t cry as hard as you did with Satoru, but it was painful enough that you had to pause some chores just so you could think of a solution to fix it. 

You doubted there was a fix and if there was, you felt like Toji would only be trying out of pity for you.

You’re tired of that. You don’t want people to feel sorry for you anymore. You feel like you’ve been nothing but pitiful every year of your life. Your dad gave up on you and your mother, your baby daddy gave up on your relationship with him and now you feel like you caused Toji to give up on you too. 

Your brows bumped together at the thoughts and you were quick to shake your head, hoping it would shed off the searing pain in your chest as well. You can't have self-pity when you have a child. You’re determined to be better for her. Your index finger found its place on your lips, listening to your ex’s voice.

“Just wanna know how you’re doing.�� You wanted to laugh, not to mock him but because you don’t really know how to explain how you feel to him. You decided to answer it from the surface, “I am okay, surprisingly.” You sniffed, hearing a sigh from the other end of the line and a tiny laugh from Megumi, probably watching something on his iPad. 

You would say it’s too early for him to call you, but this whole breakup isn’t even like the normal ones. You broke up for each other's well-being. Not because you fought, not because one of you cheated, not because you just started to hate each other. You broke up wanting only the best for each other.

“I know this is for the best.” You wanted to help Toji feel better about this decision. You could tell that there was guilt on his part. He probably feels like what he did was just an inch kinder than Satoru’s way of leaving you. That would eat him inside. The last thing Toji wants to do is shatter all your progress.

“I don’t feel the best about it.” There was no hint of amusement in his chuckle, no trace of smile in his words. You don’t even know if he meant to say he feels bad for doing this to you. You don’t want to assume that he’s not doing better away from you because you’re pretty sure he’s more relaxed now that he doesn’t have to worry about his girlfriend thinking of someone even when she’s with him. 

“Please, don’t dwell on it. I, uh, I have thought things through and it’s… it’s just getting kind of lighter for me.” You blinked away each tear that came with the lies that are flowing out of your tongue. It’s not getting any lighter. If anything, the crushing weight is still continuously pressing down on you and you know any time soon, you might break down in this phone call.

“I don’t know if I can trust your words…” Aside from the fact that it has only been a day, Toji thought back on your last conversation before you broke up. He’s well-aware of your tendencies to push all of your feelings aside  because you blame yourself for the fall of your relationship. You would probably shoulder all of this again, like you did with your separation from Satoru.

Toji isn’t all clean here but he doesn’t know how to get that to you. You can be very stubborn when it comes to these things especially when it concerns your past. It’s an unhealed part of you and Toji can’t help but feel like your previous arguments, his words to 

you and how he made you feel contributed to it rather than alleviate it.

“Toji, this isn't good for me. For us,” You’re not talking about your relationship with him but it’s about him contacting you. “I know that we’re still good, we broke up to save each other,” you laughed half-heartedly, “Our kids are friends, of course, we can’t just throw that away, but for now…” You took a deep breath.

“For now, let’s give each other space. I’m not mad at you, I could never hate you but, Toji, this isn’t helping me at all.” The crack in your voice sent a blow to Toji’s heart, “I…I want to be able to talk to you, see you and visit Megumi with Yui without feeling the guilt of letting something so good slip away so, please...” You took a deep, painful breath.

“Let’s just give each other some space. Just until I have picked myself up again.” You covered your mouth, desperate to turn away from your child who’s been starting to glance at you. Toji’s silence felt like it could squeeze you, like a soundless bubble getting smaller and smaller around you. 

“I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have called.” Of course, you’re not fine, Is he out of his mind? The voices in Toji’s head knocked sense into him as he realized what he did. How could he be so insensitive? Is it because he knows of his crimes, the source of his guilt and how he didn’t think it would affect him as much as it does now?

Now, even this breakup feels selfish. How could he just decide to leave when you’ve been trying so hard? He’s not different from your baby daddy—running away when they couldn’t handle the pressure, leaving you to clean up after the mess. Toji closed his eyes tight, clearing his head, begging himself to say the right words and make the correct decisions.

“I—I’m still here for you always, alright? Take care, Y/N. Kiss Yui good night for me.” He spoke slowly, fighting the loss in the empty space he’s staring at, absorbing your soft hums and apology as he continued, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry, baby. It took every fiber in his baby not to say it like that. For your sake. And for him. 

If you never talk to him again, he will miss you forever.

You put the phone down, feeling your daughter’s head on your chest as she stared up at you. Your mother once said that children do not understand these things yet but they feel their parents’ pain when it happens. And just like that, it’s almost as if your baby girl can read you. Her eyes says that she wants to help but doesn’t know how because she doesn’t eve understand it.

“Mama sad?” Her voice was small, it’s amazing that even at her age she knows how to try and soothe you. She knows that this is not the time to be playful without even knowing the situation. All she knows is that her mother is sad and crying. “No, mama’s just tired.” You smiled at her and for the first time she seems hesitant to reciprocate it.

“Mama sleep.” She got suddenly, bouncing her way to the spot next to you as she gets into a curled sleeping position. She’s a smart child. You laid down next to her, cuddling her small frame for as long as she can sit still but it wasn’t long before she was playing again, forgetting about it all. She’s still a baby after all. But this kid right here is the one who will always pull you out of the waters.

You wished that you could forget and get over this as quickly as this baby does, You wished it would all just fly out of your mind, that you could just throw up all of the pain out of your heart. You wished that you could just dust off the broken pieces of your relationship from your clothes, that you could scrub away the pain in the shower and watch it flow down the drain.

—————————-

“Look, I know Yui’s always been our priority but if you need a bit of time for yourself, you know you can leave Yui with me.” Satoru came earlier than expected. You can tell that he’s trying to stay inside the ‘boundaries’ as he struggled to find the right words to say about your breakup with Toji.

“You should take a break from work, if you think that’s what you need, I will-“ You placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. Satoru doesn’t want to seem like he’s taking advantage of the situation, that’s the last thing he wants to do. As painful as it is to admit it, he knows that you love Toji. 

“Thanks. But it’s alright. We’re good, we’re just…not dating anymore.” You forced out a laugh, trying to make it better than how it really is. It’s clear to Satoru that you’re having a hard time. He could see it in your face, your eyes. Satoru remembered those times when he would do anything just to avoid looking at you and seeing how badly he broke you.

He was heartless for letting himself make you feel like that. He was stupid for letting you feel like that. 

“Thanks. But it’s alright. We’re good, we’re just…not dating anymore.” You let out a laugh, retracting your hand away as you reached for the towel to wipe your daughter’s food-stained cheek. “Megumi and Yui still play together, I mean they’re besties now, right?” Yui giggled at the mention of her friend.

As much as Satoru wants to have another chance with you, he just doesn’t think he would deserve it just like that. Also, he doesn’t think he can see you like this everyday. Now he wants to talk to Toji. If it’s because of his interactions with you then Satoru himself would volunteer to give the big guy the assurance he wants. 

It would be painful for Satoru but to see you so dull makes him want to give up his fight. If he even has some. His friends, mostly Shoko, already told him that he already lost all his chances. “You’re not a cat. You don’t get nine lives in this Satoru.” She would say and Suguru would quickly add “You used to have nine lives, actually. But you’re a dead man to her now.” It was playful but depressing talk but valid but…sad.

It was everything but playful to Satoru, no matter how much his friends tried to lighten up the delivery, it still felt like playing darts with his heart. Because he knows how much truth those words hold. He would smile and shake his head. His friends are never the ones to sugarcoat shit. 

After saying goodbye to  Y/N with his baby girl, Satoru can’t help but feel curious about your breakup. He’s almost a hundred percent sure that it’s Toji’s decision because of how you are right now. He doubts that you’d be the one to break it off. You’re a fighter, he knows that. He hates that you have to deal with these cowards of men who only know how to break.

But of course, Toji’s more deserving than him. That’s the bitter truth. Toji left for your good, while Satoru…just gave up on you back then. He will regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get you back. 

Get you back. He felt like a villain, hoping that you were the first to initiate the split. That would give Satoru so much hope. Thinking about why you did it (if you did), taunts him into assuming that maybe you still have something with him. But this isn’t right. No. Satoru should be better than this. Your happiness comes first. Even if it’s not with him.

Satoru swallowed the rushing mix of emotions that fogged his mind as he drives. It felt like swallowing needles, allowing them to go straight to his cracking heart. It’s almost impossible now, huh, to get you back? Even when you’re single again, it still feels impossible. Why is he even imagining it?

Shaking his head, he successfully parked his car, clapping his hands as he looked at Yui through the rearview mirror. “Let’s go now, my heart~” He sing-songed and the toddler eagerly reached up to him. “Tomorrow we go back to Mama, alright? She’s kinda sad, isn’t she? We gotta rescue that!” Yui cheered with him, despite not understanding what her father was saying.

Satoru knows that he can’t meddle with your relationship with Toji, no matter how much it bothers him. The least he can do is try to brighten your mood. Without any ulterior motives, of course. This is a vulnerable time for you. He doesn’t think he can stomach trying to get in through those cracks in your heart because of your failed relationship. 

It’s not the right thing to do and that’s not what a good person who truly cares would do. He can only support you, but he doesn’t plan on taking advantage of this situation. 

—-------------------------------------------------

3 months later

It’s a blessing to be a mother. It’s hard too. Especially, when your daughter won’t allow you to have a break from your ex for more than three months. “Mama!” She screamed at the top of her lungs for the hundredth time that morning. “I just took your bag, let’s go.” You wished you could’ve taken a picture of her, standing as she held the door of her room open.

“You’re so big now, baby.” Her birthday’s in a few months and you feel like crying because it felt like you just gave birth to her yesterday and now she’s turning three. Time is a thief. You wonder if so much has changed with Toji’s life too. You wouldn’t be shocked if he’s got a new girlfriend. After all, Satoru only took a few weeks to find someone new when you broke up.

That fucking stings. You told yourself and if you weren’t holding your daughter’s hand and her bag you would physically clutch your chest. The thought of being so replaceable has been a constant in your mind since Satoru and Naomi. 

And if it happens with Toji again, you’d probably just close the table for love.  You drove to the park, a meeting place you chose for the kids. You don’t want to be in Toji’s house. You don’t think you can handle that yet. 

You wondered if you’d be greeted by some new lady with him, like how Satoru received you with Naomi’s head on his chest. What if they play with the kids instead and leave you out of place during the whole play date? Or what if they leave you to watch the kids while they get some snacks, taking their time to play couple while you wait?

What if— A knock on your window broke off your train of thoughts as you took in your surroundings. That’s right. You’ve been driving and now you’re at the part. And now Toji’s shading his eyes, his hand arched over his brows as he tried to see through your windows. “Gumi!” Yui squealed, kicking in her car seat as Megumi waved from the outside. 

Toji was holding him in one hand as his bag hang loosely on Toji’s shoulder. You rolled the windows down, gulping your anxiety as you thanked the heavens that none of the scenarios in your head came true. 

“You spaced out.” He chuckled a bit awkwardly as he smiled at you. There’s something new about him. Did he really glow up after leaving you? You almost frowned but you gave him a laugh, trying to think of an excuse as to why you’re sitting absentmindedly in your car a few minutes before meeting with your ex and his child.

“I was trying to remember if I locked our door.” You laughed, gathering your things as you stepped out. “Can I hold that for you?” Toji offered as you opened Yui’s door. You thanked him softly, trying your best to seem relaxed. You don’t know if you should be glad or worried that he’s being so cool.

It could be because he doesn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or because he doesn’t really give two shits about your relationship with him that he doesn’t even feel uneasy meeting for the first time after you broke up. 

Or maybe because he’s already moved on to someone else, he just didn’t bring her with him because he’s a respectful man. You swore you heard a voice say it and it almost convinced you that it’s your brain that wants you dead. “Yui.” Megumi’s neck stretched as he looked over your shoulder for his best friend.

“Chill, man. Your long lost bestie will be free in a minute.” He still doesn’t fail to make you laugh. You put Yui down and watched the two kids adorably and messily hug. Now you’re glad that you taught them the importance of hugs. 

“It’s cute that they’re still comfortable with each other.” You commented, pulling at your clothes as you tried to distract yourself from checking your ex out. You’re thinking hard to figure out what changed with his look. Aside from his forehead showing as the wind played with his dark hair, 

“Let’s sit there, near the seesaw. They love that.” The kids were talking in a language only they understand, pointing at stuff before laughing as if it was the funniest thing they saw while to you, it looked like nothing. You would give everything to be a kid again. Just carefree and happy. But seeing your daughter makes you realize you wouldn’t have this any other way.

“How have you been?” He started as you sat down, hugging yourself as you looked ahead at the children. To be honest, you don’t know how to answer that. Do you tell him first that you miss him? Or do you tell him first that you got a clearer understanding of the holes in your relationship with him?

“I won’t deny that I missed you.” He chuckled leaning back. “But I did some reflecting.” He paused, glancing over to you, eyes traveling across your face. “A lot of reflecting actually.” He nodded, licking his lips. Right. That’s right, you thought, referring to his looks. Aside from his hair being longer, he looked…softer. You blinked away your thoughts, clearing your vision.

“I…I’m okay.” You don’t know how to tell him it could’ve been better if he was still with you. You wondered if your relationship problems would’ve been gone now if you didn’t break up. Would it have been better by now if you kept going? “I missed you, of course. But,” You laughed airily, “I’m getting better.”

You didn’t let your breakup with Toji affect you as a mother to Yui. But if you’re talking about yourself. You’re still trying. You have lived without Toji, of course, you can still keep going now. But your split felt like a crash from cloud nine. You’ve been so soaked with your happiness with him that when he left it felt like you were slowly getting drained and dry.

He walked you into a field of roses and when you returned to your old garden you realized how dull it was. Yui was your sunshine in those days under the dark clouds. She was a sunlight that went out of its way to bring a smile on your face. “It’ll get better.” You sighed, glancing at Toji and seeing the solemn look on his face. Does he feel sorry for you? Does he feel guilty for leaving so abruptly as your baby daddy did? Does he feel—

“It doesn’t feel any better for me at all.” Toji’s not one to hide the reality of his feelings from people he feels comfortable with. It melts your heart when you think about how he loosens up with you. It makes you feel special. Though, not special enough to fight for.

“It will. Soon.” You looked down. You know that it wasn’t his intention to make you feel as if you’re making him feel guilty for choosing his peace. But it still feels like it and you don’t know what to say anymore. I’m sorry? I’m sorry that you feel sorry for me? He nodded, smiling so softly. Charming, you thought. You feel sad for the people who don't get to see this. Yes, his smirk can make one feel things but this smile…

The day went by fast, Toji invited you to dinner since a restaurant was nearby but you politely declined. It’s not that you want to. It’s just that you have to. One thing that you learned from your heartbreak with Satoru is that the more that you see them, the deeper the shards cut. 

“My mom’s coming over for dinner. Maybe next time.” Your genuine smile contradicted the lie flowing out of your lips. It was so tempting when he looked like this, but you have to stand your ground. Next time. The two words reverberated inside Toji’s head and that was enough to push aside the disappointment he felt when you declined. 

“That’s alright. There’s always a next time.” It sounded as if he was reassuring himself, emphasizing that you’re fine with meeting him and Megumi again next time. This is enough for now. After all, he still has to reflect on a couple of things regarding your breakup. But everything always seems to be pointing him back to you. 

—————————

“Just call me when you’re ready to go, and I’ll pick you up.” Satoru’s words before he left you and Yui earlier started to get twisted inside Toji’s head. Now that Toji has let you go, Satoru’s just waiting for your go signal so he can pick you up again. He swallowed dryly, faking a smile when you looked back at him, laughing at whatever the kids did that he didn’t see.

Time flew by fast but that image of you leaning towards Satoru so that he could give his daughter a kiss as he said that to you has been stuck in Toji’s head all day. The kids were drinking juice with small towels around their shoulders. “I can, uh, I can just drive you home, you know? I mean, so that Satoru wouldn’t have to drive all the way here again.” He suggested, wiping off some of the water droplets in his son’s body.

“It’s alright, he’s already on his way anyway and he owes Yui a kitty cake that they didn’t get to buy last time.” You smiled at him, before asking to leave to give Yui a quick warm shower. Toji would’ve wanted to chat a bit more with you. Just spend more time with you. He couldn’t ask for so much of it now. It felt like it would be too much of an imposition for him to do so. 

After a couple of minutes, the doorbell rang and he placed Megumi on one of the rugs, reminding him to stay there so he won’t slip. He sighed, running to his gate, knowing that it would be Satoru and of course, since you’re still getting Yui ready, the polite thing to do is to let him sit and maybe, entertain your baby daddy a bit.

“Oh, come on in. She’s just getting Yui ready.” His voice was almost monotonous, the nod of his head was another way to be a bit more ‘friendly’ to the guy. “You a fan of iced tea?” Toji cleared his throat with Satoru following behind him. Megumi was still on the rug, staring off into space. Toji can’t help but laugh when Satoru waved a hand at his face.

“Yui Dad.” He looked up, waving his small hand despite the blank look on his face. “He really looks like you.” Satoru commented, “Except his hair.” Toji placed a pitcher on the counter, pouring a glass for the man, something he didn’t think he would ever do. “I’m glad you and Y/N are doing better,” Toji spoke after a couple of minutes of silence. 

“Yeah,” Satoru nodded, holding Megumi’s hand as he tried to walk towards Toji. “We’re getting more used to this co-parenting thing. Figured out it was healthier for all of us when we’re not constantly arguing about something.” Toji doesn’t know if it’s right to say it but it already came out of his mouth before he realized it.

“The both of you single made it better, eh?” He didn’t mean it to start something with Satoru again, it’s just that that is the first thing that popped up in his head when he heard him. “Yes and No.” Satoru answered before he could even back it up with something lighthearted. “Me being single, yes. Because Naomi was basically a wedge, one cause of the problems that used to arise between us. And no, because no problem arises directly from you regarding those arguments.” He shrugged, taking a sip before continuing. 

“Actually, I don’t even know why you broke up with her, if I’m going to be frank I trusted you with my family already, why did you even left her?” He’s saying a lot more now than before. Definitely a healthier man. And he seems like he’s back to his real self now. Toji might even assume he’s drunk if only you didn’t mention that he doesn’t handle liquor well.

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, alright? I want you to love her because you truly love her, but come on, man, there’s no threat.” Yui definitely takes after her father. Very talkative, Toji thought. Inhaling, he gathered his thoughts and which aspect of what Satoru has said he should focus on, “I don’t know.” Was his short answer. 

“I mean… I was worried. I don’t know if she’s really over you. I don’t want her to keep hurting by my side.” It was quiet. Satoru didn’t speak, allowing Toji to continue. “Plus, I fear that she will forever feel like she just comes second to my wife. To be honest, I feel that with her too. With you being her first.” Toji felt surprised at his honesty. He just hopes that you won’t overhear this.

“You’re the present. I’m her past.” It felt bitter for Satoru to say, “I’m starting to accept that now. I’m just contented that I can be with my daughter and that I take care of them even from the sidelines.” 

But Satoru would forever wish it didn't have to be like that. 

“I’m not playing matchmaker. I just want what’s best for her. Even if it’s not me, Toji.” He stood up, sighing as he heard footsteps coming closer. You came in struggling to carry a barefoot, laughing little girl, a towel and her bag. “Dada!” She screamed with a smile as she tries to get away from you. “You’ll slip!” You warned her and Satoru quickly went closer to take her in his arms. 

Toji sat there for a minute more, processing the man’s words. The best for you. If he’s going to ask Satoru about it, he’d say that if he has to pick someone for Y/N, Toji will be a top candidate. Aside from the fact that he’s a good man who truly cares for her, he also easily understands your situation because he has a child of his own too.

It’s safe to say that right now, you’re the only man that Satoru feels is safe to leave his daughter and baby momma with. His past mistakes and horrible decisions put him in this place and the least that he could do to make it all up to you is support you and whatever makes you happy as long as it’s good for you and his child.

“We’ll be going now, thank you, Toji.” Only then has Toji realize that he’s been staring at the three of you now and his baby boy who’s trying to hug Yui as her father puts on her shoes. “Uh, yeah. Let me walk you guys out.” He licked his lips, blinking fast as he tried to snap himself back to reality. “Come on, Megs. After this, you take a bath, alright?” He picked him up, wrapping a towel around his body.

“Come again. Please.” Satoru laughed as the little boy waved, probably worried that it would take months for his little friend to come over again. “She’ll be back soon, bro. Chill.” That’s wild, Toji thought, He just called my son ‘bro’. Before you could even get on the other side of the car, Toji has made up his mind. “Uhm, Y/N.” You looked up at him, for some reason, eyes shining with what seemed to be…hope.

“Can we come over sometime?” Megumi’s little cheer made your smile wider, nodding at them, “Of course..” You felt like a teen, worried that you answered too quickly, “Anything for that ‘gumi smile.” You played it off cool but kept your eyes on Toji the whole time. 

You didn’t hear anything about what he and Satoru talked about. But it was nice to know that they’re starting to get along. Inside, Satoru was fixing his daughter’s things, somehow glad that he couldn’t hear whatever the of two of you were talking about because no matter how happy he is for you, he’d always break into smaller pieces each time he saw you smile and look at Toji like that.

He knows. Because you used to look at him like that. 

Albeit, crossed with pain and longing, you used to look at him with so much love. Overflowing. And then, along with the tears he caused. It felt like acid in his stomach, threatening to spill out of his mouth whenever he thought of what you went through because of him. But now you’re happy. 

He didn’t know that love would show him that some people are worth being pulverized for.  

The car door opened just as he pretended to find something inside the glove compartment and he swallowed the pang in his chest at the glow on your face. “Gumi, babye! Gumi, babye!” His child screams behind him, waving her hands back at her playmate. “You ready to go?” He asked you and you hummed, glee evident even in the small sound. 

With that, the two of you waved at Toji and Megumi, pulling out of their driveway. You smiled at the shared nods between Toji and Satoru before speeding down the road to the bakery where Satoru usually buy Yui’s cakes. Your mind kept going back to Toji. Maybe you’re being delusional but you can’t help but feel like he had to gather the courage to ask you that very last-minute question. 

He feels like a…high school crush. 

And maybe he’s being a high school crush because a week later, he shows up at your doorstep dressed like a heartthrob with a kid in oversized sunglasses and a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

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[amathslutsguidetofandom]

Hear me out please…

Imagine Bucky doing this as a way to get you stay home from work and says something like “Nope. You can’t leave. If you leave, I’m going with you.”

The Bed's Warm, Why Go?

PAIRINGS: James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader

WARNINGS: swearing, unprotected sex (darlings, please wrap your man's pig in a blanket), p in v, nipple sucking, mentions of cum, cumming inside. (If I have left anything out pls DM me and let me know 😊)

WORD COUNT: 730

ENJOY!

"Doll, don't leave me all alone," his arm snakes around your middle just as you're about to get up from bed. He pulls you towards him, and your back hits his warm, bare chest.

"Love, you know I don't wanna go," you turn in your place and smile at him while scratching his stubble. "Then don't," he pouts and rubs your hip, then cups the back of your knee and hooks your leg over his muscular thigh.

"I need to earn, Bucky. How else am I gonna spoil my favourite man, hmm?" Bucky smirks, and you can see his cheeks flush slightly red. He sits against the headboard and lifts you as though you weigh nothing, setting you on his thighs.

"Stay with me, princess. Call in sick," he wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly close as he stuffs his face between your breasts. You sigh and chuckle softly, running your hands through his fluffy bed hair.

"Convince me," you whisper. And that's it. That's all Bucky needed to hear.

He quickly flips the both of you, settling in between your legs. "Don't have to tell me twice, doll."

He tugs your underwear to the side, and slips his cock free from the restraints of his boxers.

You'll never really get over how big your boyfriend is. You start to whine, needing to feel something. "Bucky."

He smirks at your neediness, bending to catch your lips in a chaste kiss. "Oh, I know, doll, I know. Trust me, I'm going to fuck you so good that you forget about work. So good, that the way you walk into work tomorrow, your co-workers are going to think you were really sick."

A whimper leaves your lips, and he chuckles, tapping his cock on your clit. You gasp at the sensation. "Yes, please. Bucky, oh god," you whine, gripping onto his shoulders.

His brows pinched together as he slowly slips into your weeping hole. "Fuck. So, fucking tight, princess." You throw your head back against the pillows, biting your lip as you feel your walls trying their best to accommodate his girth.

He bottoms out in you, and you feel his pubic hair tickle your sensitive button. "Bucky, move please," you whine again. He leans back and grabs your hips, then he starts to pull out until it's just the tip of him inside.

Then he slams into you, and you wail his name. His thrusts start to become harsher, and your moans become more higher in pitch. "Such a good girl for me, yeah? Taking everything I give you."

You moan and start babbling when he hits that particular spot on your spongy wall. "Fuck, Bucky. Right there, right there!" Bucky bends, grabbing the headboard with one hand and tossing your leg over his shoulder with the other.

Reaching new depths into your canal, you scream in pleasure. "Oh yeah, just like that doll. Let the neighbours know how good I make you feel," he sucks a bruising kiss on your neck before sloppily marking up the rest of the column of your throat.

His thrusts are short and hard, and with each one of them, you move closer to the headboard. "Fuck, Bucky, you feel so good," you whine loudly.

You clench around him hard, feeling tears prick at the corner of your eyes. "Babe, I'm close." Bucky groans at your words, thrusting faster. "Shit, me too."

The band tightens until the tension breaks. You arch your back as you gush all over Bucky's cock. "OH FUCK."

Bucky grunts, feeling you milk him. "God, so pretty when you come like that, princess."

You feel his thrusts falter in pace, indicating he's close. You reach behind him and grab his ass, squeezing the muscle. "C'mon baby, come for me," you whisper. He groans, pressing himself against you. Your thigh is impossibly pressed against your chest, and you moan again.

"Shit," Bucky grunts as his body goes slack, and you feel his warm load paint the inside of your walls.

You both pant hard, trying to catch your breaths.

After a while, Bucky removes your leg from his shoulder, and then proceeds to lay himself on top of you. Resting his head on your boobs, he smiles tiredly. "So, you going to work?" he raises a brow.

All you can do is just laugh and playfully flick at his nose.

💌💌💌

Thanks for the ask, babes!!!!

Absolutely, in love with that gif.

I srsly can't stop looking at it, LMAO.

Till' then

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[macfrog]

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

[dinadearine]

Those eyes

Mizu x Mommy!reader

I'M DROOLING IN HAPPINESS

tags: pure fluff, slight gore/violence

btw this is quite short, i'm literally multitasking HAHA

INSERT SONG ON LOOP: Those eyes (new west)

...

Meeting mizu was your greatest memory.

Ambushed, you cried as you held your son in your arms, he was only a day old, your husband didn't even look back to save you, nor help you, he ran away, leaving you and your son trapped and surrounded by cold-blooded assassins.

That's when Mizu jumped in action, she was passing by, yes, she is travelling at this dark hour of the night, passing through isolated cabins, she heard a scream, in which she quickly ran into where danger is, her eyes narrows as she catched a glimpse of a troubled man, running away, she ignored him and ran straight into the house, her eyes gazes upon every enemy, unsheathing her sword, and aiming it at them, her eyes landed on you, a helpless young mother, weeping in fear keeping your son safe in your arms.

she swiftly ran torwards you, keeping you close as she continues to provide protection with you and your child, you sob, embracing your child as mizu guides you to an exit door, once you left, all you could see is red, painting and spews the inside of your house, men screaming in pain, yet all you could see is just their silhouettes, it was the most mortifying sight, you kept yourself from staring and ran further, comforting the child crying in your arms.

you sat under a tree, the sky turning from dark stars, into sunkissed red, your eyes wide from the traumatic experience you've been through, cradling the child, your son, in your arms, you hum a tune mindlessly, as you stare at the sunset, tears already dry on your cheeks. Suddenly a voice called out, not a kind tone, nor danger, you turned your head to the side, peeping from the corner of your eyes.

"Are you alright?" a familiar figure, it's him, you sob, you carefully stood up, not daring to wake your sleeping son in your arms, you couldn't speak, all you could do and silently weep and lean into the man's frame.

Mizu was caught off guard, not knowing what to do, and never developed a comforting side, she simply placed a hand on your back, hushing you gently. "Come with me.. I'll protect you." she whispered, her tone rather hesitant, you complied and followed her.

~~~

Now sitting next to mizu, her cradling your child in her arms, it's been six months, you showed yourself to her, and she showed her own, she wasn't cold, she was only.. Broken.

"just gently swing him side to side.." you whispered, patting mizu's thigh, she nods before she stood up, and gently sways the baby, all the way to a wide area, where trees provided sun rays to hit her striking blue eyes.

She continued to cradle the baby to sleep, yet the baby giggled and squirms, she is frustrated, yet her eyes filled with adoration, you watched her smile, she was treating your son like her own, your heart swelled in both admiration, and love.

you walk up to her, a wide smile plastered on your weary face as you whispered "You're doing great.." Mizu looks at you, a rare smile you rarely see, your cheeks flush, you feel so safe with her, it warms your heart so much.

"Thank you.. " She whispered back, her eyes still locked in yours, the baby starts to drift off to sleep, you watched her closely, she looks so ethereal, you never thought falling for a woman is this perfect.

she is perfect.

you slowly stepped closer to pull mizu in a soft yet comforting embrace. "You're perfect..." you whispered, her cheeks heats up, not used in receiving compliments, she feels strange, yet she couldn't deny the sudden attraction she felt torwards you, she was hesitant about her vowed journey of vengeance, luckily she decided to manage about it later as she leaned down to rest her forehead against yours.

"I love you."

those words, it hit you right in the guts, you've never felt so happy in your whole life, your hero, your savior, your lover, gently leaned further down and kissed you, you haven't realized your crying, you accepted the kiss, her lips is surprisingly soft against yours, you sobbed as you finally get to live with her, with your lover.

"I love you too, Mizu."

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 16 all chapters

~AUTHOR'S WARNINGS: N$FW, SEXUAL CONTENT, COPIOUS SWEARING, TOXIC POSESSIVENESS , IF SOMEONE TREATS YOU LIKE THIS IN REAL LIFE RUN RUN RUN BC IT WILL NOT TURN OUT WELL U CANT FIX THEM~

-Aware that John Wick knows this city much better than you, you stick to the crowds. You manage to find your way to the Peggy Guggenheim collection, and you hang out there for hours, looking through the art works, but really only half seeing what is in front of you.

You are devastated.

You’ve had controlling boyfriends before, and it was not fun. They seem exciting at first, until the person you were before is eaten alive by their tantrums and their ridiculous expectations as they try to fit you into a box of their own making.

You can’t believe John turned out that way.

Or maybe you can. Maybe you have a fucking type, and you should have seen this coming.

You stay almost until closing, then grab a bite to eat before daring to wander the streets. You find a little walled in park, a courtyard filled with lush greenery and a tinkling fountain. By some miracle, there is only one other couple on a bench at the far end. You practically have the place to yourself, and you sit down on a wrought iron bench with a sigh and eat your sandwich.

You pull out your sketchbook afterwards to pass the time. Your doodling hand wanders, and perhaps its no surprise when you draw John Wick from memory, his proud lips and haunted eyes. There are tears running down your cheeks as you do so. When it gets too much, even though you’re in public, you hang your head and weep into your hands.

Darkness falls, and you know you should be getting back. The bench has long ceased to be comfortable, and yet it’s like you have grown into it, unable to move.

Even with your head down, when someone sits silently down beside you, you just know it’s John.

You do not look at him, and thankfully he does not try to touch you.

“It’s getting late, y/n. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Yes it is,” he insists, sounding almost tired about it. You hate it that your demeanor softens towards him, just a little.

“You broke my heart, Mr. Wick.”

“I was afraid I might.” He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “Would you let me make it up to you?” 

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.” 

“No?”

“No. I think you have a mean streak.” 

He had tried to warn you, you realize, in his way.

God, are you really such a fool?

“Doesn't everyone?” 

You make a sound between your teeth, and he nods like you have said something profound. 

“I'm not a nice man, y/n. But I would be good to you.”

“Like last night? I didn't like that.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a wicked smirk, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, damn him. Was the contrition all an act?

“Yes you did.”

“Not the last part.”

“Hmm. I tried to warn you.”

In the vaguest terms possible, maybe.

“My fanny.”

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you’re not sure why that little gesture wounds you like a knife to the heart all over again. Perhaps because he is beautiful, and even though you know he’s dangerous for you, you still want him so very much.  

You start to cry again, and try to get up from the bench. You need to get away from him, because you can’t think straight when he’s near.

“Y/n, wait.” He catches your wrist, and when you don’t really fight him, he pulls you down into his lap, and goddammit if this isn’t what you’d wanted all along. You feel small in his arms, cradled against his long torso and sheltered in the bend of his neck, even if in your hindbrain you know you are not actually safe at all. He strokes your hair until you quiet, and he kisses your temple like you are something precious.

How can this man be so sweet, just to turn on you?

“Why did you leave me, like that?”

You just do not understand. You could have had a lovely, fulfilling, mind-blowing if not vanilla night together. He’d laid all the groundwork like a master orchestrator, and you would have let him fuck you senseless. Fuck, you wouldn’t have even minded the tying up part, if he just hadn’t humiliated you.

“Because…” His lips ghost along the line of your jaw, and you fight not to squirm as his large hand slides up your thigh, his fingertips feather light on your skin. “Only good girls get to cum,” he says low in your ear, and you hate how it makes you ache between your legs, to hear him talk to you that way.

Outwardly, you do your best to keep your cool.

“And touching your hair made me a bad girl?”

“No.”

“Disobeying you did.”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Maybe.” He actually seems a little amused by you, which is not the reaction you were expecting. “I like to be in control. But you make me feel...unbalanced.”

“Me?” You sound incredulous. The thought that you could affect this powerful man in such a way seems absurd.

“Yes, you, kitten.”

The urge to demand he not call you that desiccates on your tongue.��

“So...what? You feel the need to take revenge for that?” 

“Maybe. I thought you knew the game we were playing, when you batted those big eyes up at me. Mr Wick, Sir, aren’t I a good girl?” His fingers dig into your thigh with the memory, and you can feel his growing erection beneath you. “But you’re just an innocent, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re used to boys just eating out of the palm of your hand. But I am a man, with a man’s appetites, and a man’s desires.”

He was a little more than that, you reckoned.

“You want to control me.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Why?”

He smirks. “Maybe I had a rough childhood.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“I want to take care of you.” He kisses your cheek again, and it is gentle and sweet and everything you had wanted from Mr. Wick, before this all went sideways. “I want you to be mine.”

You are not proud of the way those words unleash a fluttering swarm of butterflies in your belly, your breath quickening in your chest. You are proud when you manage to answer, “I don’t need taking care of.”

He just snorts lightly at that, as if it’s not even worth arguing over. “Come back to the hotel room with me. I promise I’ll finish what I started. With interest.” His hand slowly slides up your thigh, just beneath the skirt of your sundress, and you think you might die. You should not want this man, after what he did to you.

The ache between your legs suggests otherwise.

You give yourself some points, when you shake your head.

“No. I’m going back to my hostel.”

The shift in his demeanor gives you whiplash, a thunderhead of a frown pulling his handsome features. “Need to get back to your little friend Javi?” The jealousy in his tone hot as a brand. “Did he try to kiss you again?”

Your heart drops to your feet.

“How did you know he tried to kiss me?” you ask, your voice so small.

That was in Rome, after all.

What should have been obvious before comes crashing in, and you realize what a little fool you’ve been. That feeling that someone’s been watching you, and John’s so convenient and coincidental appearance outside the alley…

“Holy shit. You’ve been following me.”

“I’ve been protecting you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have no idea what the world is really like, sweetheart. It’s a dangerous place.”

You frown at this.

“So…you think I’m stupid?”

“No, of course not.”

“You think I can’t take care of myself then.”

“I think I found you wandering around here like a lost little lamb. There are monsters here who would have gobbled a sweet little treat like you up in one bite.”

The fact that he sees you that way is more alarming than the thought of some unnamed threat in the shadows.

For some reason it makes you think of the men in the van back home—and how that van was found empty and on fire.

“How do you know about the monsters, John?”

“I just know.”

“You said you weren’t a cop. Were you FBI?”

He glares at you, which you take as a no.

“Interpol?”

You are met with silence, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“You know about the monsters because you are one.” You think about those fierce looking Italian men with their scars and their bespoke suits. His previous words echo in your memory. Sono retirato.

“Were you in the mob?”

“Not…specifically.”

Then you remember he’d said he was from Belarus.

“Bratva, then.”

You should be terrified as you work all this out, trapped in the circle of this man’s arms, but you feel strangely numb about it all.

“My clever girl.” He sounds almost sad about it.

“Not clever enough,” you sigh.

You are not sure who is more surprised, you or him, when you burst to your feet. You actually manage to slip out of his grasp, though you only make it three steps before he captures your wrist again with a grip like an iron manacle. He gives you a dark look, annoyed that you would even try to play this game with him.

You remember what you learned in martial arts class a lifetime ago, pointing your thumb down towards the weak point of his grip and trying to jerk free. It’s worked before, with grabby men.

Not with John Wick, though.

“Stop.” Again, there’s that steely tone. The alpha voice one uses to reprimand a naughty dog. It only makes you angrier, and you struggle.

He pulls you hard against him, and you bite his hand. He doesn’t let you go, just adjusts his grip. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” he snarls low in your ear. “But you are so fucking stubborn.”

“Thank you.” You try to headbutt him behind you, but he ducks into the bend of your shoulder. You feel his chest trembling against your back, and only belatedly do you realize he is laughing at you.

“Enjoying this?”

“A little.”

“There’s no fucking way you can get me out of here without someone seeing. Let me go.”

He just sighs into your hair, like you’ve said something extremely naïve.

The arrival of newcomers into the park catches both of your attention. You lift your head, ready to ask for help, when you recognize the besuited tough guys from before.

Well, fuck.

“You've got some balls, showing your face around here, John Wick. Gianna d’Antonio’s son sends his greetings.”

“This isn’t a good time,” he snarls in return.

“Sorry, are you too busy fighting with your little girlfriend?”

He actually releases you then, pushing you to stand behind him. They are blocking the exit, so for now, you comply.

“You know how this will go,” John says, assuming a ready stance, his feet spread. He almost sounds regretful about it. “Do yourselves a favor, and leave.”

“Can’t do it, John,” says the one in the lead.

“For fuck’s sake,” curses John under his breath. The lead Italian makes a move, and John bursts into action. He is like a tornado of carnage upon them, throwing punches and breaking arms, cutting tendons and stabbing throats.

You are absolutely frozen as you watch all this unfold before you.

That is, until one of the thugs throws a knife at John, and you watch it bury in his chest. This is the thing that breaks your spell, and you run towards the fray with a scream, though who the fuck knows what you intend to do.

However, like he wasn’t just stabbed in the heart, John takes another attacker’s gun, pistol whipping him with it before shooting the knife thrower, then the last one standing. It cannot have been more than minute, before all of them are dead at his feet. He leans on his bent knees for a moment, catching his breath.

“John?” You hardly recognize your own voice as you rush to him, certain he’s taken a lethal blow and somehow fought through it with the surge of adrenaline. However, when you peel back his suit jacket you find no blood. He lets you look him over with frantic hands, maybe enjoying the fact that you don’t wish him dead, before pulling the still protruding knife from the breast of his jacket.

When he produces the little leather journal you’d gifted him from his inside pocket, now gravely marred with a puncture through the cover, you understand.

“Holy fuck.”

“You saved my life,” he says with an odd little smile down at you, as though all this is normal and what you just saw is totally ok.

Utterly horrified, you run.

“Y/n, wait!”

You throw yourself into the dark winding streets, taking any turn you can, trying to stay out of sight. Your feet fly beneath you; even in your shitty strappy sandals, it’s the fastest you’ve ever run.

It’s not fast enough.

When strong arms close around you, lifting you from the ground, you try to scream. A big hand clamps over your mouth, and you find yourself pressed hard into a stone wall. “Please, calm down,” he pants in your ear, out of breath from killing four people then running you down.

Your answer of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” is nothing but muffled syllables.  

“Goddammit,” he sighs behind you, rifling in his pocket for something as he pins you with his body. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Your pitiful plea of “Let me go,” is cut off by an evil-smelling cloth shoved into your nose.

[fried-peaches00]

“Neteyam Standards”

Neteyam Sully x Human!reader

Ratings: SFW, Fluff

Word Count: 800

Notes: Man wtf why do I gotta indulge like this. This is me dipping my toes into the world of posting fan fiction, let me know what you think. Also I can’t figure out how to add a read more option help.

“You must’ve been the most beautiful creature on earth.” Neteyam murmurs into the crown of your head, his hand slipping into your considerably smaller one playing in the grass. You always admired the contrast of your skin tones next to each other. You scoff, “Hardly, but I appreciate the sentiment Teyam.” You left your voice drift off into the forest sounds, you prefer to let them speak for themselves but Neteyam has a different idea,

“I don’t think I could imagine anything more beautiful than you, Navi or human,” He ponders for a moment, “I wouldn't be surprised if you would rival the personified beauty of Eywa herself.” You laugh at this, sitting up to face him behind you only to be met with a drowsy, lovesick smile painted on Neteyam’s face as he listens to you with undivided attention, ”Do not say these things!” He catches your hand as you lightly shove him in the chest,

“ I can’t have Eywa upset at me, can I now? It’s hard enough just surviving on this planet without an ethereal deity out for me.” He laughs heartily, pulling you down to rest against his chest looking up into the canopy and at the sun shining through. It’s nearing eclipse, just close enough to see the first sliver of Polyphemus through the trees but not enough to worry about your return yet. Either way, you know that Neteyam could protect you against anything you may find in the dark. Out of the corner of your eye you see Neteyam’s ears twitch. Picking up all the chirps, hoots and howls of the forest. Two Atokirina dance between each other, floating down just far enough to tickle the finger tips of your outstretched hand.

“And besides, Eywa is much too beautiful. I don’t think I’d want to rival her. Nothing would seem beautiful to me if I was the most beautiful.” You add, only for your lover to squeeze your shoulder, his hand reaching out to join yours against the backdrop of the sky,

“I would like to believe Eywa thinks we are beautiful…” He murmurs before rolling on top of you, deciding he would much rather look at you than the leaves of the trees,

“Either way, you must be the most stunning creature on earth at least.” His bright eyes gaze up into yours. You can’t seem to find any hint of playfulness or doubt, he's fully sincere. So sincere it almost makes you tear up,

“Not particularly, I’m not exactly conventionally Earth beautiful either.” You give him a shaky smile, But he perseveres, cupping your face in his large hand, pressing his forehead to yours,

“I don’t buy it, my love. The way you speak of earth, burnt and devoid of life. I can’t imagine the people must be any better. All of the Humans I see here on Pandora are destructive and violent.” You hum, feeling the light rumbling of a purr in his chest against yours. You think for a moment, it might be nice for Neteyam to keep thinking that you are so beautiful that the Earth should weep for forgiveness for ever letting you leave, but you feel like you should tell the truth. That for earth standards, you were really, quite below average. Even though you don’t have to feel the pressure to look the way everyone wants you to look anymore, you would like to be able to be vulnerable with Neteyam, your mate,

“Earth… Has a very steadfast expectation on how you should look. So many humans would do anything to look that way,” You smile for a moment but it fades fast. “We would kill our planet for it. The plants and animals,” Neteyams huffs, pulling back for a moment,

“They did. Not you. This is not a matter of we.” He pouts. You will not bear this guilt alone, not on his watch. This makes you smile again,

“Whatever,” You roll your eyes. Never have you met anyone so stubborn to let you know how cared for you were, “I don’t meet that standard, Teyam, I think you would be stunned by those who do.”

Neteyam’s face softens. He can’t even fathom how you perceive yourself. To him you were the most empathetic, intelligent, caring person he’s ever met, not to mention the very love of his life. He moves to sit on your outstretched thighs,

“I don’t care about ‘Earth standards’.” He creates bunny ears with his fingers,

“In Nettayam standards, You are the most stunning being in the whole galaxy.”

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Father of mist, Father of foam (dcxdp)

Inspired by this post because this ship is so unhinged and I felt like writing Talia.

There were many stories in the League. Most of them went untold, and were eventually buried with the dead. Everyone knew not to ask about them, especially not for Ra's Al Ghul's. But nothing would stop the whispers, especially about Talia and her parentage.

Growing up, Talia had always been curious. She had asked her father once about her mother. Once, and never again. Father had only looked at her, but the empty deadened gaze he fixed upon her that day had frightened her more than any of their sparring sessions.

So she had resolved to ignore the chatter, and lock away those questions in the deepest corner of her mind. She did so, and for years, she managed to keep it buried. That was until she turned 9 years old, and decided to sneak out of the compound. So proud was she of her victory, she did not pay attention to her footing, slipped and fell right into the tumultuous river alongside which she was walking.

Talia was a good swimmer, but the currents were too strong and she was sucked under. She woke up, wet but alive on the bank with a man sitting next to her. He smiled before speaking in a voice that sounded like bells in the wind. "Hello, daughter."

And as the truth of his word echoed, she understood. "Hello, father."

He smiled and it was like the moon, soft and sweet and sad which Talia knew meant their time was limited. So she sat right next to him, and nestled in his arm, before asking him to tell her a story.

"When I was younger," her father started. "I decided to venture to the mortal world once again. There I met a man to whom I would give my heart, my soul and my Core. " Her papa said, before sighing. "He was such a strong soul with an intricate mind and I was so in love. We were happy so very, very happy."

"What happened?" Talia asked.

"My dearest one started listening to the whispers, doubting my love, my devotion. I pleaded with him to trust in me and the strength of my affection and he did, and for a time, I believed this was enough. But the peace did not last long, the whispers had already infiltrated his mind, poisoned his thoughts."

Her father had had a far-away look. "He locked away my core away and I could stay no longer. I cannot give my core to another, as it is not mine anymore. I stole it back, but it will stay his for all eternity. But for his betrayal, I cannot be by his side either."

Talia could feel her eyes start to water for her papa.

"Do not weep for me, my child," he said as his big hands cupped her face. "For he gave me a gift more precious than anything. He gave me you, daughter."

Talia turned into her father's chest and gripped at the strange fabric of his garment. "Take me with you," she said in a whisper.

"It is too early, Beloved," her father said as he caressed her hair. "You were born of the Realms, but even you cannot enter before your time."

Then, he stood up and deposited Talia on her feet. He looked down to her with tender eyes before he bent to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. Talia closed her eyes and when she opened them again, he was gone.

[lovebugism]

can I request modern!steve meeting shy!reader at a bar? maybe she’s overwhelmed and he can tell and tries to calm her down? I love your writing!

Steve buys you a drink at The Hideout.

Not because he thinks you’re pretty (he does), but because he thinks you need one.

You’re brooding in a frilly white dress, practically a rain cloud in lipstick in high heels — far too gorgeous to look so sad. 

You sit in silence with your woe, like two old friends who’ve already said too much to talk. It keeps you company on the farthest end of the bar, a dimly lit section where the hanging lamps don’t reach because no one ever sits there. 

You only speak when you’re asking the bartender for another round.

Steve reads your glossed lips — “A lemon vodka spritzer, please. And can you make it a double?” 

He waits until your glass is running low to tell the man behind the counter to fix you another, on him.

Your sad eyes go wide when you’re handed another chilled beverage. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“From the gentleman with nice hair,” the server explains beneath his bushy mustache, tilting his balding head to the other end of the bar.

A pretty boy with cinnamon and honey locks hanging over his forehead is already looking at you when you turn to find him. He wears a whiskey-slicked smile on a rosy mouth, tightlipped and warm. Holding an Old Fashioned in one hand, he throws up two fingers with his free one in a sheepish wave.

He seems kind. Beautiful. He looks like poetry in his stripped collared shirt and circle glasses — something simple you could drown in.

There’s a twinkle in the chocolate of his eyes that you figure must be from the dim amber lights hanging from the ceiling — there’s no way you’re the one putting stars in them. The lamps cast shadows on his chiseled jaw, dusted with a fine layer of scruff. The Renaissance sculpture brought to life just bought you a drink.

He doesn’t know he shouldn’t want to be your friend.

Actually, you’re pretty sure that if your real friends hadn’t stood you up tonight, he wouldn’t even be looking at you twice. And you wouldn’t have blamed him for it, either.

All you are now is slim pickings in a sleazy bar and a total idiot for getting so dressed up just to be left behind. 

This is why I don’t leave the house, you keep thinking to yourself as you drown your sorrows in too sweet alcohol. I’m way too soft for the rest of the world.

The vodka spritzer the pretty man bought for you goes warm.

The ice cubs melt and the glass begins to sweat with condensation. Your eyes go glassy in a similar fashion. You try to tell yourself that they’re just sweating, too — that you’re not the kind of girl that cries in bars.

Burning tears finally trickle over when the low radio gives way to a live band. The suddenness of the pounding drums startles you from your sad girl stupor and pushes you far past the point of being overwhelmed. Through a tightening throat, you hand the bartender a tenner and ask him to return the drink. 

You’re nearly weeping when you repeat it for the third time because he couldn’t hear you over the music. 

That’s when Steve goes to find you — when the keep nudges his shoulder to get his attention and hands him a melted drink along with a folded-up bill. “She wanted me to tell you thanks, but no thanks,” the man yells gruffly over the metal band.

“She left?” Steve shouts back, brows furrowed and eyes wide beneath his glasses. His heart thrums something fierce, stomach twisting at the thought of having missed you.

“Yeah. ‘Bout a minute ago or so. Looks like she’s havin’ a pretty rough night.”

He pushes through the forming crowd and rushes outside like a madman, prepared to sprint down the sidewalk to catch up with you. He’s distantly worried that you’ve already called an Uber by now or that you’ve turned a corner and walked out of his life forever. 

He nearly trips over himself when he spots you sitting at the bus stop.

“No, I know,” he hears you assure into the phone pressed to your ear. “I get it, okay? It’s fine. I… I would’ve left me, too.”

You cover your gloom with a half-hearted laugh.

Steve feels like someone’s shoved a knife in the spot between his ribcage.

He idles by the entrance until you hang up. The hand grasping the phone falls helplessly into your lap, like it’s too heavy for your trembling fingers to hold. You sniffle and drop your head into your palms. Your shoulders shake as they rise and fall with uneven breaths — trying and failing to calm yourself down.

“Hey, uh— Spritzer?” he calls awkwardly out to you as he slowly approaches the bench you’re on.

He doesn’t want to startle you, but he does anyway.

You jolt at his presence, hand snapping up as you gape at him with wild eyes that glimmer beneath the orange lamplight. You’re frightened at the intrusion first, then shocked to find the pretty guy from the bar standing in front of you.

“Me?” you question, voice fragile and tight — feeling stupid because the two of you are the only ones at this bus stop.

“Here’s your ten back,” Steve says with a tight-lipped smile. He holds the bill between his pointer and middle finger and motions for you to take it.

Your glassy eyes flit between it and him. You sniffle. “No, that was— that’s for you. For the drink.”

“The drink I bought for you,” he corrects gently.

“…I didn’t drink it,” you confess, face twisting like you’re about to cry again.

“No, I know. I was just… I was trying to be nice.” His soft laugh fills the awkward quiet. His smile fades when he notices you aren’t laughing with him. “Uh, can I— Is it okay if I sit.”

He points to the spare spot on the bench beside you.

You nod and move over a few inches in invitation.

The old wood creaks under his weight as he sits.

Steve smooths his sweaty hands over his jean-clad thighs, not knowing what to say. He peers at you from the corner of his eye. You’re not looking at him, too focused on declining another call. Your thumb swipes over the screen when you turn your phone off entirely.

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “Sorry for not— for not drinking it. That was really rude, I’m sorry.”

Steve twists his head to look at you completely. His smile is still warm, his eyes still twinkling. You don’t know why he looks at you so softly, only that it could make you weep. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” he assures with a shrug. “It was just a gesture, you know? No big deal.”

You nod, then turn away to look up at the velvet night sky. He watches your profile scrunch in concern again before you glance at him, looking more sheepish. “But… why?”

His brows raise. “Why what?”

“Why did you… buy me a drink?”

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, bouncing his shoulders. “You just looked like you coulda used one.”

A part of you is glad he wasn’t trying to make some kind of move on you.

Another part is disappointed by it, too.

“Right,” you nod, trying to smile though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, thanks. For, uh… For noticing, I guess.”

For noticing me in my sadness, you would’ve said if you weren’t talking to a total stranger. Most of the time, I’m invisible.

“Thank you for not dumping it in my face,” he jokes.

Your nose scrunches softly. Your smile is barely there but more sincere. “Why would I have done that?”

“I don’t know… I feel like when a stranger buys a girl a drink, they’re either really into it, or they think it’s drugged or something—” he explains with a laugh. It fades again when your soft features twist in confusion. 

His eyes go wide in a similar horror.

“It wasn’t! I was just— I was just saying that… Some people might think that, you know? But I’d… I’d never.”

A smile pulls at your lips just before a giggle tumbles from them. 

The sound is too pretty for him to be embarrassed.

Steve smiles, too. “I’m making a whole mess of this, huh?”

“No,” you assure rather quickly, shaking your head in reassurance. “You’re… You’re actually taking my mind off of all this…”

“Yeah?” he wavers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Can I… ask what happened?”

“It’s just… my friends. We were all supposed to meet up here, but they went somewhere else,” you explain, wrenching your sweaty hands in your lap. “And, like, I don’t blame them, you know? Concerts aren’t my thing, ‘cause they’re so… loud. That’s why they didn’t buy me a ticket... So, in a weird roundabout way, they were kinda thinking about me by… not thinking about me.” 

You end your rambling by shooting him a contorted glance, like you don’t even believe your own words. “Does that make sense?”

Steve nods slowly, then shakes his head. “Not really, no. They kinda sound like assholes, honestly.”

“It just wouldn’t have been as fun with me there—”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“…No?”

“No. I mean… I’m having plenty of fun with you now, so…”

You scoff and you roll your eyes. “Right.”

“I’m serious!” he promises, laughing. “I don’t know if you can tell, but that place is totally not my scene. I mean, honestly, I wasn’t even gonna come tonight, but my friends dragged me here and everything…” He trails off, smiling too sincerely as he looks at you with honey eyes. “Now I’m glad I did. “Cause, you know, I met someone as miserable as I am.”

You don’t want to laugh, still a little bit sad about the whole thing, but this boy brings a smile to your face without even trying. It’s totally not fair.

He laughs at your laughing. “And I’m having a lot more fun out here with you than I was watching some idiot scream into a mic, so… your friends are obviously blind.”

“Obviously,” you snort in return, still not believe him.

“I’m— I’m Steve, by the way.”

He holds his hand out, wide and warm. You take it in your own. His long fingers engulf your smaller ones. “Thanks for the drink, Steve.”

“Any time,” he grins and means it.

“Maybe… Maybe I can buy you one sometime,” you offer suddenly, flitting your gaze to a building across the street. You say it with a nonchalant shrug like you don’t care either way — like your heart’s not beating out of your chest just now. “You know, like, as a thank you?”

His smile widens. “I’d like that, Spritz.”

The newfound nickname makes you smile.

You don’t notice until then that your hands haven’t let go of each other.

[kit-williams]

Legion Mother: Lost in the Warp

Who want's some Angst?

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon

as always thank you to @squishyowl for the dividers

The Mother of the Fourth Legion was in despair. Penelope was wailing as Robute Guilliman, her brother in law, had told her that her husband... Perturabo was dead. She knew he wouldn't lie to her... she was wailing as her attendants had to guide her back to her room.

Her adopted sons were not surprised at how she broke down at the news... they knew their mother loved their father... father had risen her from serfdom to his wife to Perturabo it only made sense given how utterly genuine she was with him. And the Captain watched as she had trembled, swayed on her feet, falling to the floor and weeping. But the Captain now snarled at the Primarch of the Thirteenth when he retracted what he said... but he realized quickly... the Iron Mother wouldn't have been able to handle the truth.

"What do I tell Ajax?" She managed to blither out between her sobs.

"None of that now my lady. You have to lead the legion now." The head attendant said holding her tightly like a mother would, "But first you must mourn." She said softly... as to them... Perturabo was suppose to outlive her... she was content with that... she was suppose to be the first of probably a long string of wives... Penelope was okay with that... she had told him that all she wanted to do was to bring him happiness.

"My Bo... my Bo..." Penelope whimpered as her makeup was running from the heavy tears rolling down her cheeks. The shock of it all running through her... perhaps later she would apologize to her sons at her reaction...

Nelly laid in her bed feeling the migraine build behind her eyes as she couldn't stop herself from bursting into tears. "Get... get me my box..." She says sitting up off to try one last hope. Her Bo was a smart man... an emergency communicator... she picked up the delicately made iron sea shell. She prayed... to what? She just prayed that he wasn't dead... "Bo..."

Demon World of Medrengard

A hateful fortress world of cruelty and industry... black spires licked the white sky and black sun but they ran so deeply into the molten core of the planet. The Demon Primarch's hatred could be felt upon the wind... his hate was enough for thousands of lifetimes. Yet there was some hatred for himself at what he had become... he was stronger than this and in a moment of weakness... a very human moment he did not want to die. His sons did not wish to lose their father and so he was now a blight upon this reality.

"Bo..." A voice sniffled... one he had not heard in a long long time. It made him inhale for the first time in millennia. The hateful winds stopped in their tracks leading to a quiet on the planet for the first time since it's rebirth as a demon world. He pulled away from his workbench slowly as the Lord of Iron's eyes drifted over to some forgotten rotting corner. "Bo please... you can't be dead." The voice sobbed cracking in a way that he was familiar with, he approached with quiet steps. His eyes looked down at a dust covered sea shell made of iron... rusted except for the pearl.

"Perturabo!" She wailed with palatable grief as it had to be true. Her husband was gone... Olympia was gone... everything she held dear was gone... all she had left was the fraction of the legion and Ajax. She had to be like Iron... she had to be there for her sons and his sons... she had to... she had too...

"Nelly...?" A voice... no not just a voice his voice spoke over the device.

She threw herself back over to the device, "Perty!"

Perturabo looked down at the rusted shell in his hand... he had all but forgotten it was there. His tongue licked over sharpened teeth as his bitterness started to gather... this was a trick... how dare they. He internally seethed at the thought of Fulgrim or Magnus or one of the petty gods using his beloved's voice against him. Still the winds of Medrengard remained calm... and that near oppressive hate was lifted for a moment causing all his scions upon the planet to turn their gaze toward his fortress. "Bo?"

"Where are you?" His voice spoke over the line as she was holding her breath holding the hands of one of her attendants and when he spoke she let it out.

"Olympia... Bo... Bo... It's gone! Please what happened?" She begged.

Before he could answer he heard the doors open and Captain Antioch speak, as Nelly had a habit of leaving the line open, Perturabo remembers appointing him to protection of the Legion Mother... he was one of the few sons truly happy for their marriage, "Legion Mother we must go. Lord Guilliman will see us at Mcragge."

"Antioch! I've gotten in contact with Perturabo, he's alive!" She said so relieved but Perturabo could taste it... he could taste the worry... he could taste the fear. The mother knew not what the son was told.

"Penelope. I will see you soon." Was all he said before killing the line. And just like that the Lord of Iron was roused... the great iron beast rearing it's head once more... few things in the galaxy could force him into action... and if this truly was his Penelope then there would a celebration to be had... for the Iron Mother had returned which also meant his son was alive as well... but Perturabo held any excitement at bay for disappointment was a taste he knew too well. For if this was not his beloved wife... his wrath would be ten fold.

Warsmith Castor was called to his father's side. His yellow eyes looking up at him as no words were exchanged after his greeting and he waited in attention. "Castor. Go to Olympia I need you to confirm something." Castor simply nodded not daining to question his father but Perturabo simply added. "I need to to confirm if your Mother is back."

"Mother?" His yellow eyes turned brown for a moment as Caster was but a battle brother when Perturabo had married Penelope and still had to prove himself verses the trusted battle brothers that were assigned to be her personal guard.

"Yes. I got a message from Penelope... go to the system and confirm if it is her. Do not engage if it is."

"And if it is not her my lord?"

"Drag them back to Medrengard in iron. If it is her ship... then..." There was an unsaid thought... we will find her bones.

I know a secret... The Demonette giggled as Fulgrim opened one of his many eyes in a post orgy haze.

"What secret do you know..." He said as his eyes flashed purple as the wail of sadness rushed through him. "OH! Dearest Sister in law nelly has returned! Oh... oh... " He licked his lips with cruel intent, "We certainly must throw her a welcome back party!"

I know a secret... the blue bird crooned as Magnus looked over and he listened to his brother Perturabo... and then a relieved voice of... "Penelope..." He said as his single eye widened a part of him... some deep down part knew that she was better off dead and not seeing what the world had become.

They are trying to head to Mcragge... the demonic bird crooned. "Who knows?" Magnus pressed.

Everyone

[sissylittlefeather]

Your Love's Been a Long Time Coming: The End

A/N: My heart, y'all. I can't believe this is over. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this last chapter for Elvis and Vivian. If there's enough demand, I'll write more of them happily ever after, but otherwise, here it is: the end. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments. I love to hear from you!

Need to read the rest? Masterlist here.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI! Kissing, cussing, fingering, oral sex (m&f receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie

Word count: ~3k

"Are you?!"

"Yes."

******

Sonny's shoulders slump as he sinks into a chair. Vivian's heart breaks for him, but she just couldn't lie to him anymore. It's not fair to anyone involved for her to keep pretending like there's nothing between her and Elvis.

"I knew it. Jerry told me about the wedding and I just kept hoping it was him being, well, him. But no, this has been going on for a lot longer than just that time, hasn't it?"

"No, we've never really been anything-"

"But that's what you've wanted. You love him and you always have." He pinches the bridge of his nose and Vivian swallows deeply. He's right. "I can't fight him. I won't win. Not if you're in love with him."

Sonny looks up at her with his eyes glossy and wet. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it.

"Sonny, I-"

"No. It's okay, sugar. I love you too much to keep you miserable. If you want him, you should be with him." She sits on the floor in front of him and leans on his knee.

"I'm not miserable."

"No, but you would be eventually. Especially if his marriage is over. It's cruel for me to make you stay, knowing what I know now."

"Sonny... I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. You can't help who you love. Can I ask one thing, though?"

"Anything." Vivian looks up at him sadly. Some part of her does care for him. Just not enough. Not more than she loves Elvis.

"I'm gonna go for a drive for a few hours. When I get back here, please be gone." She nods slowly.

"Okay. I can do that."

"Thank you." He whispers and then leans forward, kissing her forehead. Then, he stands up and walks towards the door. When he gets there he turns. "I don't want you to feel bad for me. I'll be alright. Just go be happy."

She nods again as he walks through the door. The tears come hot and fast for a while as she sits there in the rubble of her ruined marriage. After a while, she stops, though, and there's only one thing on her mind.

Elvis.

She jumps up and starts to pack.

******

Elvis is sitting in the dark in the TV room. All three TVs are going, but he has no idea what's on any of them. His mind is racing. How did he get here? He's alone, his own wife gone to another man as his heart longs for a married woman. What a mess.

His mind drifts back to the night he met Vivian. She was so beautiful reading the book of French poetry in the corner at his party. He should've whisked her away from Charlie that night. He should've broken up with Anita the second he met her and taken her in his arms to be his forever that afternoon when he found her crying at the cafe.

And all the movie years. How stupid was he to value his string of flings over her? How easy it would've been to leave them all in the dust and marry her in 1962.

And the conversation they started should've finished with them together. Why did he abandon her for Ann? Yes, he loved Ann, but what was she compared to his future with Viv?

And WHY, WHY did he choose Priscilla?! He looks at the corner of the couch where Viv had laid that night they made love for the first time. It's like a movie with the scene of her on his porch, arms full of liquor bottles, a soft smile on her lips. Then it cuts to her gently shaving his face, an ultimate gesture of love and service. And the kiss, his mouth on her body, carrying her upstairs and pulling off clothing. The flashbacks wash over him and he lets himself weep. His tongue pushing into her as she moans, her mouth wrapped around him, him pumping into her overcome with passion and love and a need to be hers forever. The gentle and affectionate touches when they finished and held each other like they'd do it every day until they died.

"Oh God, Vivian." He holds his head in his hands as the tears stream down his face. He should've married her. His heart aches thinking of her coming to see him when he was so hurt and needed her so badly, only to be turned away. How could he have spent all those years angry? How could he let her fall into Sonny's arms?

And now she's gone forever. She'll have a baby soon and then he will have truly lost her. He'll only ever-

There's a knock at the door. Whoever it is can wait. Elvis is too lost in his grief to answer the door right now.

He wraps his arms around himself and lets his shoulders shake with sobs.

Another knock, this time a little more urgent. He listens carefully and realizes it's raining. Briefly, he feels for the person who is soaking wet on his porch, but not enough to get up and answer the door.

He's always taking care of everyone else. In this moment, he needs to just be and feel and nurse his broken heart.

More knocking, almost frantic.

Fine. He gets up off the couch and goes to the door.

******

Vivian sits on the front steps in the rain, crying. She's knocked and knocked, but either he's not here or he doesn't want to see her. She has nowhere else to go and even if she did, this is the only place she wants to be. Why won't he answer?

She gets up to walk back to her car.

******

"Viv?" He says it softly, not believing what he sees in front of him. Then, he realizes she's walking away and runs out to her in the driveway. "Vivian!"

She stops dead and turns to face him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Sonny left."

"He did? Why?"

"Because I'm in love with you." His heart skips.

"You... what?"

"I'm in love with you, Elvis. I always have been. I love you with every fiber of my being. It's like you're a part of me that I can't dig out. You're in me. You are me. I love you. God, I love you." She stands there, chest heaving, trying not to be a cliched crying mess in the rain. Elvis's heart has stopped with her words. His hands shake and he wants to pinch himself to make sure he isn't dreaming.

"Am I- am I too late?" She asks, almost panicked. Finally, he finds his voice.

"Never."

He takes two steps and has her in his arms, his mouth pressed to hers in a desperate kiss. The years of yearning pour out of them into the way their tongues mix in an ardent dance of need. He grabs the back of her thighs and she jumps to wrap her legs around him. Then, he turns and carries her up the steps into the house, slamming the door behind them with his foot.

She moans into his kiss as they make their way up the staircase to the bedroom, her still wrapped around him. In the room, he sets her down gently and begins peeling off her wet clothes, one layer at a time, dropping his lips to every new exposed inch of skin. He makes a trail of hot kisses along her body, finally dragging down her pants and underwear until she's fully naked in front of him. But when he goes to dive face first into her center, she stops him.

"No. I want to feel your skin." She unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off of his shoulders, going to the buttons on his pants next. He kicks off his shoes while she undoes the zipper and pulls, exposing him to her fully. They stand for a second, just taking each other in with nothing in between them, finally.

He caresses the side of her face and steps closer to her so that their bodies touch softly. She looks up at him in anticipation as he runs his thumb over her cheek.

"I have loved you from the moment I saw you. I should've said it then and every day since. It's always been you, Viv." He leans in and kisses her gently again, his hand moving down her body tenderly. When he gets to her lower back, he pulls her in close to press against him and kisses down her neck. She whimpers at the feel of his length pushing into her hip, reaching down to stroke him with her hand. He grunts at the sensation and slowly walks her backwards to the edge of the bed. She sits down, her hand still pumping him, but he stops her and gets on his knees.

"You're the love of my life, Vivian. I want to give you the world." He leans forward and kisses her thigh, pushing her legs open further to get to her center. "Let me give you everything I have, baby."

With that, he lowers his mouth to her and presses his tongue into her slit, dragging it up to the hardened bud, licking over and around it vigorously. She inhales sharply and throws her head back.

"Oh, God, Elvis." She runs her hand in his hair. He groans, but doesn't stop working his mouth on her. He moves his tongue in circles and then in a hard line over the top of her clit, keeping a steady rhythm. Her hips buck forward into his face and he slides a finger into her, tickling the spot that makes her moan out loud.

"Fuck!" Her back arches as her orgasm builds quickly. She feels herself on the edge, ready to spill over into an ocean of pleasure.

"Come on, baby. You're right there. Let go for me." He goes back to licking her with a fervor he's never expressed before. He's never been so invested in a woman's pleasure but he wants to give Vivian more than she's ever experienced. And he does. In that moment the dam breaks and she cries out as the waves of ecstasy crest and break inside her over and over again.

"Yes! Fuck! Yessssss!" She moans with her teeth gritted, her body quaking with the aftershock of the most unbelievable orgasm.

When she finally comes down, she sits up and grabs him, pulling him into a deep kiss, her tongue diving into his mouth feverishly.

"I'm so... in love... with you..." She whispers in between kisses, her hands running down his chest. She stands him up and he looks down at her, cupping her chin in his hand.

"No, baby. I'm in love with you." She smiles and leans forward, holding his cock in one hand, pulling his foreskin back and running her tongue around the tip. He leans back, his lips parted slightly and his eyes closed. "God, that feels good."

She tries not to smile as she pulls him fully into her mouth, letting him hit the back of her throat. She buries her nose in the hair at the base of him, swallowing around him. Then, she begins to move up and down as he thrusts slowly. She puts her hands on his hips and works him gently, moaning. He grunts and takes a handful of her hair.

"Viv, baby, you have to stop. I'm not finished making love to you."

She pulls back off of him and looks up, crawling backwards onto the bed. He climbs on top of her, kissing her neck and chest up to her mouth.

"I am yours, Vivian. Body and soul." He lines his cock up with her dripping entrance and teases her clit for a second. "I want to love you like this forever."

"Please, Elvis. Never stop." He nods and pushes into her.

"I won't, baby." He whispers as he slides in as deep as he'll go, grunting when he feels her tightness around him. "You were made for me."

She whimpers as he fills her, pulling back and pushing into her again. Neither of them will ever get enough of the way it feels to be connected like this. They fit together like a lock and key and the pleasure hits them both at the same time.

"Yes, Elvis..." Her back arches as he continues his sensual rhythm of sliding out and filling her, his hips rolling into her over and over and over. Their sweat begins to mix as their bodies meet in burning kisses, breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip, and thigh to thigh. His hand runs up and down her, squeezing and pinching softly where it pleases them both until it settles on her hip, holding her in place as his thrusting picks up. He's still moving slowly, pounding her deeply, slamming her with his cock both passionately and lovingly.

"Oh, God, Viv, I love the way you feel." He sets his head on her shoulder, knowing his climax is coming fast. "I don't want this to be over."

She takes his face in her hands and kisses the tip of his nose.

"This will never be over. I'm yours until the end. Let go, baby. I'm not going anywhere." He whimpers softly and peppers her face with kisses as he goes back to pumping into her. His pace increases and her breasts bounce as he moves inside her harder and harder. He feels his orgasm building in his cock and he knows he's ready to explode. He slams into her two more times and then cries out as he shudders.

"Fuck, yes, Viv!" He feels his release wash over him as he cums hard inside her, emptying himself as the tsunami-force ecstasy crashes through him. He's frozen inside her, cock throbbing until he's completely spent. She whines through her own orgasm as he collapses on top of her, careful not to crush her with his weight. He slides out of her gently and lays next to her, pulling her into the crook of his arm where she fits perfectly. She reaches up and pushes his sweaty hair back off of his forehead and then runs her fingertips down the side of his face. He grabs her fingers and kisses them, looking down at her. She smiles up at him and whispers. "Je t'aimes toujours avec tout mon coeur."

"You know I don't speak French, baby." He chuckles.

"It means 'I love you always with all of my heart.' It's something I was saving to say to the man that set me on fire. And it's you. I burn for you, Elvis. I always have and I always will." He smiles, his eyes brimming with tears.

"I will make you mine forever as soon as I can. You are the one who my soul loves. Viv, tell me this is us, from now on."

"Always and forever, Elvis."

"Always and forever."

******

A lot happens for Elvis and Vivian through 1972 and 1973. Vivian moves into Graceland and they christen every room in the house. Then, Elvis films Elvis on Tour in April and Vivian is there. He plays at Madison Square Garden in June and Vivian is there. He goes on tour again and still, Viv is there. Then, he does the Aloha show in Hawaii and she is there for that too. Both of their divorces are finalized in 1973 and they're there for each other. By Thanksgiving, Elvis has a 10-carat ring on her finger and by Christmas they're married.

He records an album at Stax that won't be released until 1975, but there's a song on it that makes him think of Vivian so much he almost cries. He saves it for the right moment, though.

So when she comes to him on New Year's Eve with a note from the doctor confirming her pregnancy, he knows exactly what to do. He pulls her into a warm embrace, kissing the top of her head. Slowly they begin to sway and he sings:

The first time I saw you I knew I was hooked on somebody other than me

And the first time I held you, your soft lips and blue eyes

Were as far as my eyes could see

Yes, here in my arms I knew I had found the reason that I'm livin' for

And I felt the feeling, such a wonderful feeling

That I'd never felt before

Baby, you're love's been a long time comin'

Baby your love's got a hold on me

Baby your love's sure got me hummin'

Baby your love's been a long time comin'

******

Fin

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @jhoneybees @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @atleastpleasetelephone @burnthheparaphilia @cinnamoroll-things

[charliemwrites]

Could we please have little drabbles for each kept pet for like the moment they first opened their eyes and realised they were in a random bed and house and their keepers coming in and their first conversations?

Hey, sorry for the delay on this one. It’s a bit more complex (which is no problem!) and I really wanted to put some thought into it.

Feral:

You wake up groggy, confused. Warm…? God you’re so heavy, you just want to go back to sleep. Must have been another shitty day at work.

And yet…. You can’t get back to sleep. Something in the back of your mind is tugging at you. Telling you things are off.

Your bed is too comfy, your sheets too soft, your pillow too cool and supportive. Your eyes flutter a few times before you can finally pry them open, head still foggy. There’s movement to your side, you twist your head, halfway through a yawn when you see a blond man sitting at your bedside.

“Mornin’, little one. How are you feeling?”

You gasp roughly, scramble away, out of this strange bed - away from this strange man. Hit the ground and hear him hiss quietly. Scramble back when he stands and starts to round the bed. You need to run but your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. All you can do is press yourself into the corner, wide eyed as he comes closer.

He stops just out of reach and squats down, arms balanced on his knees. He’s huge, you realize with horror. Not just tall and wide, but built.

“Easy now, baby,” he coos and your blood turns to ice. “There was really no way to make that better.”

“Where am I?” you demand, voice rough and shaky. “Who are you?”

“You’re home,” he answers with a little smile, “and I’m Simon. I’m gonna take care of you from now on.

—

(Warning for throw up)

Shy Thing:

The violent twisting of your stomach rips you out of a dead sleep. Once moment you’re asleep, and the next you’re throwing yourself sideways, emptying its contents over the side of… whatever you’ve been lying on. There’s a voice nearby, unfamiliar, though you can’t hear what they’re saying over your own heaving.

God you hate throwing up. Your eyes water as your stomach finally starts to settle, the dizziness invading next and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Alright, lass, you’re okay. Here.”

You crack an eye open to see a glass of water being offered. Accept it gratefully and sip slowly at the voice’s insistence. While you do, you try to see past a headache-induced haze. You’re in… some kind of living room?

The alarms begin blaring one by one in your head. You don’t know where you are. You don’t remember anything. You don’t know why you feel awful. You don’t know who’s rubbing your back and speaking to you softly.

Slowly, afraid of what you’ll see, you twist to face the stranger. And realize he’s… familiar. But not familiar enough that you can immediately place him.

“There you are, pretty girl. Sorry about that, should have gone with the other sedative.”

The other….

You try to jerk away, but he just thinks you’re gagging again and is quick to support you, pulling your hair back from your face.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, giving you a deceptively gentle squeeze. “And I always will be from now on.”

Quietly, you begin to weep.

—

You groan as you come to, head pounding and eyes feeling dry. A voice is gently speaking nearby, words garbled as your brain comes back online. It takes a moment, but you realize they’re speaking to you, though you don’t recognize who they are.

There’s something around your neck that’s a little itchy. You groan again and reach to pull it away, annoyed. Your fingers meet resistance as it tugs against the back of your neck. You try again - realize it’s not coming off.

Your eyes snap open, an unfamiliar ceiling above you, decorated with fairy lights. Not your room; not your bed. Your eyes slide sideways, to an unfamiliar man sitting at the edge of the bed by your hip.

“Not coming off, love,” he says, “not for a while at least.”

You don’t know what he means until his eyes flick down to your neck. Your fingers feel around it and find a metal plate with something engraved in it. You don’t know what it says, but you know what it is. A name tag. For a collar. You’re wearing a collar.

You spit out a curse and instantly kick at the man, trying to get him away, stun him. It lands, but he does little more than grunt and grab your leg, pinning it. You struggle, kick, flail, shout and scream but he quickly has you pinned and immobile, even as you curse up a storm, white-hot with anger.

“Get it all out now, darling,” he rumbles above you, “because tomorrow I’ll expect better behavior.”

[suguwu]

gothic romance au, hints of vampire!zhongli, gender neutral reader.

wc: 1.4k

minors and ageless blogs dni. divider by @/cafekitsune.

there is a house upon the hill.

the garden it sits in is lush, though the roses are ruined now, their petals dashed against the dirt. they eddy in the rainwater, pearly pink and swirling around like little sailboats caught in the wind. the house cranes towards the weeping sky, the parapets gone dark with the rain, all slick, old stone. it should be a hulking beast, massive as it is, but there's an elegance to it, the curve of a dancer's back.

and there is a light in the window.

you step carefully over the puddles, dancing between the little ponds of them. the scent of wet loam washes over you as you make your way through the garden, thick and earthy. your pace slows as the house draws near; something flickers through you, a guttering candle. still, you move onwards, ducking into the entryway that frames an imposing door. you search but there is no doorbell.

you rap your knuckles against the old wood instead, the sound deep and hollow. you've just barely withdrawn your hand when the door swings open, a golden hue spilling forth, a baptism of light.

it matches the eyes of the man in the doorway.

they're the color of amber shot through by sunlight, striking in a way that makes you ache. they're beautiful. he's beautiful, you realize, as he blinks slowly at your bedraggled form.

"hi," you say, heat rising to your cheeks. "my car broke down, a bit down the road. i was hoping i could use your phone?"

"you must have come far," he says, looking out into the rain, where the trees have become mere shadows in the gloom. "and in this rain, too."

you shift. "uh, yeah, i guess," you say.

he hums and you think of the crash of waves upon the shore, the whisper of the pebbles it carries back into the mouth of the sea. "i see."

"could—could i use your phone?"

he focuses on you, his golden eyes knife-edged, the type of gaze that flays you down to your marrow, and a shiver curls up your spine.

"my apologies. please come inside."

"oh, i could just use your cell phone—"

"i'm afraid i only keep a landline," he says.

you falter for a moment. he meets your gaze again and a small smile flickers on his lips, a sickle moon curve. his eyes gleam.

you step over the threshold.

he closes the door behind you; it clicks into place quietly, but it echoes through you like the toll of a dour bell.

"this way," he says.

you follow him deeper into the house.

"my name is zhongli," he tells you. you give him your own name in return, and he says it, rolls each syllable of it over his tongue as if he's tasting it. a hint of a smile settles in the corner of his lips, tucked away like a secret. "it's a lovely name."

"um, thanks."

he sweeps down the hallway; you quicken your pace to match his long legs. you glance around as you go, taking in the thick wallpaper, lushly patterned with swooping swallows, and the portraits in their elegant frames, their eyes glistening in the low light. you shiver and push a little closer to zhongli.

he comes to a halt before a door and gestures you in. "i'll fetch you a towel," he says. "you must be cold."

a shiver runs through you as he says it, the chill of the house finally sinking through your skin. "thanks," you say. "i appreciate it."

he nods. "of course."

you watch as he strides down the hallway, elegant and purposeful, like each movement is thought out. the tail of his jacket disappears and you turn back to the door he'd left you in front of.

the handle is ornate and crystalline; it reminds you of a spider's web in moonlight. you twist it and come away with a pattern pressed into your skin; you trace your thumb over it as you step inside.

the room is cavernous, a maw of a thing. something unfurls inside you. the phone—a rotary phone, of all things—is tucked away on a writing desk, next to a rolodex. you flip through it, the sound of the paper loud in the quiet room, and find a tow truck company.

you trace your fingers along the desk as the phone rings. you wince as you knock a few papers loose, but can't help but peek at the elegant handwriting staining the page. you read a few lines of it—a beautiful poem, with a few words slashed out of existence with an angry pen—before the line clicks on.

the tow truck dispatcher is kind, but it will be hours before anyone can make it to you.

you tell zhongli as much when he returns.

"ah," he says, handing you a towel, a huge, fluffy cloud of material. "i was afraid that might be the case. you must stay until they arrive."

"i don't want to put you ou—"

"it is no trouble," he says, his eyes gleaming. "stay."

he guides you to the chaise, a large hand cupped over the small of your back. you can't feel the heat of him through your damp clothing, but you can feel the weight of his touch, an anchor dragging through the depths.

"i'm afraid i'm unused to having guests," he says, settling down on the chair across from you. "but i may be able to provide some sustenance if i look hard enough."

"it's fine," you say. "thank you, though."

"of course."

you play with the edge of a nearby pillow; it's silken and slips through your fingers like water.

"the poem," you say. "did you write it?"

he raises a brow.

your cheeks heat. "sorry," you say. "i saw it when i was on the phone."

he smiles softly. "you need not apologize," he says. "but yes, i wrote it. would you like to hear more about it?"

you blink. his amber eyes shine in the light, a firefly flicker. "sure," you say. "if you don't mind."

"i do not."

he spins out his poem, each word perfectly placed, and starts to explain his thoughts behind it. his voice is calm and sonorous; it echoes through you, settles into your bones. you blink, eyelids drooping, and see the smallest flash of teeth across the way.

you don't remember falling asleep.

zhongli wakes you when the tow truck arrives. his touch is gentle, but it flashes through you like cold fire, sending you jolting up. he steadies you with one large hand.

"i apologize," he says. "i didn't mean to frighten you."

"oh my god," you say. "i fell asleep?"

"you did."

"i am so sorry," you say, cheeks hot. "that was so rude of me—"

"it's of little consequence," he says. "you were exhausted from the rain and the walk. i do not mind."

"i'm still sorry."

he smiles. "come," he says. "the truck is out front."

the two of you pause in the hallway, at the threshold of the door. zhongli watches you, his honey-gold eyes glowing like the sunset.

"thank you," you say. "i don't know what i would have done without you."

"you're welcome," he says. "go on, now. the truck won't wait forever, i'm afraid."

"thank you again," you say, pulling on your shoes.

he says something, low and rumbling, but you can't quite grasp it.

"what?"

"good luck," he says. you blink. "with your car."

"thanks," you say, and then you're out into the rain, darting into the tow truck's cab.

as the truck pulls out, you glance back at the doorway.

there's a flash of gold.

you turn around and direct the driver to your car.

the next night, you dream.

you dream of the burning silver of a shooting star; of the slate-gray teeth of the hungry sea. of a house that pierces the sky like a blade. of amber shot through with sunlight.

you're damp when you wake, the dream having seared through you, and you are up far before the sun.

you start the car with no destination in mind. the road is empty; the signs flash by like streaks of lightning, until they give way to the woods.

the air is cool and scented with petrichor; it nips at you, a warning bite. you ignore it and gaze ahead of you.

there is a house upon the hill.

you start up the path.

[gabessquishytum]

What if Hob baby trapped Dream

The usual ‘Dream returns and a relationship develops - a REAL relationship after literal decades of reflection due to fishbowl’ (not necessarily self-analysis bc this is Dream)

It takes time, sure. Months of tiptoeing around each other. Finally, though, finally they’re in Hob’s flat and maybe Hob is cooking (‘I do not require food’ ‘I know but you’re a guest and a friend and you helped cook it, you get to enjoy our work’) and something happens. A tiny grease fire, a knife that flips unexpectedly, a too hot pan jostled, and Hob steps in to protect Dream. it's small and reflexive for Hob, but Dream, who rarely has had anyone treat him like he is worth protecting even if the danger is but a minor inconvenience, it hits. He's finally forced to admit to himself He's Smitten. Utterly, completely, you've lied to yourself and buried your feelings so long and now they're unearthed and you're crushed by them Gone on Hob Gadling in Love.

In Dream fashion this comes to a head when Hob properly serves them both, sits down, cheers! and Dream looks ready to sob over his paneer tikka. Hob is hearing alarms 'sorry, hey, you don't have to eat?? I thought it'd be an experience yeah? I swear it's fine if you don’t (please for the love of god don’t leave???)' but Dream chokes out 'no. this. presentation. it's full of you… your dedication…

…your love.'

Again alarm bells for Hob, but Dream thanks him, lightly touches Hob's hand with his fingertips oh so timid, and Hob barely breathes out 'well… yeah' NOT ELOQUENT but as always so careful and sincere and - dammit - he’s HOPEFUL but he’s also a man who’s learned

and Dream POUNCES

it's messy. too eager and god if the floor isn't going to be the end of Hob's ump-teenth rebuilt spine, but after a frantic disrobe Dream is manifesting a cunt and riding Hob hard. Hob will deal with the tailbone bruising if it means he gets to feel Dream around him, holding Hob's chest hair for dear life, clenching his thighs while Hob pumps into him like he's giving Dream life support

Hob is babbling of course, all manner of praise and attention and teeth-gnashing possessive WANT. Dream clenches and whines so prettily resting on Hob’s hips and around Hob’s solid thighs. At some point whatever Hob says gets a semi coherent reply. One soft '…please'. Hob loses what restraint he had and repeats the apparently high key possessive - take you, keep you, everyone should know youre mine youre mine - primal love letters Hob’s had at the back of his brain. Hob will hunt anyone down who even looks at Dream sideways. He has nothing but time and zeal and the same passion to show Dream what life has to offer, the same passion he’s had since 1389, the carefully tended kindness and the never-truly-gone devotion for what Hob calls His.

and Dream. poor Dream who has had loyalty but so very little FREE devotion from anyone who could choose to leave, who never HAD to stay - especially now that Hob knows who gave him immortality and STILL wants Dream. Even with all his eons of existence, Hob has mortal experience on his side so eventually Dream is nearly weeping, no reprieve, begging at this point for Hob to ‘let everyone know’ Dream is Hob’s Hob’s Hob’s

Hob fingers Dream’s clit again in time with two three five more thrusts and it’s perfect yet too much, the clench the keening the hands clawing Hob’s chest, the revelation of *having* after loving this being from a distance. Loving them in PERSON after centuries? Neither of them were prepared

Needless to say they spend a good 15 minutes on the too-hard floor before Hob convinces Dream that he can’t live on Hob’s chest and in Hob’s clavicle forever, to let him pull out (HUGE dramatic complaint) and take care of Dream, who does so now with the best attempt at luxuriating while pouting on bare oak flooring one could hope for.

Hob does a quick self clean up, brings a towel and a kiss for Dream, is so tender, then throws the towel in the corner, carries Dream to his bed while Dream reclaims his spot in the crook of Hob’s neck and. Fuck. Hob was so caught up that he hadn’t even thought about what if Dream would be done here after this. Would he leave now that everything is settled? Hob was willing to be Dream’s friend - still is - but tonight would take a while to get over, if he ever could

(he would, he tells himself, he’s not losing him again, he can do this).

Hell if he isn’t having a breakdown. Tomorrow though. That’s for tomorrow.

Hob wants to keep Dream so so much, he wants his stories and his smiles and his tantrums and his conflicts. He wants Dream. But Hob collects himself (he tries) while approaching the bed, ready for distance, indifference, absence even but

There he is.

Dream

Dream sees Hob.

Blinks like a cat.

Slowly reaching his hand towards Hob with the smallest, most delicate smile. No one would know but Hob. But Hob has spent a lifetime (several) memorizing that mouth. He knows. He mentally short circuits. He manages to say a form of Thanks in 5 different languages then

he relaxes onto the mattress and, after arranging the blankets just so, feeling Dream hesitate, Hob settles with confidence, taking his space in bed, pulls Dream in, precious, protected, somewhat known - he hopes for more - so after possibly 10 minutes or an hour he feels Dream relax like an exhale into Hob’s solid chest. Hob would’ve gladly waited through another 6 lifetimes. He’s a patient man. Dedicated.

He is also entirely in love.

But the thing most intrinsic to Hob is

Well

Things

Twofold

Yes he’s patient. He has learned patience and he’s damn good at it.

…He’s also, after all these years, still a bit of a bastard

…

After all this time. All these misunderstandings. All this too goddamn long chance to love one another wholly. All this uncertainty if Dream will return - if he CAN return! If Dream is even safe and if anyone can take care of him now or then or ever. Not as well as Hob would, surely. Perhaps he *will* let everyone know Dream is his

…

After all that dirty talk while Dream rode him like that… begged and clenched and moaned… Hob wonders

Next few times, desperate and sweet and, god, clinging to Hob like he’s the center of gravity…?

There’s room for a nursery after all

…

As in. Well. Maybe, just maybe, if there was something more substantial, something to anchor Dream, then Dream might be more inclined to allow himself to be pampered, be loved, be free to relax

…to be adored

…

Hob has seen Dream’s good and bad, his insecurities and his arrogance in presumed power, and his deep instinct to care with the whole of his being. He deserves reciprocation - truly, he is driven by a need to create, to nurture!

..then again, Dream too often manages to find himself at his lowest and determine that it means he should leave, bury himself in work and denial. Isolate and repeat the cycle when he could have been given softness and kindness like he should have always. So many of Dream’s creations adore him, yet he can’t accept it. Dream thinks work is the truest sign of care and doesn’t grasp stopping to Be Present

Maybe next time Dream stays with Hob, well, if Dream won’t allow himself to take a step back on his own, Hob can… encourage it

…

Plant the seed, if you will

…

After all

Dream is so good with kids

- 🎱 anon

Omg, yesterday we had Dream babytrapping Hob. So today we gotta have Hob babytrapping Dream. Balanced, as all things should be.

I'm also having a whole fucking moment about the way you write, here. It's absolutely beautiful and you totally managed to persuade me that Hob is doing a good thing. I'm questioning my moral compass as I read it. I like that very very much.

I just love this unhinged manifestation of Hob’s love and adoration of Dream. I'm sure he's also thinking "how much could I really do without him knowing and consenting? if he wanted to stop me he could stop me, he's practically all powerful". And how could his love possibly do anything to hurt Dream? A child would be such a wonderful thing, wouldn't it? A new era for the dreaming, a cementing of their relationship.

Dream can't run away if he's carrying Hob’s child with him. It's a terrible thought - Hob hates himself for it. He's not that kind of man anymore, at least he thought he wasn't. Maybe it's true, maybe he never really changed. Maybe he'll always be greedy for Dream’s love.

If Hob could dream a child into his beloved, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He thinks about it, often. Every night. Curled around Dream, one hand over where his womb would be. He closes his eyes tightly. Just dreams it, as quietly as he can. It's not like thinking, dreaming about it will do any harm.

Right?

(The seed is planted. Sprouting. Glowing and growing. You can't dream a baby into existence, not usually.

But then, there's nothing usual about Dream of the Endless. Or the baby in his womb.)

[holylulusworld]

Cell

Summary: Taken by an unknown enemy you face fear worse than death.

Pairing: Alpha!Winter Soldier x Omega!Reader

Square 10 filled for @anyfandomdarkbingo​: Free Space: Winter Soldier

Warnings: angst, language, hostage situation, scared reader, mentions of unwanted touching (no description/not winter soldier), a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics,  mentions of human trafficking 

A/N: I use some German words. For my story they brought her to a hideout in Germany. The winter soldier speaks German too. (it’s canon)

Thanks go to @dawn-petrichor-world​ for inspiring me with this ask

Prequel to Chains around your heart

All you remember is the pain in your neck. The smell of your sweat and pee. And then, darkness.

There is no normal after the men dragged you out of your little life to bring you here.

Darkness. Fear. Loneliness. That’s all you got left.

There is no light. No hope. No life to live left.

You can only sit on the ground of a dirty and cold cell and await death. Or worse.

The men. The monsters taking you away speak a language you don’t understand. They yell orders at each other and laugh when they watch you cower in the furthest corner to hide from them.

Asset. Omega. No. These are the only words you understand. 

One of the alphas who captured you tried to touch you once. He had his hands all over you until two of the others dragged him off you. The men told him no.

You still shudder when the man enters the cell to throw dry bread at you. 

Most of the time you try to shut your mind off. It’s easier to pretend you are not there, at this horrid place. You don’t have the strength to cry any longer. It’s been weeks since they took you, and you are constantly living in fear.

Fear of death. Fear of what the men will do to you. Fear of what comes after they are done with you. Fear of an unknown future.

You heard about human trafficking more than once these days. “Essen [food],” you frown as one of the friendlier men steps toward the cell door. It’s the first time they brought you more than bread or a tasteless sandwich.

“What’s that?” you croak. It’s been a while since you did more than weep and sob. You haven’t spoken for weeks, and your voice sounds raspy and thin. “Why am I here?”

“EAT!” he unlocks the cell door and steps inside. “You’ll need the—” he furrows his brows, combing through his brain to find the right word. “Stärke [strength].”

“Strength,” you repeat as he shoves the tray with food toward you. The man leaves the cell and locks the door again. “Why am I here?” you try again but won’t get an answer.

He leaves you there, alone, and even more scared.

The tray is filled with freshly cooked food, chicken, and potatoes. You even got an apple and a bottle of water. 

Your hands tremble as you reach for the plastic fork. It feels like you are eating your last meal. Maybe you are already running out of time.

Whatever awaits you won’t be good. You just know it.

But there is nothing you can do about it.

“Asset. Wir haben eine Überraschung für dich [We’ve got a surprise for you], one of the soldiers smirks at the asset. 

He huffs and drops his gaze.

It’s been a long mission and he’s just tired.

He killed a lot of people in the name of an organization enslaving him for centuries. Nothing will surprise him any longer.

There is only pain, blankness, and blood waiting for him.

“Du wirst sie lieben [You’ll love her.], another soldier chuckles. 

The man the world knows as the winter soldier steps toward the building that became his home for the last months. He grunts and follows the men inside.

For a moment he lifts his head and sniffs in all directions. His teeth grit and he feels blood rush to his lower half. He stiffens as something happens that he hasn’t experienced for years.

Suppressants and the constant use of drugs suppressed his ruts and his instinct. But today, he feels his alpha take over. The unadulterated and free creature rears its head as the winter soldier stops in his tracks.

He snarls and looks at the laughing men. It dawns on him that he’s even more trapped now.

The soldier is not surprised when he enters the cell and finds you there.

He scented you from the moment he entered the building. His insides churn as he knows, Hydra found something making him even more compliant...his true mate.

Your head snaps upward when a man enters the cell. He wears black body armor, leather gloves, and a mask hiding his features from your view.

“I-alpha,” you jump up and stare in his direction. His scent is overwhelming, and you can barely think straight. 

He grits his teeth as you stumble toward the exit of the cell. You want to talk to the alpha and scent him, but he slams the open door shut, leaving you alone in the cold cell.

“No! Don’t go. Please. I need to know why I’m here…” He doesn’t look at you for now. He just can’t.

The alpha will come back later. In the dead of the night. He'll hold you in his arms to calm your shaking form or save you.

If only he can sneak out and get to you.

"I'll bring you out of here, 'mega. Soon..."

Tags in reblog.

[saintbleeding]

[ID: An eight-panel, digitally drawn comic set during MAG 181, coloured in a limited red palette.

1: Jon, a thin, bearded, British-Pakistani man with various shapes and sizes of scars covering his face, neck, and torso, looks into a mirror. He is shirtless. He holds up a matted bit of his curly, greying hair with an expression of dismay. Text in the top corner reads “Upton House (3am)”.

2: Martin, a fat white man with medium-brown wavy hair, stands in the doorway, looking in at Jon with a sad, tired expression. He wears a baggy, light-coloured t-shirt.

3: Jon’s hands are both by his sides and he looks down sheepishly. He says “could you help me.”

4 & 5: Jon sits in front of Martin and cries while Martin, now wearing glasses, cuts the mats from his hair.

6: In front of the mirror again, Jon runs a hand through his hair and says “I look (caps) ancient (end caps).”

7: Martin holds Jon’s head in both hands and kisses his forehead.

8: The two of them lie in bed, sharing one pillow. Martin has one hand in Jon’s hair and the other on his shoulder, his eyes closed and face pressed against the side of Jon’s head. Jon looks up at him with a pained expression, his visible hand wrapped around Martin’s wrist.

End ID.]

listen i have. just. a slightly unreasonably detailed headcanon about the progression of jon’s hair through his life. but. i like to think he cares for it very well as an important part of his routine. though, ofc, hellscapes aren’t rly the best environment for proper curly haircare, so, by the time they make it to upton house, it’s in a bit of a state, and then he gets a lil bit of catharsis and time to grieve while martin assists him. it’s about the unguarded care from someone who loves u completely it’s about having control over giving something up when you’ve been forced to give up so much it’s about LETTING JON HAVE A SEC TO WEEP DO U SEE THE VISION

ill be lying down

[vahalia-cress]

⸸ ᚠᚨᛗᛁᛚᛁᚨᚱ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ ⸸

[ Content: DV ]

One by one the large men exited the room as small steps had approached the door in search of her mother. One by one the retinue filed out not bothering to look or notice the dark-haired girl that stood idle near the door’s threshold and well out of sight.

The flickering fire from the hearth illuminated the study well enough that she could see Odessa pacing the carpet.

“She is but a child, Adrian. Making such plans so early on is likely to have you giving your hopes up once she has come of age. They’ll have found a better match by that time.”

“Hush woman you’ve said enough as it stands that would cause them to flock like vultures if they wish. This alliance between the two lines could stabilize the much-needed income. We haven’t the time to sit and wait for it to tick by. We make the declaration and be done with it.” Adrian spat as he looked up from the flames within the fireplace, his usual evening drink of sherry in hand.

“She is my daughter!”

“And she is mine though also making her property. Perhaps you ought to have birthed me sons had you wished to not worry, nag and coddle so much.”

“A little girl!” Odessa shouted, a flurry of her skirts kissed at the carpet as she rounded on Adrian, an accusatory finger pointed towards the door, “You’ve the mind to sell her like cattle for your own ambitions, to weigh your pockets heavy! You’ve let them mislead you!” the Ishgardian and Doman woman dared to clear her mind.

There was a loud smash within the confines of the room as glass found the other side of a bookshelf and sherry begun to stain the floor, Adrian lunging towards Odessa as he grabbed her by the scruff of her dress and shoved her against the desk corner, “You know quite proper the way of things here. Your mother knew it and now you. Leave your love for them at the door and play your role as the logical wife who would do anything to see this family succeed!” malice dripped from his mouth, lips pursing as if though he sought to strike his wife though opting to afford her with one final shove before releasing.

Odessa kept her hand taught to the desk’s edge for balance, “Were I your lady love, and Vahalia your bastard, would you have done the same?!”

A sickening crack rang out as the back of Adrian’s hand connected to the face of the woman, enough to stumble her back and clutch her face, pearl earring soaring to the floor near the door where tiny fingers crept to carefully take hold of it without being seen.

“You will write to Einar Whitlock and express your gratitude for the negotiations and you will welcome his emissary when they arrive. I do hope I make myself clear, wife.” his tone inflicted far less damage than his hand as Adrian pointed towards Odessa.

Her hand dropped from her face, cheek colored with a heavy stroke red as Odessa pulled from the space she had wedged herself between and caught herself from the blow. Back straight, hair barely out of place and her hands came to fold proper in a primly fashion at her waist, “...As you wish. Husband.”

Tension hung between them in the silence before Adrian turned for the door to storm out, the small pair of boots scurrying out of sight as the infuriated man stalked out of the quarters and down the hall, his heavy footfalls growing further away, a tell-tale sign of a coast cleared.

Curious eyes watched the stretch of the hall as Vahalia stared down into the darkness of the corridor, half expecting her father to reemerge and begin the bickering anew which had often been his preference when angered. A soft sound filled the room now which piqued the interest of the little girl as the creek of the door opened and her stepping into the room barely seemed to unnerve Odessa who sat within the chair closest to the desk, weeping.

“Moder...” the small voice came and the candle along the table sparked to life, causing Odessa to lift her head away from her hand. With a smile she motioned, waving Vahalia to come closer. In doing so, the small child buried her cheek against the warmth of her mother’s skirts, Odessa fondly stroking the long, unruly locks that threatened to veil the child's face.

A low calming hum filled the room as Odessa sang gently to her child, gentle combing through the waves of sable hair and the tune carried Vahalia to close her eyes gently, fondly placing into memory the calm she had felt, the smell of the perfumes that lingers at Odessa’s attire. The cozy warmth that was simply radiant from the woman, body and soul.

There was love there, she had felt it. It was soothing.

The sound of the city stirred the Lady Cress from her slumber, the bright morning's light now peaking through the slats of the upstairs within the Tavern’s highest room. The taste of Mezcal lingered within her mouth though it was not the drink that quenched her so in the late hours, the slake for comforts she had missed for months had finally found their way back to her.

The warmth beside her roused her enough to finally shift from the linen sheets, the bare body next to her holding the familiar scent of cigar and cedar though she had only known his airship to smell as such. The pressed wood of the airship itself a scent she had never forgotten lingered on Hakan’s frame. Even the salt from the sea and the food from market stalls could not mask the trademark earthy tone and hints of his poor habit.

Lifting away from Hakan she reached for her clothing only to be met with the chill of his prosthetic on her wrist, “No --” his voice rasped, catching the morning air, “Not yet woman.” he mumbled, tugging her back within the collection of sheets.

“Too early?” she mused in a low tone and all she had roused was a grouse from his chest. His hand was ladden with a fist full of her hair as she placed her cheek to his chest.

Barely awake, barely aware of the day; she had known him to fully wake when it had been on his own time to do so.

There was a silence that dithered and she could have sworn that her company had once again drifted off. Peace was where they had been in the center of -- for the time being at least. The familiar sensation of comfort and safety rode back through nostalgia though in the form of another. A peace and protectiveness she could only feel and had felt with very few individuals. Her mother. Cordelia. Her children. Hakan.

A parallel to once upon a time.

Slow circles drew out along the rigid scars of Belgrave’s torso, lacquered nails appraising the marred flesh she had come to adore. The beautifully decorated dark skin touched by experiences and held with macabre interest. It was enough to hear the man beneath her, the rise and fall of his chest bringing forth a timbre in his audible protest.

She was up far too early, as per usual. And if one could not greet her to start the day then one would have to abide by other means.

Vahalia’s legs moved, shuffling over either side of him and she straddled his hips to loom over the figure of her lover, “Come, we ought to make use of the day. The daylight burns.”

“Let it.” the voice responded curtly and with eyes shut hands made to place at her rear, “Keep this up woman and we’ll burn the day away here. Give you something to truly complain about.” he shifted and grabbed hold of the Cress woman, where locks fell wildly and unkempt, makeup that she had typically painted her face gone, she had been as undomesticated as her will and soul as he trapped her into his arms, blankets and all.

Mine.

That is the word he had used that night. A claim, perhaps not intentional at the moment but she had been his from the very start, there was no denying it.

Once more the calm found her as his radiating heat found her core, her heart swelling with familiarity. He was no Adrian, and neither had Vahalia been Odessa but he had been her comforts where she had lost much before. A void he unknowingly filled where loss had once been.

Perhaps she could leave Ishgard behind.