#「the most boring name in all of history」

[vamptizm]

GIRL YOU LOUD — p. bueckers

pairing: paige bueckers x gf!reader

synopsis: you’d been out for the first wings preseason game, sitting on that bench and looking like all of paige’s fantasies and dreams combined. teasing her, messing with her—driving her insane. but she’d get back at you.

warnings: nasty smut. switch!reader. switch!paige. fingering. munch!p. strap on sex (both receiving). praise. degradation. breeding kink. calling paige daddy like twice. edging.

word count: 12.9k

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @paige05bby @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The irony of it all didn’t escape you.

There you were—sat on the Dallas Wings bench, in a building you used to hate walking into, a building that reeked of old rivalries and even older grudges. Notre Dame's Purcell Pavilion. Cold lights. Smeared banners. That ever-so-sanctimonious fight song playing in the background like the world was still in 2020. You rolled your eyes once at the ceiling, once at the court, and then let the smugness return to your face.

You looked good. You knew it.

And judging by the sideways glances from coaching staff, cameras, and certain opposing players, so did everyone else.

You weren’t dressed like a player today—not in your Wings gear, not in sideline sweats. The team doctors had benched you for precaution’s sake. Mild shoulder sprain, nearly healed, but not worth aggravating just before the regular season started. You had protested, briefly, then gave up the fight once you realized you could milk this little moment for everything it was worth.

So, you dressed accordingly. Black tailored, wide-legged pants that flowed like silk but cut sharp at the waist. They pooled lightly over your sleek black Diesel pumps, glinting every time you crossed your legs. Paire with a fitted black button-up that hugged your frame just right. Thin vertical white stripes guided the eye in all the right directions. Only two buttons were fastened at the center, offering a perfectly curated glimpse of your midriff and just enough cleavage—pushed together with the help of your favorite and most dangerous bra.

You looked like someone’s scandalous boss. Someone’s very expensive mistake.

Your hair was perfectly blown out, strands falling with soft, intentional volume around your shoulders. A pair of sleek, black rectangular glasses sat neatly on your face, giving the illusion of restraint. But the sharp wing of your eyeliner and the darkness smudged into your lower lash line betrayed you. There was nothing restrained about you. Your waterline was tightlined, your lips glossed to a sinful nude, and every time you blinked slowly—like you were bored, or scheming, or both—you felt the attention shift.

The cherry on top? A gold chain, subtle and delicate, with a single pendant glinting softly at your sternum. An “M.” Paige's middle name. Not obvious. Not something a broadcaster would call out. But you knew. She knew.

It started during warmups.

Paige should’ve been focused—on her stretches, her form, the way the ball felt rolling off her fingertips. But her eyes? They kept betraying her. Again and again, they dragged back to the bench. More specifically, to you.

Sitting pretty in your corporate siren getup like you owned the arena, not just the bench.

Your lips curved slowly into a smirk as you crossed your legs with deliberate ease, letting your heel tap once against the polished court. You didn’t wave. Didn’t wink. You just let her look at you.

Let her want.

And she could’ve kept it together—just barely—until Jewell broke formation and jogged her way toward you, momentarily abandoning her own warmup.

Your grin lit up instantly at the sight of her and you got up from the bench, meeting her in the middle.

The hug you gave each other was all warmth, history, and ease, the kind of closeness that came only from sharing victories, locker rooms, and late-night strategy talks. You and Jewell had been tight ever since the Paris Olympics, and even tighter once Unrivaled started. The matching tattoos on your ribs said enough. Little mementos inked during the off-season in a moment of camaraderie with Aaliyah and Dijonai.

She knew there was nothing to worry about. She knew.

But that didn’t stop her gaze from sharpening. Didn’t stop the sting of possessiveness from blooming low in her chest.

It wasn’t jealousy—it was something else. Something quieter but much deeper. Paige was chill, easygoing, confident. But with you? There was always that subtle current of ’mine’. Not in a way that made you flinch. In a way that made your skin spark.

Even during the locker room huddle with the coaching staff, as everyone went over last minute adjustments and rotations, Paige sat with one knee bouncing and cracking her knuckles, stealing glances at you every other beat. You were seated across the room, half listening, chin propped in your hand and legs crossed like you were made to be admired.

You were just as bad, truth be told. The jersey clung to her in all the right places, but it was the slicked back ponytail that had your thoughts drifting. Clean, no braids today, just polished and severe, framing her cheekbones and making her look like a problem. Your problem.

By the time you returned to the court, everyone hovering by the bench again as the arena buzzed with anticipation, the tension between you two felt like static—quiet, invisible, charged.

And when they called her name over the speakers, Paige Bueckers—#5, guard—you couldn’t help but smile. That slow, proud, shameless kind of smile. The kind she’d see from the court and feel all the way in her chest.

Your applause was calm. Dignified.

But the way you mouthed, ‘go get ’em, baby’?

Yeah. That was just for her.

The game tipped off with a roar from the crowd, the buzz of preseason excitement electrifying Purcell Pavilion. The whistle blew, and the ball was live, but you barely noticed the opening possessions. Your body was still, but your pulse wasn’t.

You lasted exactly two minutes on the bench.

Then you were up, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Chris, one arm folded against your hip, the other resting loosely against your stomach. Every so often, you leaned in to glance at the clipboard Belle held, studying plays like you were still in them.

From afar, for anyone not in the know, you looked every bit the sharp, young coaching mind plucked fresh from a promising start. A new assistant, maybe. Or some newly promoted coordinator. You had the presence for it. The look for it. Tailored and chic with that undeniable something—that weight in your stare, the seductive curve of your lip when the scoreboard shifted in your favor. It was just enough professionalism to keep things respectable… and just enough allure to leave people guessing.

Your presence caught attention. On the bench. On the sidelines. And definitely on the court.

Especially from her.

At the seven minute mark, the play unfolded like it had been drawn with her name on it.

There was something surreal about watching her from the sideline, removed from the action but still tethered to it by a thread that ran straight through your chest.

Paige controlled the ball at the wing, fluid and locked in, her sneakers barely squeaking as she glided past Chelsea Gray. You watched it unfold like muscle memory, like breathing. A surge toward the paint. One beat, two—then she let it fly.

Nothing but net.

She tumbled out of bounds right after, body catching the hardwood before springing back up without hesitation.

You barely registered the crowd’s reaction. Your grin was already carved across your face.

“Let’s fucking go, P!” you shouted before you could help yourself, clapping once with enough force to echo. Not a single drop of shame in your tone—only pride. Pure and wild.

Paige turned as she ran back on defense, the tiniest breathless smile tugging at her lips. She caught your eyes immediately, and lifted her hand, pointing once—index finger angled cleanly toward you.

No dramatics. No show.

Just a subtle gesture, paired with that look she always gave you when it was only you in the room.

That was for you.

And God, did it land.

The gesture, the grin, the unbothered claiming of you in front of thousands—cameras be damned—lit something low and unrelenting inside of you.

She was done hiding. Done pretending like the most important part of her world wasn’t standing right there in heels and lip gloss, looking like a threat and a promise all at once.

The Wings had come out swinging.

It was clear from the jump that this team, despite being stitched together with new parts, a new coach, and not nearly enough time, had potential. Paige was settling in fast, confident in her reads, driving with purpose. Dijonai was relentless on defense. Arike, as always, was a walking bucket.

For a moment, just a stretch of minutes midway through the first quarter, the Wings held a lead. Slender, but there.

And then it slipped.

The Aces weren’t dominant just because of talent. They were seasoned, connected, one mind split between five bodies. It wasn’t surprising, not really. But it still stung.

Timeout was called.

You were back on your feet before the buzzer even finished blaring. Chris and the rest of the staff huddled near the whiteboard, and you stepped in next to him, nodding subtly at Belle as she scribbled adjustments onto the clipboard.

But your eyes?

Your eyes were already on her.

Paige stood at the edge of the huddle, hands on hips, sweat glistening against the curve of her neck, her jersey clinging to her like it belonged there. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

You tilted your head just slightly. Let your gaze drag slowly down her form and then back up again. Measured. Deliberate. Like you were taking inventory of something expensive you already owned.

When she caught you looking, your mouth curled into a smirk—teeth just barely catching your bottom lip before you let it pop free with the faintest bite.

Then you turned away.

Didn’t even hold her stare. Just dropped back down onto the bench, crossing one leg over the other with the elegance of a woman who knew she had an audience and didn’t mind putting on a show.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her shift. One foot stepping toward you, then back. Hands flexing once at her sides.

She was losing focus.

Not enough to cost the game. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for her to feel.

Next timeout, you upped the ante.

This time, when the whistle blew and the players circled up near the bench, you leaned forward with your elbows on your knees, pretending to study the clipboard Belle held—but the angle pushed your shirt open just enough to give Paige a view you knew she couldn’t ignore.

You could feel her eyes burning a hole straight through the neckline.

Still, you didn’t look at her right away.

Not until the players started peeling off, headed back to the court.

Then—and only then—you met her gaze and mouthed a single, silent word.

‘Focus’

The nerve of you.

And that grin you wore as she turned away?

Smug. Knowing. A promise.

The next possession, Paige was a little quicker. A little more aggressive. Like she had something to prove.

And even when the Aces pulled away in the second half, she kept glancing toward the bench between plays, chewing the inside of her cheek, eyes dragging over the stretch of your legs crossed lazily, the glint of your necklace, the gloss on your mouth.

The whole night, she played with a fire that wasn’t entirely basketball-born.

You were the match.

You hadn’t made it ten steps down the tunnel before Paige grabbed your wrist.

The arena noise faded behind you, swallowed by the concrete and fluorescent lighting of the back corridors of Purcell Pavilion. You expected a word. A smirk. Maybe even just a look.

But Paige didn’t waste time.

She pulled you into a narrow alcove, one of the tucked away side halls reserved for storage or staff access—empty now, quiet and dim—and shoved you gently but firmly back against the wall. Her mouth was on you before you could breathe her name.

Open mouthed kisses trailed down your neck, hot and hungry. She peeled one side of your shirt open with practiced ease, fingers curling under the silky material until it hung loose, giving her more skin, more space, more you.

“Got me fucked up, y’know that?” Paige muttered against your skin, her voice low and wrecked with need. Her hands gripped your waist tightly—possessively—fingertips digging into the flesh just beneath your bra line, beneath your shirt, like she needed to memorize the give of it under her hands. “Sittin’ there lookin’ like you need me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You shivered, half from her words, half from the heat pooling low in your body.

You didn’t speak immediately. Just let her touch and her mouth work you over, let yourself feel the way her body pressed against yours like it was trying to replace your heartbeat with hers.

But when her teeth grazed your jaw, you finally rasped, “Maybe I do.”

It was breathless, wicked. A tease and a confession all in one. “Would that be so bad?”

Paige froze—just for a second.

Then a exhale slipped out of her throat, and she pressed even closer, her thigh slotting between your legs, her hands pulling you flush against her. “Nah,” she said, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “I’ll give you whatever you fucking want, mama. I got you.”

Your head tilted back against the wall, heart hammering. You could feel her smirk against your skin, feel the thrill building between your legs like a threat.

And then—

“Paige!”

Chris’s voice echoed from the distance, firm and searching. The second half was about to start.

“Fuck,” Paige groaned into your chest, forehead dropping against your skin. Not your shoulder, your chest. Dead center, right above your cleavage. She lingered there, unmoving for a beat too long, nose brushing the curve of you as if it was her last meal. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

“You like it,” you whispered, grinning down at her.

She exhaled hard through her nose. Then she straightened up, one hand staying anchored on your waist, the other sliding up to your face to cup your jaw.

“Just wait ‘til I get you alone,” she murmured against your lips, barely a breath between you. “We’ll see if you’re still smiling then.”

You caught her chin lightly between two fingers and swiped your thumb across her bottom lip, wiping away the gloss she’d stolen. Your smirk never faltered.

And neither did hers.

With one last stolen kiss—chaste, but full of promise—she let go, turning toward the direction of the locker room. Her gait was slower than usual, like her body wasn’t fully ready to walk away.

She didn’t look back.

But you knew she didn’t need to.

You waited another minute. Then two. Composed yourself. Straightened your shirt, adjusted your glasses, gave your reflection in the glossy wall a once-over, then returned to the court with the grace and calm of someone completely unaffected.

You weren’t fooling anyone.

Especially not her.

Paige met your eyes the second you stepped back onto the sideline. Her pupils were still blown wide, chest still rising and falling faster than it should’ve been.

She wouldn’t find peace until she had you under her.

The rest of the game passed in a blur of controlled chaos and inevitable disappointment.

You stayed glued to the bench, shoulders rolled back and legs crossed in a way that made your pants ride up just enough to show a peek of skin above your heels. Your injured shoulder didn’t hurt in the slightest—not that it mattered. The decision to sit you out was already made. So, instead of running the floor, you sat like a vision in black and gold, sipping water and watching your team try to stay afloat against the powerhouse that was Las Vegas.

It wasn’t going well.

The starters had slowly been pulled, one by one, until the floor was left to the rookies and training camp invites—girls fighting tooth and nail for a shot at the final roster. You could see it in their eyes, the grit and desperation. It was admirable.

But it wasn’t enough.

You and Paige were seated side by side now. Not a word was exchanged, not really. Just subtle glances and shared breath. Your thighs were flush against each other, warm and pressed tightly together as if the space between you wasn’t already tense enough. Paige’s knee bounced occasionally—nerves or restraint, you couldn’t tell—and her fingers curled into fists every now and then on her lap.

You felt it too.

The buzz beneath your skin. The air charged between you. Her cologne lingered from warmups, light and clean, and her jersey still clung to her like a second skin. Her slicked-back hair was starting to curl slightly at the nape of her neck with sweat. And every time she shifted beside you, you were hyper aware of how close she was.

At one point, your heel nudged against hers—lightly, purposefully—and her head turned like she could hear your thoughts. Her eyes dropped to your lap, lingered for a breath too long on the exposed sliver of your stomach and the necklace that still glinted with that tiny “M.”

It took everything in her not to slide a hand up your thigh. Not to palm the flesh there, grip and squeeze until your posture gave something away. But the cameras were still rolling. The crowd, although thinned, was still watching. Too many prying eyes.

Eventually, the final buzzer rang, and the scoreboard didn’t lie.

The Aces had steamrolled, a thirty point deficit that felt heavier than it looked. The team filed back into the locker room in silence. There wasn’t anger, not exactly. Just quiet acceptance. It was the first preseason game, and this roster was still new—a work in progress, barely stitched together.

On the bus, you made a point to walk past Paige without so much as brushing her hand. Your eyes met for a second, and you knew she was expecting you to sit beside her. You always did.

Instead, you slid into the seat next to Dijonai, plopping down casually as if it wasn’t a statement, as if your skin wasn’t buzzing from holding back the grin threatening to break free. You were well aware of the tension still simmering beneath Paige’s cool expression.

Across the aisle, Nalyssa dropped into the seat next to Paige—a convenient shuffle that almost looked choreographed. It was almost funny. A partner swap, if you really thought about it.

You leaned against the window, legs crossed again, phone in hand but eyes flickering over the top edge of your screen every few minutes to steal glances at her. Paige didn’t look at you.

But her jaw was clenched, her fingers drumming against her knee. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t send a thrill straight down your spine.

She could play it cool all she wanted—but you knew what the night still owed you.

w The bus ride back to the hotel was short, but the silence made it feel longer. The kind that stretched like pulled thread—thin, delicate, one wrong move from snapping. Conversations were hushed. Laughter was minimal. Even the rookies who'd given it everything were slumped back in their seats, drained.

You barely said a word. Not to Dijonai, not to anyone. You didn’t need to, your presence was always loud enough. Even in silence, you were impossible to ignore.

Paige didn’t glance your way. Not once. Not when you stood up as the bus slowed to a stop. Not when your perfume trailed in the air like a tether around her throat. She followed the team inside, nodding politely at the front desk staff, bag slung over one shoulder, her stride confident but tense.

You knew she was waiting. For the moment. For you.

And you gave it to her.

You didn’t rush to the elevator. Let the rest of the girls pile in first. Waited for the second one. When Paige stepped into the quieter lift without a word, you slipped in behind her.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and the silence inside was deafening.

There were only a few others around—one of the assistant coaches, a trainer, Arike. The kind of company that demanded restraint. But the heat was unmistakable. You could feel it coming off her in waves.

She stood on the other side of the elevator, back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed over her chest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes flicked toward the digital numbers above the doors. But she wasn’t really watching them. Not when she could feel your gaze on her.

You licked your lips, slow and deliberate. Just enough to draw her eyes. And when she looked, you gave her that knowing look. The one you always gave her when the air was heavy and her self-control was unraveling thread by thread.

It was intoxicating, this wordless conversation. This tightly wound tension that clung to both of you like static.

The elevator stopped. Coach and Arike stepped out, exchanging brief goodnights. The second the doors slid shut again, it was just the two of you.

Paige didn’t move. But her eyes were locked on you now. Hard.

Your back hit the wall beside her, your shoulder just brushing hers. “Long ride,” you murmured softly.

“Long game,” she said, voice low.

You could feel her gaze trailing over your profile. Your cheekbone. Your mouth. The exposed skin between the buttons of your shirt.

“And you didn’t make it any easier,” she added, her voice edged in restraint.

You smiled, just the corner of your mouth lifting. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“Oh, I know,” she muttered, eyes dropping to your cleavage.

The elevator dinged. Your floor.

Neither of you moved at first.

Then Paige exhaled quietly and stepped out, her hand brushing your lower back in a ghost of a touch—protective, possessive, and barely there. You followed, the hallway cool and quiet except for the sound of your heels on the carpeted floor.

Room 477.

She opened the door first. Let you walk in before her. The door shut with a solid click behind you both, sealing the energy between those four walls like a vacuum.

Still, nothing said. Just the sharp sound of her duffel hitting the floor and the faint rustle of fabric as she kicked off her sneakers.

You turned to her then, slowly. Your arms crossed lazily, your back leaning against the nearest wall. Your eyes never left hers.

She didn’t speak—didn’t need to.

You could see it in her posture, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to hold you or pin you.

And god, that restraint… it made your blood hum.

This wasn’t the moment for release. Not yet.

But it was close. So close.

And that made it all the more addicting.

You stood there, arms crossed, watching her.

Paige’s jaw flexed like she was chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her shorts now, and her back was to you, but you knew her tells. The slight tremble in her exhale. The way her shoulders rose and dropped a bit quicker than usual. The quiet, building storm just beneath her skin.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” you said, voice silky soft but loaded, “I’m gonna start thinking you’re mad at me.”

Paige faced you, slow and deliberate. Her eyes dragged over every inch of you—the open button shirt, the exposed skin, the curve of your body. She licked her lips, but didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, smiling lazily. “Cheering for my girl?”

Her eyes darkened.

“Nah,” she said, her voice gravel low. “Sitting there looking like you wanted me to take you right there on the bench. All those little looks. You knew I was watching.”

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you pushed off the wall and slowly made your way toward her—heels clicking against the hardwood, deliberate and slow like the start of a song that promises to break you by the end.

When you reached her, you didn’t touch her yet. You just looked up, close enough that your breath tickled her chin. “But you liked it.”

Paige’s eyes closed for just a second. Her jaw clenched.

You pressed closer. Just barely.

Then, your hands rose to her waist—slow and smooth—slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt. Your fingers dragged lightly along the ridges of her toned torso, nails grazing her skin just enough to make her hiss out a breath.

“I wanted to see how long you’d last,” you whispered, eyes gleaming. “You made it to halftime. I’m impressed.”

Her hand shot out—fast, like a reflex—and gripped your waist, dragging you flush against her body.

“You’re testing me,” she murmured, low against your ear, her breath hot and uneven. “You’ve been testing me all night.”

Your lips curved. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Paige leaned in. Her nose brushed yours, her mouth hovering just a breath away. Her grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging in like she could barely stop herself from throwing you onto the bed and showing you exactly what.

“I should make you wait,” she murmured.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against hers but not giving in. “But you won’t.”

Her mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was all tongue and teeth and frustration, a day’s worth of built up heat bursting open like a dam. She kissed you like she needed it to breathe, like she could consume you whole and still not get enough.

Her hands moved fast—one sliding up your back beneath the top, the other gripping your jaw to keep you there, pressed to her mouth. You moaned softly against her lips, your own hands tangling in the front of her tee, dragging her closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but clothes and restraint.

She walked you backward without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumbling toward the bed like you were drunk on each other.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, her weight pressing into you—her hips pressed flush between your thighs, her hand still wrapped around the back of your neck. Her mouth never left yours for long—just enough to breathe, just enough to whisper sweet nothings into the curve of your jaw before capturing your lips again.

Her free hand moved with maddening skill, unbuttoning the only two buttons holding your blouse together with the kind of ease that made it obvious she'd done this before. Many times.

The moment your chest was bared to her, your bra doing little to shield you from her hungry gaze, Paige let out a low exhale, one that rumbled in her throat like a warning. Or a promise.

"Goddamn," she muttered, her mouth descending, kissing along the curve of your breast with open lips. She sucked at the skin just above the cup, then gently bit down, pulling a gasp out of you despite your best effort to stay composed.

Her voice dropped lower, lips brushing your skin. "Look at you. Spread out, breathin’ like you need me to touch you or you’ll lose it."

You whimpered—quiet, strained—and she smirked, her hand sliding down, hooking under your waistband.

"Don’t worry, baby," she murmured. "I got you."

Her fingers made quick work of the button, then the zipper, and you felt the subtle shift in her position—her thigh sliding between yours, pinning one of your legs down while the other bent up, braced against her hip. It gave her the perfect angle.

She slid her hand beneath the waistband of your panties, hot skin meeting hotter heat and you gasped, your hips twitching in response. Her fingers grazed your soaked cunt, still over the fabric, and she chuckled darkly at how wet you already were.

"Fuck," she hissed, dragging her lips up your neck. "All this for me? Just from a few kisses and some dirty words? You’re such a fuckin’ slut."

She rubbed slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core, her breath warm against your skin, her voice pitched so low it melted straight into your bones. “You sat on that bench looking like sex, and now you’re here, already dripping. You want me to take my time, or should I make you beg?”

You chewed your bottom lip, fighting a moan, your hands clawing at her back, nails digging in just enough to make her shudder.

"Say something," she whispered against your collarbone, teasing the edge of your bra down with her teeth. "Use that pretty mouth or I’ll stop."

"Paige..." you breathed, finally cracking. "Please don’t stop."

That was all she needed.

Her mouth returned to your breast, tugging the bra down just enough to wrap her lips around your nipple, tongue flicking, lips sucking slow and firm while her fingers over your panties pressed in harder, rubbing slow, dirty circles that made your thighs tremble.

“Good girl,” she groaned into your chest. “Keep askin’. I’ll give you every fucking thing.”

Paige’s mouth wandered, but not where you wanted it. She kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts—leaving marks with her mouth, her teeth, anything but her lips. She was everywhere but your mouth, and it drove you insane.

You chased her lips once, a quiet whimper escaping you, but she dodged with a smirk, sucking a bruise just beneath your jawline instead.

Her hand, still between your legs, rubbed those slow, agonizing circles over your soaked panties—drawing out your arousal like she had all the time in the world.

Then she stopped.

You whined, lifting your hips in protest, but before you could whine her name, you felt her hand slide under the fabric.

The moment her fingers made contact with your wetness, she let out a low laugh. A dark, smug sound that sent a shiver rolling down your spine.

“Jesus,” she muttered, teasing her fingers through your slick. “You’re fucking dripping. This all from me just talking to you and some kissing?”

You rolled your eyes and let out a breathless, flustered chuckle. “Shut up…”

She didn’t seem to like that.

Her free hand moved from behind your neck to grip your jaw, firm and fast, tilting your face toward her. The pressure wasn’t gentle, and the command in her eyes made your breath hitch.

“Don’t fucking tell me to shut up,” she warned, before finally crashing her mouth against yours.

It was rough. Unforgiving. All teeth and spit and frustration.

When she pulled back, your lips were swollen, and a thin string of spit still connected you. Her hand remained wrapped around your jaw, fingers digging in, keeping your face locked in place.

“You’re on thin ice right now,” she said lowly, the words thick with hunger and something darker. “You don’t get to run that mouth unless I say so.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as her fingers moved again, slow, pushing one long digit inside you without warning. You gasped, sharp and high, your mouth falling open as your body arched into her.

But Paige didn’t let your head fall back.

Her hand on your face held you steady, forced your gaze to stay locked on hers.

“Nuh uh,” she said, voice hoarse. “Keep your pretty on me. I wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your breath hitched as her finger curled inside you, the pace slow and controlled, dragging over every nerve like she’d mapped your body out and memorized it.

“Say it,” she demanded, leaning in, lips brushing your cheek but not your mouth. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone speak. But her eyes—those hungry, sharp, unrelenting eyes—never left yours, and neither did her hand.

“…You,” you rasped. “It’s you, Daddy.”

Her smirk deepened. “Damn right.”

And with that, she pushed deeper, knowing full well you’d break before the night was over.

Paige’s eyes flicked up to yours again, still holding your gaze like a chain wrapped tight around your throat. Her finger never stopped moving, the slick sounds between your legs growing louder in the quiet room.

Then she slowed, almost to a stop, barely curling her finger with maddening control.

“You want more?” she asked lowly, like she didn’t already know the answer. “Think you can take it?”

Her voice was smooth and mocking, thick with amusement and desire. She leaned in just a little closer, eyes never straying from yours. “Be honest, baby. You really think you can handle another one?”

That teasing lilt in her voice made your jaw clench, your fingers twisting in the sheets beneath you.

You didn’t just want more—you needed it. Your body was already begging, trembling, aching for her to fill you just a little more. And she knew it.

So you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chest rising and falling faster, lips parted, silently pleading. She already knew.

Paige laughed under her breath. “Figures.”

And just like that, her second finger pushed in beside the first. Your head snapped back with a sharp gasp, a breathy moan slipping past your lips as your back arched. Your elbows wobbled where they held you up, threatening to give out from the sudden wave of pressure and pleasure crashing into you.

But you held yourself up. Barely.

Paige's other hand finally released your jaw and braced herself against the bed, palm flat next to your hip, hovering over you like a predator.

Her fingers moved in and out of you, curling and scissoring, switching between long, languid drags and quick, pulsing thrusts that had your thighs twitching. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of your arousal, and the only thing louder than that was your breath—ragged, shallow, desperate.

But still, your eyes never left hers.

Even as your legs began to tremble, your focus stayed locked on her. Eyes wide, pupils blown, your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were holding back from begging or crying out. You looked wrecked, completely overtaken by lust, and it made her lose her rhythm for a second.

Her gaze dipped from your face to your heaving chest, down to the way her digits pumped into your sopping pussy, then back up again.

“Fuck…” she whispered, her pace speeding up before she could even stop herself. It was instinctual. Animalistic.

For a moment, she lost herself in you. In the way you looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive. Like nothing existed except her hands on your body, and the high you were chasing.

But then, she caught herself.

She blinked hard and slowed down—too fast. You felt it immediately.

“No—no—" you whimpered, hips twitching, your body already so close you could taste it. But she didn’t stop gradually. She stopped completely.

Fingers still buried inside you, she stilled them, refusing to move. You were practically vibrating, your body locked in that terrible, beautiful edge of no return.

Your head fell back in frustration, eyes squeezing shut. “Whyyyy…”

Your voice was cracked and desperate, a pathetic little whine that only made her smirk.

She slowly slid her fingers out of you with a wet, sinful sound. And then, holding your stare again, she brought her fingers to her lips and licked them clean.

“Tastes like heaven,” she murmured, letting her tongue run over the pad of each finger.

Then, smirking down at you—panting, trembling, and glistening between the legs—she said lowly, “You know damn well why, mama.”

She leaned in close, lips just brushing yours but not kissing. “You don’t get to come ‘til I say you can.”

And you swore you could’ve come from just those words alone.

Paige sat you upright with a quiet kind of urgency, the heat in her eyes doing more than words ever could. Her fingers curled around the edges of your button-up, tugging it off your shoulders and down your arms until it slipped free. She tossed it somewhere behind her without a second thought. Then came the gentle taps on your hips and you instinctively lifted them, letting her drag your pants and underwear down and off in one smooth pull. Her movements were sure, practiced, reverent.

Her mouth found the curve of your neck again, soft lips pressing against your pulse as she reached behind you with one hand, unclasping your bra with that same cocky ease you’d never admit drives you crazy. The straps slid away, and she tossed that too, her breath warm against your collarbone as she pulled back just enough to take you in—fully bare now, save for the necklace with her initial that rested right above your chest and your heels, which she deliberately hadn’t touched.

“Y’look so fucking good wearing my name.”

She stood up straight, eyes lingering for a second longer before she reached over her shoulder, tugging her own shirt off. Her muscles flexed subtly with the motion, her nike sports bra clinging to her frame, rising just a bit with each heavy breath. Her shorts still sat low on her hips, but she didn’t touch them yet.

Instead, her hands found your waist again. She dragged you closer to the edge of the bed, her palms firm on your skin, possessive. Your knees parted naturally, thighs relaxing around her shoulders as she dropped to her knees—slow, like she had all the time in the world. Her arms wrapped under your thighs and she pulled you forward until you were right where she wanted you. Her face hovered close, her nose brushing against the inside of your thigh, eyes flicking up with that look—the one that made your breath catch every single time.

"Look at you," she murmured low, almost in awe, her voice rough. “prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Her grip on your thighs tightened slightly, anchoring you in place. You could feel her breath against your skin, warm and teasing. Every part of you felt like it was pulsing in anticipation—mind hazy, legs tense, spine arching ever so slightly as your body leaned into the gravity of her.

"You wanna act like a brat," she whispered, her voice husky and dangerously calm, "so now you’re gonna take everything I give you, right?”

And all you could do was desperately nod.

She didn't move yet, not really. She just stayed there, admiring you, kissing the inside of your thigh once, twice, with maddening restraint. Teasing. Waiting.

And then her grip shifted again, just slightly, as if she were finally ready to devour you whole.

The air in the room was thick with heat, not from the summer night, but from the slow, delicious burn building between you and Paige. Her palms pressed against your thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your soft skin as her eyes roamed over your body with dark intent. From her position on her knees, she looked like worship and sin all at once.

She didn’t rush. Paige never did. She took her time, like she wanted to commit every inch of you to memory.

Her lips ghosted over the inside of your thigh, moving higher, then lower again, teasing. She nipped gently at the sensitive skin, just enough to make your breath hitch—and then soothed it over with the flat of her tongue, a silent apology that somehow only made the ache worse. Your hips shifted slightly, not enough to beg, but close.

Her arms tightened under your thighs as she pulled you a little closer still, locking you into place. Her breath was hot and steady, and her lips so close—so achingly close—but still not where you needed them.

“You’ve got no patience,” she murmured, mouth brushing your skin, her voice thick with a grin you couldn’t see but could feel. “You sit all pretty on the sidelines all game, teasing me... and now you want it all at once?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t, really. Your throat felt tight, your body strung out with anticipation. You didn’t need to speak anyway. She could feel the way your thighs trembled slightly beneath her grip, the way your hips bucked without realizing, the way your fingers clutched the bedsheets behind you.

Paige pressed another kiss higher up your thigh, dangerously close, then paused. Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours with that same fire that had been there since tipoff.

"Use your words" she breathed, low and commanding. "Tell me what you want."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough. “You.”

She smirked, not cocky, but hungry. “Yeah, mama?” Her tone was thick with heat, her lips brushing against your skin between every word. “You’re gonna get me.”

And then she dipped her head again—slowly, reverently—as her grip tightened and she finally closed the space between you.

Your breath caught in your throat the second Paige finally moved. Her mouth found you like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it, licking a stripe up your folds—slow at first, like she was savoring something forbidden. Her grip under your thighs remained firm, keeping you right where she wanted you, like she didn’t trust you not to squirm away from the intensity she brought with every calculated kiss, every hot breath against your skin.

She moved with intent. No rush, no hesitation, just pure control. The kind of control that had your head tilting back, eyes fluttering closed, and one hand coming up to grab the sheets as your body tried to process it all.

Then came her voice, low and muffled against you, still cocky even down on her knees. “Mm... this what you wanted?” Her voice alone had your stomach tightening. “You were damn near begging for it without saying a word.”

You whimpered in response, because yes, this was exactly what you wanted. Maybe more than you could admit.

Shuffling your feet, you managed to kick your heels off.

She didn’t let up. The hand that had held your thigh adjusted, her fingers brushing over your skin possessively, thumb stroking idle circles into your hip while she worked you over, relentless and deliberate. Lips wrapped around your lips, tongue teasing your entrance, slurping up everything you gave her.

You were soaked, needy, and trembling, your body starting to rock toward her without thought—like your hips had a mind of their own, chasing the high she was expertly building.

Then, just when your breaths were getting short and your grip on the sheets was threatening to rip the fabric, Paige pulled back, just slightly.

Your eyes snapped open in protest.

She looked up at you through her lashes, chin glistening, lips swollen, and all she did was smirk. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, voice dark and dripping in amusement. “You knew I was gonna take my time.”

Still kneeling, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and climbed up slowly, hands gliding up your sides before she leaned in, the weight of her body settling comfortably against yours again. Her mouth hovered just beside your jaw, her breath warm and teasing.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss right beneath your ear. “Not even close.”

Then, her mouth found yours, and this time, she didn’t hold back.

You could still taste yourself on her lips—warm and sweet, a reminder of how she’d had you moments ago. The kiss between you turned greedy, tongues tangled in a dance of desperation. You tugged at her waistband, your fingers curling under the elastic with an urgency you didn’t bother to hide.

Paige grinned against your mouth, the cocky tilt of her lips a stark contrast to her breathlessness. “Damn, baby. Slow down,” she murmured, voice teasing and low. “I’m not going anywhere.” But she gave in, tugging them down and kicking them off.

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to respond—instead pulling her mouth back to yours, swallowing whatever quip she might’ve had lined up next. The two of you shifted, clumsily but in sync, toward the center of the bed. Your back hit the pillows, hair spilling across the sheets like a halo, while Paige loomed above you in her boxers and sports bra, every inch of her radiating heat.

The ache between your thighs was still there, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and before you could stop yourself, the thought was already spilling into the space between you. You bit her lower lip, sharp enough to make her pull back with a dramatic wince, though the glint in her eyes betrayed how much she liked it.

She licked her lips slowly, gaze dropping to your flushed, eager face. “What was that for?”

“Wanna try it” you murmured, fingers brushing the edge of her waistband again. “On you.”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity igniting behind her eyes. “Try what on me?”

You exhaled, slightly exasperated. “You know what. Your ‘mousekatool’ as you call it. Don’t make me spell it out.”

That earned a quiet snicker from her, and her head dipped as if to hide the grin spreading across her face. “You mean my strap?” she teased, voice pitched low with faux innocence.

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Yes, Paige. The strap.”

She tilted her head, amused and entirely too smug. “Who says I brought it this time?”

“You always bring it,” you countered without missing a beat, your tone equal parts accusing and needy. “You bring it everywhere. Don’t lie to me.”

She smirked, fingers idly tracing along your thigh, like she was in no rush at all. “Maybe I like being prepared,” she hummed, leaning in to press a kiss just beneath your jaw. “You been thinking ‘bout it?”

“For a while,” you confessed softly, voice almost shy beneath the tension in the room. “Like a lot.”

She paused for a beat, her breath fanning against your skin as her lips curved into something darker, softer. “Yeah? How long’s a while?”

You rolled your eyes again, clearly not in the mood for her games, and gave her shoulder a small push.

But Paige only laughed under her breath — a low, husky sound—before finally nodding, the shift in her expression signaling a silent ‘okay’. Her gaze held yours for a beat longer, just long enough for your breath to hitch, before she pushed up off the bed to retrieve what you both knew she had packed.

The anticipation thickened the air, the weight of the moment drawing everything tighter. She was quiet as she moved, deliberate and smooth, her back flexing beneath the dim light while you watched her, bare and wanting and more than ready.

And she could feel it too, the heat that simmered in your stare, the tension in your posture, the glint in your eye that made it abundantly clear. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to take control.

When Paige returned, the familiar shape of it in her hand, your smirk was immediate—small, sly, and a little too eager. You reached for it without hesitation, and she let it go just as quickly, the edges of her mouth curling in a low chuckle.

“You waste no time, huh?” she murmured as she watched you from the foot of the bed, eyes hooded, mouth still glistening faintly from you.

“Could say the same about you,” you replied, voice light but your fingers focused as you stepped into it, adjusting the straps and tightening where it needed with a practiced ease. Confidence hummed beneath your skin, electric and heavy, and you didn’t bother hiding it.

Once it sat snug and secure against you, you tilted your chin, nodding toward the bed, a silent instruction.

And to your pleasant surprise, Paige obeyed.

No eye roll, no sarcastic comment. Just a quiet spark of something between amusement and anticipation in her expression as she crawled backward, settling herself against the pillows. Her breathing was calm, but you knew her well enough to spot the tension—the subtle way her fingers curled into the sheets, the way her eyes tracked your every movement just a second longer than usual.

She was curious, excited. And nervous.

The realization that she’d never let anyone else do this, never even entertained the idea, filled your chest with a kind of fierce pride. It wasn’t just trust.

You climbed onto the bed slowly, knees on either side of her hips. The sight of her spread out beneath you, still in her sports bra and chest rising and falling, was enough to make your breath catch. You tapped her hip gently.

“Lift,” you said, quiet.

She obeyed again, and you tugged her boxers down with care, dragging the fabric past toned thighs, revealing her inch by inch. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, and when you looked up at her again, her gaze was already locked on yours—unreadable, but heavy with something unspoken.

You leaned forward, catching her mouth in another kiss. Slow at first, exploratory. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Soon it was hungry again, mouths open, lips swollen, tongues sliding in sync. You deepened it purposefully, pouring reassurance into every motion, letting your hands slide over her. Grounding her, and reminding her this was you.

Her legs shifted slightly beneath you, and you felt it. The tension in her thighs, the way her fingers grazed your arms, seeking anchor. So you kissed her harder. One hand cradled the side of her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone, while your hips stayed still for now—letting her adjust, letting her breathe.

You didn’t need to rush.

This was new. But it was yours to explore together.

Paige's breathing had shifted, deeper and slower, like she was trying to brace herself for something unfamiliar. You hovered over her, letting your eyes roam, deliberately dragging your gaze down the length of her body. The contrast was striking. Strong, confident Paige, laid bare in front of you, chest rising and falling with anticipation she hadn’t put words to yet.

You let your fingertips trail down her sides, a whisper of a touch. Featherlight at first, just enough to draw goosebumps along her skin. Her stomach twitched beneath your hand when your palm flattened just above her navel.

“You good?” you asked, voice hushed but edged with something firmer, more grounded.

She gave you a small nod, eyes burning into yours. “Better than good.”

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You kissed her again, but not her mouth this time. You pressed your lips to her neck, slow and indulgent, tasting the skin there. Down to her collarbone, where your tongue traced the curve, your hands moving to her hips to keep her steady. You heard the slight hitch in her breath when your lips dipped even lower, pressing along the top swell of her chest, still caged beneath her sports bra.

You smiled against her skin. “This in the way?”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, lips quirking. “What do you think?”

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped your hands under the band and dragged the fabric up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. The second she was bare to you, you didn’t even look. You leaned in, kissing the top of her breast first, then lower, letting your tongue sweep over skin that was already flushed and warm. Her hands found your back, blunt nails digging slightly when your mouth closed around her nipples, drawing a soft, reluctant moan from her.

She arched into you without thinking, chest pressing against your mouth, and you took your time—suckling gently, then switching sides, giving her equal attention until her grip on your shoulders turned into a quiet plea.

“Mama.”

“Mhm?” you murmured against her.

She gave a small shake of her head and exhaled a half laugh. “Teasing me already?”

You kissed your way back up her collarbones, up her throat, and then caught her mouth again, messy and hungry. She could taste your hunger on your tongue and it only made her pull you closer.

One of your hands slipped between her legs, stroking over the inner thigh, slow and measured. You were deliberately avoiding where she wanted you most. She tried to shift her hips, subtly guiding your hand lower, but you held your place—firm, patient, smiling into the kiss.

“You’re not the only one who gets to tease,” you whispered against her lips.

“God,” she muttered, tilting her head back slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a beat.

You used that moment to lean in, letting your mouth hover beside her ear, voice low and deliberate. “You want it, pretty girl?”

Paige’s brows knit together slightly, breath catching again. Her hands clenched the sheets beside her. “Yeah.”

Your hand finally slipped lower, brushing softly over her core,slow and maddening, enough to make her hips twitch. You dragged your fingers in circles, watching her expression unravel in real time—almost cursing at how wet she already was.

The look in her eyes—wide, dazed, dark with hunger—made your stomach twist in the best way.

You slowly pulled your hand away, earning yourself a disappointed sigh from the blonde underneath you.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth as you casually brought your fingers to her mouth, her tongue immediately darting out to lick off her own slick. It was nothing short of intoxicating and addicting to see her like that.

You slipped your fingers out of her mouth and your hand curled around the strap, getting a feel of what had been inside of you countless of times, before slowly spitting down on it. You watched as you stroked the silicone, wetting it. Suddenly, you understood why she found so much enjoyment in it, why she always took her sweet time while you waited impatiently.

And now the roles were reversed.

Paige was just about to protest, wanting to tell you to hurry the hell up, but the feeling of the tip of her own strap circling her entrance had her swallowing her own words and her breath catching in her throat.

“Y’good, daddy?” Your voice is silky smooth and sweet like honey, a smug look etched into your features.

Paige wanted to just flip you over and have her way with you. Calling her that while teasing her after you’d practically begged her to let you fuck her? You knew exactly what you were doing.

She didn’t reply, not with words. Her hands rose up, curling tightly around your hips, nails digging into the plush of your skin.

But you didn’t react—not even when she tried to pull you closer.

You positioned the tip at her leaking entrance, the sight causing you to unconsciously lick your lips. She needed you desperately, and probably had been all day long.

Slowly, hand still wrapped around the strap, you moved your hips closer, only the tip pushing in. You watched her for a moment, eyes glued on the way her lips parted as her head tipped back. Then, your gaze traveled down, taking in the way it slipped deeper inside of her torturously slow, inch by inch until you bottomed out.

Paige gasped at the delicious stretch, barely loud enough for you to hear.

“This okay?” You felt the need to ask, to make sure she was comfortable under your care and give her time to adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck,” the blonde cursed under her breath, her grip around your hips tightening as if you were her lifeline. “It’s good, mama. You can move.”

Nodding your head, you pulled out half way, easing back in with deliberate patience.

You shifted above Paige, the leather strap harness snug around your hips—foreign, unfamiliar, but grounding you in the moment. Your palms braced on either side of Paige's bare waist, breath catching as you looked down at her.

Paige was already flushed. Blonde hair a halo of gold across the pillow, pale chest rising and falling in shallow waves. Her legs fell open again, instinctively, as if inviting something she’d never asked for before.

Her lips parted, just barely. “You can… go slow.”

“I was planning to,” you murmured, voice low, nearly sweet. Your fingers brushed up Paige’s thigh in a soothing pass, a grounding gesture for both of you.

The first push back in was gentle. Careful. A slow rock forward as you let the strap guide you, adjusting to the rhythm, to the tension and give of Paige’s body beneath you. Paige’s breath hitched—sharp and soft at once—and her hands curled into the sheets.

Her blue eyes fluttered up, catching your gaze with something between disbelief and desire. She’d ever felt this full. Never been looked at this way.

You leaned down, lips grazing Paige’s jaw. “Still okay?”

Paige swallowed, nodding, her fingers sliding up to grip your forearm. “More than okay.”

You set a rhythm, slow and purposeful, letting each roll of your hips press deep and linger. Paige’s moans started soft, reluctant at first—like she was surprised by how good it feels. Each one drawn out, breathy, as her thighs trembled slightly with every thrust.

You watched her unravel beneath you. How Paige bit her bottom lip, how her fingers dragged along your bacm, how her lashes fluttered every time you sunk in deeper. It wasn’t just about control, it was about giving, too. Giving Paige something she never thought she wanted, and now couldn’t seem to get enough of.

Sweat beaded at both of your skin, the room warm with breath and heat and slow tension. When Paige wrapped her legs around your hips and pulled you in closer, your bodies locked together, like it was meant to feel this way all along.

“Fuck,” Paige breathed, voice wrecked. “You feel so good.”

You brushed your lips against her temple, whispering like it was sacred. “You feel even better, Baby.”

And then you rocked in again—harsher, deeper—and watched Paige slowly fall apart all over again.

The way she clung to you, the sound of her moans unraveling in your ear, the heat radiating off her body. Every time you sank into her, every time her hips tilted to meet yours, it got a little harder to hold back.

You didn’t even realize you were moving faster until her breath hitched again, more desperate this time. Her fingers dug into your hips like she needed something to ground herself, something solid while you pulled her apart.

Your eyes stayed glued to her. To the way her lips parted just before every moan. To the way her brows pulled together when your thrusts got deeper. To the way she took you, like it was too much and not enough all at once.

And then your gaze dropped, locked in on where your body met hers. How the strap stretched her glistening cunt.

You swore you could feel her. Swore you could feel every squeeze, every flutter, every reaction she gave you—even through the strap. And it drove you fucking insane.

The pace picked up, your hips rocking harder now, the sound of skin on skin thick in the air. Paige’s moans came faster, choked and breathy, and still she didn’t tell you to stop.

She didn’t want you to stop.

One of her hands slipped up to her mouth, knuckles pressed to her lips as she bit down, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep herself from falling apart too loudly.

“Don’t hide those sounds from me,” you warned, voice low and ruined, one hand grabbing her thigh to yank her closer with every thrust. “You’re so fucking pretty when you moan.”

Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and a whimper escaped around her hand despite her best efforts.

“Look at you,” you murmured, nearly breathless yourself, the rhythm hard and steady now. “All spread out for me… letting me fuck you like this for the first time. You feel it, don’t you? You feel me in your guts.”

She nodded, mouth open but words gone, completely lost to the feeling.

And you were gone, too. Gone in the way she clutched at you, in the slick sounds filling the room, in the way she trembled every time you hit just right. You’d never seen her like this—never been inside her in this way. And it made you feel invincible.

It made you feel obsessed.

“I could stay right here all fucking night,” you whispered harshly, eyes devouring her. “You feel unreal. Don’t ever wanna stop.”

Paige let out a broken, muffled moan—legs shaking, knuckles white against her mouth, body arching into yours like she couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

And with every thrust, every cry, every sweet wrecked sound you pulled from her lips, you made her yours.

She’d taken taken two orgasms from you. Stolen them, really—left you shaking, wrung out, and aching with nothing to show for it but trembling thighs and the ghost of her mouth still between your legs. And now, with every thrust of your hips, the straps pressed hard against your core. Slick and pulsing and needy, and it was driving you insane.

Your fingers curled tight into the flesh of her hip, holding her in place, like if you didn’t keep her still you’d lose your fucking mind. Her legs locked around your waist, dragging you in deeper, and you leaned down to kiss her, messy and hungry and almost angry with how much you wanted her.

She moaned into your mouth, high pitched and breathless, and it broke something in you. The squelch of wet, filthy friction echoed between you, loud and obscene, and it made your stomach tighten. She was so fucking wet for you. You could feel her flutter around the strap again, tightening, pulling, like her body knew you now.

Her breath hitched, over and over, those beautiful little gasps coming faster, more ragged. Her thighs trembled against your sides. Her hand shot up to the pillow, grabbing desperately for something, anything, to ground herself.

“Oh my god—” she whimpered, breathless. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” you growled, not slowing for a second. “I know, baby. Look at you. So fucked out, clinging to me like this. You gonna cum all over me? Gonna soak it for me like a good fucking girl?”

Paige choked on a sob, nodding frantically as her mouth opened but no words came. Just sounds, broken, ruined little moans that made your hips stutter with the sheer heat of it.

“That’s it,” you panted, the rhythm wild now, completely consumed by her. “Take it. Take all of me. You feel that?”

“Y-yeah,” she gasped, her hand clawing at your back. “You fuck me so good—shit—baby, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your mouth dropped to her neck, biting down just enough to leave heat and pressure behind.

She cried out then, loud and raw, back arching as her orgasm hit like a fucking storm. She clung to you, muscles clenching hard around the strap as she came, soaking you with it, thighs twitching uncontrollably. Her moans turned into whimpers, then into wrecked little “oh my god”s and “don’t stop”s as her high dragged out, long and messy.

You didn’t stop, not right away. You rode it through, watched every flicker of pleasure twist across her face, obsessed with how beautiful she looked undone like this. She was yours. Wrecked by you. Filled by you.

And through it all, Paige kept whispering, voice hoarse and trembling. “So good… fuck, you feel so good… never—never been fucked like this before… you’re so fucking good, baby.”

You slowed eventually, panting against her skin, her praise still echoing in your head like a damn prayer. And all you could think—half crazed, overwhelmed, euphoric—was ‘I’d do it all over again.’ Just to see her fall apart like that one more time.

Her moans still echoed in your ears. High, strangled, ruined, and yet you still hadn’t cum.

She’d robbed your from it twice earlier, dragged those highs from you with her mouth, her fingers, her body pressed into yours like she had something to prove—then left you hanging. But now? Now it was your turn.

You didn’t give her time to come down. Didn’t even let her legs close. You fumbled with the straps, tugging the harness of and sitting back. Your thighs slipped between hers, only to be met by the hot, slick press of your cunt grinding down onto hers.

Her gasp was sharp, almost pained, but her hips lifted into yours anyway, her body betraying her sensitivity in favor of your shared need.

“Oh my god,” she whines, head rolling back as your cores met, swollen and soaked and completely unfiltered. The friction was messy, wet and loud and absolutely obscene, but you didn’t care. Neither of you did.

You moaned, high and needy, grinding harder as the sensation built—bare skin dragging against hers, nerves shot and screaming, the strap still hanging from your hips, forgotten now. It was just you and her—sliding together, chasing it, drowning in it

“Fuck, Paige—” you gasped, eyes half-lidded and locked on her flushed face. “I need—need to cum.”

She groaned, reaching for your hips with shaky hands, guiding you, matching your rhythm even though her legs were trembling.

“Take it,” she rasped, breath still ragged. “Fucking take it. You’ve earned it, baby. Cum for me, rub that pretty pussy on me until you fall apart. Don’t stop.”

You whimpered, the sound punched from your chest as you rolled your hips harder, faster, your wetness mixing with hers in a way that made everything slip and slide just right. Too much and not enough all at once.

Then—without warning—her hand slid up, two fingers pressing against your lips. You didn’t hesitate. You took them into your mouth, sucking hungrily, eyes glued to hers like she was your entire world.

Paige’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping into something deep and dangerous.

“Look at you,” she growled, the fingers in your mouth curling slightly, holding your jaw. “So desperate. So fucking wet. You gonna cum just from this? Grinding that needy little cunt on mine like a good girl?”

You moaned around her fingers, nodding, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. Your hips stuttered, rhythm breaking as the pressure built, dizzying and intense.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a husk, her eyes wild with want. “C’mon. Show me. Take what you need, mama.”

You cried out around her fingers, your entire body locking up as your orgasm tore through you—hot and violent and blinding. You shook against her, thighs trembling, nails digging into her sides as you lost yourself, your high crashing into hers, mingled and messy and soaked with everything you’d been holding back.

And through it all, Paige just held you. Let you ride it out, while coming down herself. Her fingers slipped from your mouth, trailing down your jaw, down your neck, and she whispered,

“You’re so fucking perfect.”

Your chest was still heaving, legs quivering and damp with both your releases. She leaned in, her touch featherlight on your jaw, caressing your cheek like she hadn’t just dragged the orgasm of your life out of you.

“You good?” she murmured, voice hoarse, but laced with something dangerous underneath. Something eager.

You nodded, dazed, your lips parting to respond. But before a single word could come out, she flipped you onto your back with terrifying ease, making you gasp.

“You’ve had your fun,” she rasped, reaching behind her for the discarded strap and sliding it on like it was muscle memory. Her eyes never left yours. “My turn.”

Your breath caught. That quiet ache between your legs that had just barely dulled now flared back to life. Your heart kicked up again. You could only watch, eyes wide and pulse skipping, as she adjusted the straps against her hips, rolling them once to test the feel.

You expected her to climb over you again, to press her body flush against yours.

But instead, she grabbed your thigh, flipped you again, and hauled your hips up until your knees dug into the mattress and your chest hit the pillow.

“Wh—Paige—” you barely managed, dizzy from the motion, your ass up and exposed, slick still dripping between your thighs.

“Shh,” she said, low and firm, one hand splaying against your lower back to keep you down. “You’re ready for it, baby.”

And then she sank into you.

No warning. No teasing. Just one smooth, hard thrust that punched the air from your lungs. The stretch burned for a second, sensitive and overwhelming, but your body welcomed her fast, the slickness easing her in and making the glide so damn deep.

You gasped into the pillow, your fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Fuck!” You tried to back away from the sudden intrusion.

“Oh, now you wanna run from this dick?” she growled behind you, her pace already brutal, hand gripping the back of your neck and pinning you down. “Stay with it, ma.”

Every word was punctuated by a thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and wet, echoing through the room like sin. The bed rocked, your thighs shaking, your jaw slack as moans spilled from your lips without warning.

“You feel that?” she panted, hips snapping forward. “So tight—still sucking me in like you didn’t just come all over me a few minutes ago.”

You whined, eyes rolling back.

“Messy fucking girl,” she hissed. “Dripping all over my thighs. Can’t even think straight, huh?”

You tried to speak—tried to beg, moan, something—but all that came out were high pitched sounds, your cheek rubbing against the pillow as she fucked into you like she owned every part of you. You knew it was gonna leave makeup stains.

“You like being used like this?” she breathed. “Stuffed full of my cock like a good little slut?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, and Paige moaned behind you, a low, almost possessive sound that made you clench around the toy still sliding in and out of you.

“Yeah, you do,” she said, her voice unraveling. “So greedy. So fucking wet for me. You’d let me do this all night if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You would. God, you would.

And she knew it.

Her hand slipped down your back, finding your ass, squeezing once before giving it two sharp slaps that sent a jolt through your body.

You were loud. Too loud.

You knew it the second the heel of her hand shoved your face further into the soft pillow, muffling the wanton moans that kept slipping past your swollen lips. The hotel room felt like it was vibrating with your sounds—high, helpless, wrecked. Paige’s thrusts hadn’t let up for a second.

“Shh,” she gritted, eyes blazing as she hovered above you, sweat dripping down her chest. “You want the whole floor to hear how good I’m fucking you?”

Your response was just a choked whimper, muffled against the pillow. You couldn’t stop trembling.

She’d slid out and flipped you fast, like you weighed nothing, shoving you onto your back and sliding right back in with a single sharp thrust. She slapped a hand over your mouth, covering it. Now your legs were everywhere. One pinned tightly against your chest, the other slung up and over her shoulder, spreading you open, folding you. The angle had her deep—so deep you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it. You swore you could feel her in your lungs.

“Fuck, look at you,” she rasped, her eyes dragging over your face. “Mascara running, mouth open, pussy clenching like you’re trying to milk me. You can’t stop, can you?”

You tried to shake your head, tried to answer her, but all that came out was a cry into her hand.

“That’s what I thought,” she growled. “Drippin’ on the sheets, crying for my cock.”

You blinked up at her, more tears threatening to spill now from overstimulation, from how full you felt. You were so far gone it didn’t even feel real.

And then her voice dropped lower—dangerously low. Possessive.

“I could fuck a baby into you like this, mama,” she murmured, eyes locked to where she was sliding in and out of you. “Folded in half, stuffed so deep you’d take every last drop.”

Your entire body tensed at her words, another sharp cry muffled against her hand.

“Oh, that got you,” she cooed, rolling her hips slow and deep, pressing until your breath caught and your toes curled. “You want me to fuck you full, huh? Knock you up?”

You whined, your hands scrambling up to her wrist, not to pull her hand away—but to hold her there, like the weight of it grounded you.

She leaned in, sweat-slicked chest and hard nipples brushing yours, her palm still sealing your mouth as she whispered filth in your ear.

“Everyone down the hall could hear you if I let go,” she breathed. “You want them to know what I’m doing to you? Want them to hear you beg me to cum inside? To fill you up so good you’ll still feel it tomorrow?”

You couldn’t take it. Your back arched, tears spilling now from the intensity of it all. Her words, her thrusts, the way your body had no control anymore.

“You gonna cum for me again?” she growled, pace turning brutal. “So messy, so loud, soaking my cock like it was made for that pretty pussy?”

You screamed into her hand as your climax hit you hard, your body locking up, shaking beneath her like you’d been electrocuted. Every muscle trembled, your cunt pulsing around the toy like it was real, like your body couldn’t tell the difference.

“Fuck,” she moaned, watching you fall apart. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it.”

Your cries were muffled, desperate, ruined. And still, she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, deep and filthy, until you went limp beneath her, completely wrecked, your leg falling from her shoulder as she finally slowed down, panting hard above you.

And when she finally removed her hand, your lips were glossy with spit, your cheeks stained with black streaks, your voice barely a whisper.

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Just lay there. Let me take care of you.”

And with one last kiss to your temple, she finally pulled out, leaving you gasping, trembling, your entire body a soaked, overstimulated, satisfied mess.

You were still catching your breath, chest rising and falling as Paige finally stilled above you. The sweat on her skin shimmered under the dim bedside light, her golden hair clinging to her temples, and her lips were parted—soft, flushed, as if she’d just confessed something without meaning to.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until she reached up and thumbed away the tears under your eyes. Her touch was gentle now, tender and careful, as if she was worried she’d break you after what she’d just done.

“Hey,” she whispered, brushing her thumb along your jaw. “You okay?”

You gave a dazed little nod, voice barely audible. “Mhm… Just… That was crazy, what the fuck.” You let out a long exhale.

Her chest lifted with a soft laugh, but there was something else behind it. A vulnerability. A truth trying to sneak through between the lines.

She helped you sit up slowly, her hands never leaving your skin. She unstrapped herself and tossed the harness aside, then climbed back onto the bed to cradle you in her lap, letting your legs rest over hers. You could still feel her heartbeat beneath your cheek as you curled into her, warm and safe.

You were quiet for a while—until you felt her lips near your ear.

“I’d do it,” she murmured, voice thick and quiet.

Your brow furrowed slightly, still dazed. “Do what?”

She pulled back just enough for her eyes to meet yours.

“Put a baby in you,” she said, dead serious. “If I could… I would’ve done it right there. Fucked it into you like I meant it.”

A breath caught in your throat, the ache between your legs flaring back up even though you were exhausted and sore. Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

“Cute.” You grinned bashfully, eyes still glassy. “I’d let you.”

And you meant it—God, did you mean it. If biology didn’t care, if the world didn’t matter—you’d let Paige Bueckers ruin your body, mark your life, and carry her forever in you. You’d wear her love, her heat, her name, like it was carved into your bones.

She kissed you softly after that, nowhere near as greedy or hard as before. Just lips to lips. Reverent. Slow. Worshipful.

“C’mon,” she murmured eventually, slipping out from under you and reaching for a robe. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let her guide you into the hotel’s oversized bathtub, both of you sinking into the steaming bath she’d set up. She sat behind you, your back against her chest, arms looped gently around your waist.

She washed you with care—her fingers massaging your scalp, rinsing off the sweat, the stickiness, the smeared makeup. All the marks she’d left.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asked quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You shook your head. “No, you didn’t… Did I?”

She chuckled, warm breath against your cheek.

“Nah,” she whispered. “You were perfect.”

You smiled, closing your eyes and sinking further into her hold.

And there, in the soft glow of the bathroom lights, skin clean, hearts raw, and bodies tangled up beneath the water—you stayed. Letting love settle in the places lust had already scorched. Letting her hold you like she never planned to let go.

Because she didn’t.

And neither did you.

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

[devosin]

GRIM ACCIDENTLY OUTING YOUR CRUSH ON HIM !! . . grim accidently blurting out how much you love the dorm head . .

gender neutral reader / fluff / crack taken seriously / mutual pinning

a/n: this has been rotting in my idea list for like over 2 years, enjoy! og account: @/cupids-chamber

MALLEUS DRACONIA

Malleus was surprised, when you had decided to tag along on his Gargoyle Study Club meeting, however he was ecstatic with the idea of you joining him, while he talked about his favorite things. Truly an exciting time, talking to his favorite person about his favorite things!

For once he didn't quite mind having no one at the meetings, because he got to spend time with you—and Grim . . he's there too . . In fact, Malleus kind of finds it endearing he stuck around this long with you, listening to him, despite clearly not being interested in the topic.

Malleus walked around, showing you his collection of gargoyles—explaining the extensive history of each one, and you listened, throughout his explanations which most people would find extremely boring, though seeing how passionate he was about the subject, you couldn't help but be engaged.

You followed along behind him, as he showed you each one, Grim on your shoulder, yawning rather loudly—clearly bored with the past hour, where you dragged him into Malleus's club meeting, which you passed off as a 'morale' thing to do—when he can clearly tell you did this because you liked him.

"Ah . . I have something I want to give to you"—Malleus shifted through the drawers, looking for the miniature gargoyles he had made for the both of you (well just you, he figured grim would appreciate something more . . edible . . he got tuna.).

Grim leans in closer to you, whispering rather loudly, so much so you knew Malleus could hear, "henchman, how much longer . . my whiskers are turning white here!!", he whispered all bit dramatically, and you sighed internally, mumbling a soft, "Grim not right now", in response.

After a few more moments of silence, Grim leaned back, and exclaimed, "You seriously like this guy, he likes gargoyles more then I like tuna—"

Grim paused, realizing he spoke a little more than he really should've. . . and Malleus paused, dropping whatever was in his hand to the floor, turning blankly at you, looking at you with a dumbfounded look on his face . . (he's processing, give him a minute.)

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Riddle isn't the kind of person to intrude in a conversation, especially when he knows he isn't wanted there (debatable)—He also doesn't enjoy listening in on others private conversations . . However, this case is different, obviously he has the right to be curious when you're being so very loud, I mean practically everyone can hear you!

His heels clicked on the floors, as he raced through the halls��Riddle doesn't often find himself in a rush, but lunch had started 5 minutes ago, and he was running behind on his schedule.

His hands gripped his notes tightly, and just as he was about to make a turn, he heard his name . .—Riddle stopped in his tracks, looking around, in order to find the source of the noise, that's when he spotted you . . and grim, who was speaking rather loudly.

Now, Riddle swears he's not purposefully ease-dropping, but Grim was loud. . he was bound to overhear anyways! . . Well that's what he'll keep telling himself, in order to ease the guilt of listening in on your private conversations.

"Riddle?!" Grim exclaimed, waving his little paws around in shock, "out of everyone henchman, you like that—", you covered Grim's mouth with your hand, whispering loudly in response, "Why don't you tell the whole school I like Riddle, Grim?!?"

Riddle paused in response to that, 'you liked him? . . as in romantically? . .', Riddle loses his grip on his notes, in shock. Papers scattered the floor with a thud, and before Riddle could fix the mess he had accidently caused, you turned, and faced him . . This is gonna be one long confessio—conversation.

VIL SCHOENHEIT

See, Vil isn't the kind of person to believe in a rumor or petty gossip that he hears across the halls of Pomefiore, because if there's drama then Octavinelle and Pomefiore are the absolute first at the crime scene—He's well aware of how a small lie and a fake rumor can go and ruin someone's life, which is why Vil prefers information from the source.

That being said, Vil does enjoy gossip—and at time's he draws his own conclusion to a topic, and keeps it to himself, he's on the middle line of it all, but you bet, he'll 'coincidentally' overhear all the drama going on at your family reunion but don't worry, he's amazing with secrets. (Headcanon: he probably pretends not to like gossip, but still listens and reacts when Rook tells him what he overheard)

And this is why Vil couldn't help it but approach Grim when he heard him complaining begrudgingly to himself, about you kicking him out and making him run 'errands' . . which were more likely then not, a distraction.

"Oh it's nothing, henchman just needed privacy . . ya . .", Vil raises a brow, and Grim should've shut down, but when a can of good tuna got involved . . Well a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Grim took the can of tuna from Vil, "They're preparing a confession letter", Grim spoke and Vil couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal at the revelation, how could they like someone else . . When he's breathing! (At least wait till he's cremated, like gosh . . So as long as his body exists, even if he's not breathing, you should love him frfr #hawkmothcore for the win) . .

"To who?", Vil asks, curiously, and Grim stares at him blankly, "I'll give you another can to go—" he offers, "Gimme it right now, and I'll tell ya'".

Vil sighs, handing him another can, "The letter is for ya', henchman likes you—".

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Now normally, Leona could care less as to what goes on in the botanical garden, while he takes a nap there (mainly because he's too asleep to register his surroundings), because even with his acute sense of hearing, rarely anyone visits, and if they do, they only do so to take a break or catch a breather, or to just immerse themselves in the garden as a sort of escape, so it's usually all quiet and soothing, for the most part.

However, some days he wasn't so lucky, be it students randomly popping in so they could skip class, or to have a picnic, or that random couple, who thinks it'd be a cute and adorable idea to have a date in the botanical garden because no-one goes there, and it's so secretive and the mystery excites them. (he hates, he fucking hates it, he's the biggest hater there is, he despises all couples equally.)

Leona was all comfortable, half-asleep, his eyes were closed as he was ready to just get some shut-eye, sleep for a couple hours—until, he heard footsteps, rather loud ones . . Now, he normally doesn't care, and to be frank, he doesn't care right now, he figured they're taking a small stroll, and will stop . . eventually. (delusional king!!)

"Grim this is ridiculous—", Leona's ears perked up as he heard your voice, now that had his eyes wide open, looking around for you . . Well he's not that curious, as to what you find 'ridiculous' (he's very curious, he needs to know each detail, tell him everything), but he does hope you expand on it.

"C'mon henchmen! The best way to get over someone is confess and get closure?", Grim was confused himself, with whatever he was saying, "Oh yea Grim, which class did you learn that from, romance 101 with Crowley?—", Leona snorts.

"No actually I asked Trien!" Grim says . . a bit too confidently for comfort, "Grim . . I don't think you should be proud of that", you point out.

"Just tell Leona you like him? He's not gonna kill ya"

". . ." Leona froze, . . you liked him? I mean yea that makes sense, he's really attractive, but you—Liked him? . .

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

Azul states that he doesn't favor you that much—although the twins will argue otherwise, especially since Azul got you to taste test the new Monstro Lounge menu items, before he released it . . before even tasting it himself, . . and maybe he didn't want to let it slip that he liked you only—because he ended up also inviting Grim to taste the food with you—And with Crowley's payments . . well you were more than willing to accept free food.

To be fair, Azul is aware you do get a bit more special treatment, and deep-down he's well aware he likes you, but confronting his feelings? in this economy? . . not gonna happen . . He'd rather you assume he's a cat person who likes Grim, because clearly that's what you think of him, since he's so pretty and smart and good at covering his feelings. (He's not, he's boyfailing a little too close to the sun.)

Azul had everything set up—and by that he means, he had a plan and got other people to set it up for him, according to said plan, because he couldn't give away the fact that he had planned it himself, no . . that would make it seem like he was into you, and he'd rather die then you know that—In fact, he'd rather have his tentacles inked dry and cut off, fried and dipped in his ink, and shoved so far down his throat he chokes and dies before that even remotely comes close to happening.

You sat beside Azul, as he asked asked you about the food, and you gave responses that he mostly liked, . . well you did have some comments about the blue cheese rigatoni . . But to be fair, he entrusted the blue cheese to Floyd . .

Grim was half-way through his food, when he randomly spoke, with his mouth rather full, "This is amazing . . I can see why you like this guy henchman . .—" Azul paused and he practically stopped blinking, if his ears could perk up, then it would right now, "—for once your taste in men . . has good justification henchm—" Grim only paused when he recognized your glare, and only then did he realize how badly he fucked up . . "I'm not getting the good tuna for awhile . . am I?"

KALIM AL-ASIM

Kalim doesn't usually come in without an appointment (lies), or before informing you beforehand (lies on top of lies), and he doesn't really like invading your personal time (and lies again) . . at least not knowingly, but today was different . . he wanted to go somewhere with you! It's a surprise, and surely you'd appreciate him randomly popping into your dorm and dragging you outside, in the sunlight like an upstanding citizen and friend.

Kalim settles on the couch in the lounge of Ramshackle, stretching his arms out as he gets comfortable. All the while, Grim stares him down, . . something Kalim noticed off the get-go, "Why are you looking at me like that?", he calls out, confused and a tad bit unnerved at the blatant piercing stare.

"You're the one henchman likes, right? . .—what's your credit score? . . how many cans of tuna are we talking—"

Kalim paused, ". . . what?", he asks blankly, still paused at the first half of Grim's sentence, enough to not notice or take offense to the rest of his words and questions. "Why can't ya' hear me . . ?! I asked what's your credit scor—", grim responds, only to be cut-off mid-sentence by Kalim "BEFORE THAT!"

"That you're the person henchman lik—", Grim pauses as he hears your voice, and as you enter the room, Grim realizes his mistake, "Fuck."

"Kalim act natural!" Grim asks, as he goes back into his usual stance, but as he see's Kalim not moving, . . "who am I kidding . . no one can get shit through to ya' in one go . . I'm fucked."

IDIA SHROUD

Idia had his gaming equipment set up for two, well it would be three—but paws and controllers isn't the most fun thing to play around with, therefore Grim has opted to watching, instead of playing. Which he gets bored of rather fast, and well Ortho preferred to watch his older brother then play, or do normal kid things like advanced calculus.

Although Idia didn't really mind that, he enjoyed playing with you, because you were a really good challenge, a true gamer! . . And with newer games, he found that you listened and got the hang of it fast, and it was fun helping you grow your account on his favorite games, and it was also fun listening to you ramble about your favorite games from your world.

"So yea in genshin impact—", you rambled on and on about the Fontaine chapter, and about the 'archon' which was like the great seven, and how sad her storyline was, Idia dabbled in Lore from time to time, though he really found it amusing how you took the time to describe everything, you really helped immerse him in the storyline, and to be honest, sometimes he could imagine he was playing the game with you.

"—and then if you went into this specific area you could actually hear her cry . . OH oh! . . and when Neuvillette cried, it would like downpour so hard . . ", you continued rambling, and Idia would just listen, so much so that you guys completely forgot the game you were actually playing . . which seemed to upset Grim, who wanted to watch.

"Yea yea . . henchmen, we get it was sad, and it's fun talking to the love of your life—but could we please have more playing and less talking!", Grim explained rather dramatically, his paws flinging up, only to be silenced when he saw the two of you silent, looking at each other . . and then Idia's hair burst up in bright pink flames . .

commissions / discord server / (all open) commissions

@ devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Teacher's Pet (Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Professor Harkness takes on so few students. You're determined to become on. A non-magic AU with professor!Agatha.

Words: 7.4k

Warnings: Praise kink, possessiveness, obsessiveness, drinking, teacher/student relationship, age gap (but all over 18+), smut, fingering (R receiving), oral sex (R receiving), biting, Dom!Agatha, sub!R, power imbalance, unhealthy dynamics

You’d heard the whispers around campus about Professor Harkness’s class. The rumours were passed around like a ghost story told under the cover of night at camp. You stored them, collected each one like a gem, richer for every word you were gifted by the rumour mill. Drunk students would try one up one another at house parties, wanting to share the worst of her and win the competition.

You were fascinated with the legend of her before you ever laid eyes on her.

It was at a faculty party, your history professor extending an invitation to all of his most promising students. You’d shown up, expecting nothing but other old men, ruing the day the students grew so rowdy, passing around stories about their own college days when they showed far more respect to their professors than your lot ever did.

Instead, you’d found her, nursing a glass of red wine in the library, a heavy book open in her palm. She glanced up, piercing blue eyes settling on you with disinterest, and yet you felt like you’d been struck by lightning. You took a deep breath as her eyes left you, going back to the book in her hand, and made your way further into the room.

Your finger trailed over the spines of the book, most leather bound and weighty, older than the mess of paperbacks in your dorm room. Scanning the titles, you realised each one was on World War I. You wrinkled your nose, continuing on.

You knew you should have been trying to network with some of the most eminent professors in the history department, but now you were finding it hard to break free from the woman’s gravity. So you stayed, looking over the books, trying to find something that would suggest your professor wasn’t as boring as you suspected he was. And if you kept sneaking glances at the other woman, then it was an added bonus to your evening. Dark hair and pale skin, red lips curling up at the corner, dressed in clothes that must have cost more than your entire wardrobe combined, she was the most wonderful thing to look at in that room.

She did not pay you any attention.

“Ah, there you are.”

You glanced up, your professor swaggering through the door, a glass of scotch dangling from his fingertips. In the corner of your eye, you saw the woman tilt her head in his direction.

“Oh good. I’m so glad the two of you found each other,” he said.

You looked over at the woman, finding her staring down your professor with a look of absolute disdain. Clasping your hands in front of oyur body, you waited for some kind of explanation. Your professor drew closer, the bounce in his step seemingly suggesting he hadn’t noticed the way the woman was looking at him.

“Agatha, let me introduce you to my best student.”

He scooped you up on his way, the hand on the small of your back directing you towards her. You’d done your best to keep your distance from her, not sure she’d appreciate you interrupting her. Now, propelled towards her, a sense of anticipation mixed with anxiety curdled in your stomach into something you didn’t like.

When he said your name, those blue eyes focused on you. You wouldn’t say there was interest there, but it certainly was something more than the disdain she’d shown him.

“Agatha’s interests lie more in historical folklore surrounding witchcraft,” he told you.

“Oh,” you said, “I was hoping to look at that for my senior thesis.”

“Agatha Harkness,” she said, eyebrow raising, holding a hand out to you.

You grasped it in yours, her warm skin soft where it met your palm. It was like an electric shock went through you from her touch while you tried to fit this view of a woman with the figure of legend you’d been collecting stories on for the last few years at college.

“Don’t you go trying to poach my best student, Agatha,” you professor tutted, “I’m still trying to convince her to instead look at something more modern and practical.”

“You believe another World War I scholar is practical?” she asked, the drawl of her voice letting you know exactly what she thought of that opinion.

“I would say there’s more need for them in the workforce than witches,” he replied, still good-naturedly, but his gaze had hardened.

“We should talk,” she said to you, turning her head back to you, blocking your professor out of the conversation.

“I’d like that,” you said, knowing you sounded breathless and probably too eager, but you weren’t about to miss this opportunity.

She finally let your hand go, fingers stroking softly along the length of your palm. Your lips parted and for just a moment her gaze lingered there before looking back to your professor.

“You may go now,” she told him, not bothering to keep it behind the cover of polite respectability.

He sputtered out some argument. She rolled her eye, placing a hand on the small of your back, so different from when his hand had been there, and led you out of the door. Eyes followed the two of you, most focused on her, a ripple of something going through the rest of the party. She pushed the front door open, leading you into the cool air of the night.

“So,” she said, leaning back against the railing of the porch, “you’re interested in witchcraft, are you?”

“Yes,” you replied, softly, almost embarrassed, and yet certain in your conviction.

“You should know that oaf is taking such an interest in you because you’re such a pretty young thing,” she said, “his last favourite is now positioned somewhere nice like Yale or Cambridge and he keeps taking the credit for putting her there.”

“I have no interest in World War I,” you said, hoping that was answer enough.

“Clever girl.”

The thrill of her praise would sustain you long after the party was over.

“If you’re serious about pursuing witchcraft for your senior thesis, come by my office tomorrow morning with a proposal,” she said.

She maintained eye contact as she took a long sip from her wine, her lipstick leaving a mark on the glass. You couldn’t stop yourself watching her, already under her spell. She passed the glass to you, half drunk, and turned to walked down the steps.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing in the night.

You drained the last of the wine from her glass and left it there on the wooden floor of the porch. You returned home without bothering to take your leave of your professor, knowing he wouldn’t matter by that time tomorrow. You were going to give her the best proposal she’d ever seen, of that you were determined.

She agreed to oversee your senior thesis on historical folklore of witchcraft.

You learnt very quickly that Professor Harness’s demanding nature wasn’t an overblown rumour. She expected excellence from you. Late nights and early mornings, you spent so much time with you nose in your books the outside world stopped feeling real. Your fingers had grown ink stained and your eyes ached from the strain of reading such small type.

Every meeting, she sent you home with a new stack of books, expecting you to be there again in a few days having read them all, ready to discuss every little detail in her office for hours on end. She took up most of your waking hours, and when you did manage to snatch some sleep, she haunted your dreams.

You hadn’t gotten over the way lightning had struck at your first meeting.

Her office had turned into a sanctuary for you. You’d rush in, an armful of books almost tumbling to the floor before you threw them down into one of her chairs and curling up on the sofa she kept flush to the wall under the window. Some days you were there from the moment she arrived until long after the sun set, just reading and taking notes.

The office itself was warm, sometimes overly so, the sun coming through the window at just the right angle to heat the air. Her desk was large, imposing, the perfect symbol for the woman who had become legend around campus. Bookshelves were overflowing with all kinds of books. Cheap paperbacks, hardcovers, leather-bound, in pristine condition and falling apart. Some she’d let you pour over but leave behind at the end of the night, others she sent you off with. All you knew was you wanted the chance to read every single one.

Sharing the space with her was just as nerve inducing as it was the first time. You became so aware of yourself, wanting to impress her. When she’d sit beside you, the sofa cushions dipping until you felt yourself slip towards her, you’d grow so still, trying to not touch her, scared of what that would do to you. Sometimes, she lent forward to look at the page you were reading and her dark hair would brush your skin.

There were times when you thought she might know what you were thinking. The way you felt out of control around her. Your need to impress her. Her gaze would linger just a fraction of a moment longer than was appropriate, assessing every inch of you. Sometimes her fingertips would graze over the skin of your cheek, or she’d grasp your chin, or she’d gently move your hair out of your face. Hours spent together, and you could never tell how she felt about you or your work.

It only made you try harder.

It wasn’t until two months in that your friends decided to take matters into their own hands. You’d just returned from a full day studying in her office when a knock sounded on your door. Stifling a yawn, you pulled the door open.

“Oh, so you are still alive,” you friend said, shoving past you into your tiny dorm room.

“Hello to you too,” you said.

“There’s a party tonight. You’re coming. Don’t even bother arguing. No one has seen you since you started studying with the witch,” she said, picking up a banana on your desk that had begun to turn brown, “seriously, does she keep you chained up or something?”

You weren’t about to dignify that with an answer. Not that the thought of being bound by Professor Harkness was one that you hated. It just wasn’t worth the time explaining that.

“I have so much work I still need to do,” you said.

“You’ve been working too hard. Come on, it’ll be fun. You still remember what fun is like, right?”

In the end, you let her drag you to the party after raiding your wardrobe for something more party appropriate. Standing, clutching the red solo cup full of something that burnt as it went down, you watched the game of ping pong going on.

“I’d be terrified if I had to spend all that time with her,” some guy was saying to you.

“She’s not that scary,” you said, already regretting your decision to come.

“Nah. I heard she made some guy piss himself with just a look,” he said, swaying closer to you.

“She’s not like that,” you said, shaking your head, “sounds like that guy just has poor bladder control.”

“Ha, you’re funny,” he said, leaning closer until his sour breath washed over your face, “wanna come upstairs so you can tell me what she’s really like?”

“No thank you,” you said, shoving him away form you.

“Whatever,” he spat, “frigid bitch.”

“So what’s she actually like?” your friend said, taking the drunk guy’s place when he swung away from you.

“Quiet, exacting, demanding,” you replied, “she expects excellence.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she said.

“No, no, it’s great. I love it. She’s… great,” you said, looking down into your cup, swirling the liquid in it, “she’s kind of brilliant.”

“Careful. You sound like you’re in love with her,” your friend laughed.

“Don’t be stupid,” you snapped.

“Maybe she’s done a spell on you. You know everyone says she’s an actual witch? She’s certainly mean enough,” she said.

“She’s not,” you snapped, “seriously, all those rumours are made up by sad little people who feel inferior whenever they see a smart woman because they know they can’t ever live up to her.”

“She growled like a dog at some guy who cut her off as she was walking,” she said.

“People make up such stupid lies,” you said.

“Someone has video of her insulting some students. It went viral on TikTok,” she said.

“They probably deserved it. She has standards,” you said.

“I’m just saying, be careful with her. Maybe she’s trying to recruit you to her coven, or maybe she’s hoping to sacrifice you in some ritual to get more power,” she said.

“Shut up,” you snapped.

Downing the last of your drink, you crumpled the cup and flung it aside.

“I’m going home. I have too much work to be getting on with for this,” you said.

“Hey, no, come on. I’ll stop talking about her,” she said.

You shook her hand off you.

“I’ll see you around.”

You ignored her as she shouted after you, letting yourself out through the back gate. Curling your arms around your body, you strode off down the sidewalk. The night air held a chill to it, the slow drip of autumn beginning to give way to winter. You tipped your head back to look at the night sky, so dark, the moon just beginning to wax.

You let your feet lead you back towards your dorm building, wandering through the night and the shadows. The air was crisp in your lungs and you let yourself breath in deeply. You should have been home, reading up on the intersect of witch trails with gynophobia in the Renaissance, but instead you had wasted time on a bunch of drunk idiots for nothing.

“You’re out late.”

You startled, whirling around, heart thumping in your chest. Stepping out of the shadows, hands in her pockets, Professor Harkness looked like the devil come to collect your soul. You’d give it willingly if only she asked for it.

“I was at a party,” you said.

“You should be careful,” she said, taking slow steps towards you, “pretty young thing like you all alone at night. Anything could happen.”

The way she smiled made you feel as if she was the wolf and you the sheep, the prey to her predator. You were desperate to let her sink her teeth deeply into you.

“Nothing that interesting happens to me,” you said, voice quiet.

“Come, pet,” she said, hand landing on the small of your back, “I’ll walk you home. Can’t have something happen to you. I’ll feel so much guilt.”

You let her lead you back towards campus, the bright lights beckoning you home. You didn’t ask how she knew where to take you, so focused on the feeling of her hand splayed over your back, the warmth of her skin seeping through your thin shirt and into your skin.

“I suppose I’ve forgotten what it is to be young. I assumed you’d be curled up in bed, reading the texts I gave you,” she said, “of course you’d be out on a Friday night at a party.”

“My friend dragged me with her. Apparently I’ve been missing in action since I started working with you. She said I needed to have fun,” you said.

“I thought we were having fun,” she said, voice a low rumbled against your ear.

“We are. I am,” you said, so quick it brought a smirk to her lips when you turned your face towards her, “I shouldn’t have gone tonight. It was a waste of time.”

“Have you been drinking?” she asked. When you didn’t answer, she lent closer, “I won’t tell anyone if you have.”

“I’m over 21,” you whispered.

“Such a grown up girl,” she said, “I can smell the cheap vodka on you.”

She paused in front of your dorm building, warm light spilling out the entrance. Both hands came up to cup your cheeks, calloused skin scraping against yours, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. She lent forward again, right into your personal space. Her fingertips stroked over your soft skin as she pulled them away before her index finger gently tugged on your lower lip.

“Sweet dreams, kitten,” she whispered before disappearing back into the shadows of the night. If not for your racing heart you might have thought you’d hallucinated the entire thing.

She didn’t mention it when you slunk into her office on Monday, passing you a cup of coffee without a single word, but a raised eyebrow. You took it with grace, curling up on her sofa, opening the book in your lap. When she settled beside you, feet kicked up on her coffee table, you didn’t even look at her out of the corner of your eyes.

Her fingers were soft as they brushed your hair over your shoulder, gently tucking it behind your ear. Lingering on the curve of your jaw, you shivered, dragging your gaze over to her. The corner of her lips pulled up for a fleeting moment.

“Tell me your thoughts.”

You did, the words spilling over your words like secrets, softly spoken in the confessional of her office. You lent back, watching you, legs spread, interest in her blue eyes. Her finger ran along the length of her lip, intent as she watched you talk yourself out. Once you were done, her hand came to cradle the back of your head, nails scraping over your scalp.

“It appears as if your weekend wasn’t totally wasted,” she said.

“No,” you said.

“Good.” Her lips pressed together to repress her smile, “keep reading.”

Her long fingers tapped the book in your lap and she left you alone to your reading. You snuck a glance at her before bowing your head and trying not to think about what this meant.

Nor the way you yearned for more.

From that day, you noticed a change. Her hands would linger on you, her touch growing familiar and yet no less exciting. You stayed later and later, curling up on her sofa, growing comfortable as you waded through history with her. She guided you, shaping your research into something you could be proud of as you poured over books and wrote long paragraphs for her to read. Shared meals and shared drinks, you’d sit on the floor of her office, take out containers scattered over the coffee table. You shrunk further away from your friends, finding their conversations inane and childish, drunken antics no longer fun but puerile as you worked on something far more important. You lost yourself in that room, an addict who needed their fix every day or else you were given over to malaise.

She indulged your need for her attention, her open door policy lasting 24 hours a day. She seemed to enjoy how much you wanted to share the same air as her. Every time you said something, your eyes would turn to her, desperate for her approval which she freely gave. You spent time watching the way her fingers traced over words on the page in front of you, trying not to think about how much you wanted her to do the same thing across your bare skin. Her praise became greater, more frequent, each one hard won for, and each one treasured like the most precious of gifts, hoarding them to revisit every night before you fell asleep.

You hadn’t realised how comfortable you’d grown in her presence until the afternoon you realised you’d fallen asleep on the sofa as you tried to craft the perfect sentence. Your eyelashes fluttered and you were slow to blink your eyes open. Draped in a soft blanket, the warm air heated from the small space heater Professor Harkness had dragged into the office, you glanced around the room. It was darker than you’d remembered, the window showing a night sky while the lamps offered a soft refuge against the dark.

Something tightened around your ankle. You turned your attention towards it. Professor Harkness was sitting on the other end of the sofa, your bare feet resting in her lap. The book in her hand was left unattended as she stared down at you, a confusing expression on her face. Her grip on your ankle tightened again and you offered a lazy smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to drop off,” you said, voice rough with sleep.

“I’ve been wearing you out,” she said.

With the softness of sleep making it difficult to school your features, your cheeks heated at the implication. Not that you would have minded. In fact, you wished that was the reason you were so tired.

Her finger trailed along the arch of your foot. You shifted, the touch a tickle. She did it again, smiling down at you before she let you go.

“Sleep, if you have to. You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to function,” she said.

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said, sitting up, the blanket pooling around you.

The thought that she’d placed it over you for your comfort made your head spin. To then sit by you, to welcome any part of you into her personal space as you slept was even worse. Your chest ached and your heart clenched and you wanted to crawl into her lap.

“Perhaps you’re right. We should take a break. I’ve been working you too hard,” she said.

You would let her work you harder if it meant more moments like this.

“Come, pet. I’m taking you to dinner.”

You were helpless as you followed her. She drove, the car feeling so close with the dark night pressing in against the windows. You tried not to watch her, the hands you’d been fantasising about controlling the machine with such power.

The restaurant was nice. Intimate. Small tables and soft lamps offering pools of light, plenty of shadows to hide in. The maître d' seemed to recognise her, leading her to a table at the back. You lowered into your seat, taking note of the candle on the table between the two of you. The entire thing felt like a dream.

“Um, I’m not sure I can afford this place,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving off your worry, “I’m paying.”

“Oh.” You clasped your hands in your lap, “thank you, Professor.”

“Why do you always call me that?” she asked.

“Call you what?” you asked.

“Professor,” she replied, “I have a name.”

“Sorry. Do you not like it? I was trying to be respectful,” you said, anxiety taking hold of you.

“Agatha is fine,” she said.

“Okay,” you replied, “Agatha.”

Her smile was self satisfied and she lent back in her chair, eyes sweeping over you. You let her drink her fill of you, not sure what she was looking for, but wanting to give it to her. You’d give her anything she asked for.

“I must admit, I wasn’t sure about taking on a student. I usually don’t. But I’m glad I did. You’ve been quite the diligent student,” she said.

“I’m glad you did too,” you said.

“Of course you are, pet,” she said.

Before you could say anything else, the waiter paused by the side of the table. She ordered for you, glancing over as she did so as if ensure you didn’t argue. You weren’t about to. You’d do whatever she wanted as long as it pleased her.

The wine was expensive, full bodied, better than any other you’d had. It stained her lips and you wanted to lick it free from where it clung to her skin. The discussion over dinner was about the things you’d read that day, listening to the way she so easily connected one story to another. Her mastery was awe inspiring. It was easy to ignore the romantic setting and the wine that kept being poured for you as she spoke, her husky voice doing something delicious to you.

It wasn’t until dessert that it all came crashing back into you. The creme brûlée in front of her was beautiful. The spoon cracked the top and she took a bite, slowly pulling the spoon from between her lips. Her eyelids fluttered shut and a low moan reverberated through her chest. Your cheeks heated, thighs pressing together, turning breathless. A slow smile spread over her face and when her eyes opened again they were smouldering.

“You must try this. No other place does one as good,” she said.

“Oh, uh…” You looked down at the tiramisu in front of you.

“Come here, pet.”

She held out a spoon of the creme brûlée towards you. You lent forward, not quite able to believe what was happening. She placed it in your mouth, blue eyes holding yours over the top of the candle’s flame. It felt as if everything was moving in slow motion as she drew the spoon back.

The small noise of pleasure that came from you had her gaze lowering to your lips. Your tongue darted out, chasing the sugar on your lips. Her eyes darkened and she lent closer over the table.

“How’s that, pet?” she asked, husky, a rasp of a voice.

“It’s delicious,” you said, breathless and high pitched, a perfect opposite to her.

“It is, isn’t it?”

You watched in fascination as she scooped up some more, her tongue licking the spoon clean. Your breath hitched. Under the table, her foot gently brushed against your shin. Her blue eyes twinkled with something you wanted to drown in.

“Eat your dessert, kitten,” she said, “then I’ll take you home.”

You did as you were told, not even tasting coffee and cream of your own dessert. You were so focused on watching her devour her’s, indecent in how much pleasure she took from it. You were squirming in your seat as she finished, feeling on fire.

It wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was fair. You wanted her so much and she was just… making it worse.

She seemed not to realise the exact effect she was having on you as she led you out of the restaurant and back into her car. You stared out the window, not needing to be caught staring any more than you already had. It wasn’t until the rumble of the engine cut off that you realised something.

“This isn’t my home,” you said, staring up at the large two story house in front of you.

“No, it’s mine,” she said.

“What?”

You whipped around to stare at her. She wasn’t even looking back, the door open as she stepped out of the car.

“Are you coming or what?” she asked.

You scrambled to follow her, almost tripping over yourself in your haste. You weren’t sure what you expected, reproach for following her into her house or to be welcomed in with warmth. What you weren’t expecting was to follow her into the back where the kitchen was.

“Do you want tea?” she asked.

“Sure,” you replied, “what am I doing here?”

“Having tea,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder.

“And then?” you asked.

“Going to sleep. I can’t trust you to do that on your own,” she replied, “clearly.”

“I really am sorry about that,” you said.

“Stop apologising,” she snapped.

Your lips formed the word sorry again before you stopped yourself. Instead, you watched her boil the water for the tea. Your confusion was mixing with your yearning, leaving you unable to do anything but wait for her to tell you what was going on. Pouring the water into two mugs, the strings from the teabags resting against the sides, she looked over her shoulder at you again.

“Come on then.”

You followed her with the two mugs of tea into her living room. It was comfortable, almost like a more lived in version of her office. Sitting beside her on the couch, comfortable and well loved, you watched her lean forward and place one mug on the coffee table. She passed the other to you, fingers brushing together, looking at you from under her eyelashes.

“There you go, kitten,” she murmured.

“Thanks.”

You looked down into the cup, steam rising from the surface of the steeping tea. Your fingers fiddled with the string of the teabag. Her hand landed on your thigh, startling you.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” she said.

“I don’t know what I’m going here,” you said, dragging your eyes up to her.

“Do you not want to be here?” she asked.

“No, no I do,” you said, rushing through the words, “it’s just…”

Her hands were gentle as they took the cup from your hands, placing it down beside hers. You could only watch as she swung her leg over yours, settling herself in your lap. Both hands cupped your cheeks, thumb stroking along your cheekbone.

“Agatha,” you whispered.

“Yes, pet?” she asked.

“I want you,” you confessed.

“I know.”

Her lips pressed against yours, scorching as she consumed your very soul. Your hands hovered above her waist, scared that to touch her was to break the moment, that it would make her come to her senses. She kissed you deeper, nails digging into the skin of your cheeks as she tipped your head back. Her tongue swept into your mouth. She was so warm when your hands made contact with her body.

She moaned into your mouth, filthy and hot, making you claw at her. She tasted of the burnt sugar of the creme brûlée and the wine you’d split with her. She kissed deeper still, stealing your breath. You tugged at her shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of her pants. Shoving your hands up, you felt the soft skin of her bare back against your palms, your fingertips, wanting to feel every inch of her.

Her hands slipped into your hair, shoving it out of the way, tugging on it in a way that had you mewling into her mouth. You felt her grin against your lips before she lent back, staring down at you. Her eyes had darkened, her lips kiss swollen, cheeks flushed.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked.

You shook your head before surging up to capture her lips in another kiss. Her fingers tightened in your hair and she made a small noise as your nails ran down her spine. You felt out of control, wanting more from her, the way you always did. There was something about her that drove you crazy, that had always driven you crazy. Even before you’d met her she’d consumed you.

She sat back again, hands slipping from your hair. You watched as her hands crossed over her body, slowly peeling her shirt off her body. You were dumbstruck, watching her with wide eyes and heaving breath. She flung the shirt aside, shaking her hair back from her face.

“Are you going to touch me, pet?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you breathed out.

Your hands slid around her ribcage, feeling the way her skin moved as she inhaled. She was so warm against your palms, real and there with you. You were slow as you trailed your fingers up, brushing the underside of one cloth covered breast. Your eyes darted up to her face, finding her watching you instead of your hands.

“Go on,” she encouraged.

You cupped them, feeling the weight of them in your hands. Leaning forward, your lips brushed over the curve of one then the other, vulnerable skin soft. Your tongue dragged over it, tasting her. She made a small noise, a rumbling in her chest, hands coming up to curl around the back your neck. She pressed you closer.

Reaching around, you released her from her bra, tugging the straps down her arm. Your mouth was on her again, exploring, until your lips wrapped around a nipple. The noise she made was one of approval, back arching towards your mouth. When you sucked, gentle at first, testing the waters, she pressed you closer again. You wanted to please her so badly.

With your hand, you rolled the other nipple between thumb and forefinger. Your name sounded so sweet on her lips, urging you to continue. Her soft sighs and the way her hips rolled against you only made you want more. You wanted to worship at the alter of her body, to take communion from between her legs, to whisper your confessions into her skin. You wanted to drown in her.

Fingers tilted your chin up, your mouth popping free with an indecent noise. She chuckled, pressing her lips to yours again, teeth sinking in to your lower lip until you tasted the coppery tang of blood. You whined, surprised at how much you enjoyed the sensation of the pain mixed with the pleasure.

You made a pained noise as she climbed off your lap, standing half naked in front of you. Your fingertips skated over her skin. Without a word, she pulled you up off the couch and tugged you towards the stairs. You followed, willing to go wherever she wanted, as long as you could keep touching her.

She paused halfway up, turning to grasp your face in her hands, kissing you again like she couldn’t stop herself. You whimpered into her mouth, hands on her bare waist. She dragged you the rest of the way up, pinning you to the wall at the top of the stairs. You groaned, pressing her closer, wanting her everywhere. One leg slotted between yours and the noise you made would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so lost in her. Her thigh pressed against you, just enough pressure to have you grinding down, seeking out more.

“So needy, pet,” she murmured against your lips.

“Want you,” you managed to choke out before her tongue was in your mouth again and you were rolling your hips against her thigh.

“When I fuck you, it won’t be against the wall,” she said.

She tugged you further down the hall, slamming open a door to what you hoped would be your final destination. Her lips were on yours again, possessing you, guiding you where she wanted you. She paused, just long enough to tear your t-shirt from your body, flinging it aside.

Her lips trailed down your neck, latching on at your pulse point. You whined, tipping your head back to give her more access. You felt on fire. Her hands were skating over your bare skin, nails dragging in a delicious way, making you gasp out her name in a plea for more.

Rather than give in and give you instant gratification, she took her time with you. Her hands were slow but sure as she peeled your clothes from your body. It was the same level of precision she used in her work, getting exactly what she wanted. Only this time, you were the thing she wanted.

When she lowered you onto the bed, you were bare before her. Your usual self consciousness was washed away in the tide of your longing for her. Her eyes swept over you, lingering, taking their time to drink you in in your entirety. Her fingers played with your nipples, watching with an academic interest as you arched up, your small whines doing nothing to spur her on.

Holding your eyes, she pressed kisses to your skin, soft and slow, making her way down your body, lingering the closer she got to the apex of your thighs. You trembled, fingers clenching in the comforter.

“You keep your hands right there, pet,” she said, staring up your body.

You nodded, willing to agree to anything she asked of you in that moment.

“Good girl,” she said before her lips pressed to the crease where your hip met your thigh. You inhaled sharply and she grinned. Her teeth sunk in, leaving a dark bruise on your skin as she sucked on it.

She hovered for a moment, her breath ghosting over where you wanted her the most. You pulsed, suspended in the moment before her mouth made contact with you. Her hands curled around your thighs, holding you open for her as her tongue ran through your folds. You cried out, hips bucking up into her mouth.

She chuckled, the vibrations going through you in a way that made you feel like you were being undone. Her tongue teased you again before pressing against your bundle of nerves. You whined, fingers clenching, her name a prayer on your lips. She pinned your hips to the bed, giving your clit a harsh suck. The feeling ricocheted through you, fire curling in your veins, your muscles tightening.

She feasted on you. Relentless, unforgiving, refusing to give you a chance to breathe. She was like a woman possessed, singular in her intent, putting everything into her goal. She was taking you apart, slowly and surely, and all you could hope was that she’d put you back together again when she was done.

Her fingers slid inside of you, so easily it would be embarrassing under other circumstances. They were slow at first, teasing and never giving you quite enough. But then she curled them, pressing into the special place no one but you had managed to find. Your legs trembled.

“I’m so close,” you whimpered.

“No you don’t, pet,” she said, “you don’t come until I say so.”

“But-“ you tried to argue.

“You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?” she asked, cutting you off, thumb running in slow circles over your clit.

“Yes,” you replied, whiney and desperate.

“Then don’t you dare come without my permission,” she said, face lowering back to your throbbing core.

Her tongue was back on your clit as her fingers continued to stroke inside of you. You trembled, shaking, trying so hard to stave off your oncoming orgasm. Tears pricked in your eyes, fingers clenching tightly on the hold you had on the sheets until it hurt. She kept going, ruthless in what she wanted. She had complete control over you.

It was so close, you could practically taste it. You were straining, doing everything you could not to tip over the edge. She was a master of your body, able to play it to perfection. Her tongue kept dragging over your clit, sucking on it, fingers twisting and curling, dragging out every iota of pleasure your body held.

“Agatha,” you sobbed, “please.”

Blue eyes stared up at you, dark and dangerous.

“Please,” you begged.

Her fingers gave another slow stroke. You whimpered, your entire body on fire, wound tight as you did what you were told. You always did what she told you to do.

“Go on, pet,” she said, “keep your eyes on me and you can come.”

You let out a relieved breath. When you let yourself go, the wave of pleasure crashed into you, wave after wave. She held your gaze the entire time, drinking in the way pleasure contorted your body. The way you cried out her name felt holy, a cry of worship as you stared into her eyes.

When she drew back, she held her hand up, tongue running up her fingers. You reached out, grasping her wrist. She let you pull her hand towards you, your lips sliding down her fingers, lapping your arousal from her skin. Her eyes smouldered as she watched you, a pleased smirk on her lips.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you pet,” she murmured, gently stroking you hair with her other hand. The pulse of pleasure that went through you was bright and intense. You liked being her good girl.

Your tongue swirled over each digit, cleaning her up as best you could. A flicker of fondness passed over her face before she pulled it away from you. Leaning forward, her lips pressed against yours, rough and intense, passionate in ways you hadn’t experienced with anyone else. It made you feel wanted, desired, the way you always felt wanted with her. After all, she’d agreed to take you on for your senior thesis when she so rarely took people on.

“Alright, kitten,” she whispered against your lips, “let’s see how many times I can make you come tonight before you beg me to stop.”

When you awoke in the morning, deliciously sore and definitely sated, you rolled over in the large bed, hands reaching for the warm body you were expecting to find beside you. All you found was cool sheets. Squinting your eyes open, the light was still kept at bay from the drawn curtains, but the room was empty of another person. You sat up, rumpled and unsure.

You slipped out of the bed, tugging your clothes back on but your feet bare. You were slow as you eased the door open, padding out onto the landing you’d paid no attention to the night before. On silent feet, you descended to the lower level of the house, following the sound you could just hear.

Agatha was in the kitchen, her back to you, encased in a flowing silk robe. You blinked, pausing as you drank her in. Her hair, wild and out of control, long fingers tapping on the counter, legs bare where they peeked out the bottom of the robe. She was breathtaking in the morning light.

“You’re staring, kitten,” she said, voice still rough from sleep.

“Sorry,” you said, slipping into the kitchen proper.

She turned her head, glancing at you over her shoulder. Her eyebrows drew together and the corner of her lips turned down.

“Why are you dressed?” she asked, stepping away from the counter, “were you planning on sneaking out in the morning?”

“No, I… I wasn’t sure what was appropriate,” you said.

“Please tell me this wasn’t your first time,” she said.

“Of course not,” you said, “although I suppose it is my first time with my professor,”

She hummed but didn’t give you more of an answer. Anxiety was seeping into your body now.

“I thought you might want me to leave.”

Her eyes snapped back to you, displeasure painting her features.

“Come here.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m not going to ask again, pet,” she said, voice hardened, “come. Here.”

On soft feet you approached her. With sure hands she caught you, fingers pressing into your hips as she held you tightly. Your eyes darted around her face before dragging down. Bare skin met your eyes until the shadow of the robe obscured her from your vision. She was naked under the robe and there was still a part of you that wanted to unwrap her like a present.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked, gaining your attention again.

Your eyes snapped up to hers and you shook your head.

“I thought I’d made it obvious that the only place I want you is with me,” she said, “the only person I want you thinking about is me. The only person I want touching you is me.”

You trembled.

“Do you want that too, kitten?” she asked, drawing closer.

“Yes,” you breathed out.

“Then you’re mine, pet,” she said, her nose skimming along the curve of your jaw.

Her hand squeezed your hips and her lips pressed to the vulnerable skin behind your jaw before she pulled away. Your breath caught and you felt lightheaded. You ached to pull her back to you, to lose yourself in the feeling of her body and her skin and her mouth. Would you ever stop feeling this way with her? You didn’t think so.

“Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been pushing you too hard lately. You can have the weekend off,” she said.

“Oh.” You were still trembling from the brush of her lips and her words, “thanks.”

“So you won’t be needing those clothes,” she said, flippant and dismissive, “you certainly won’t be in them long.”

You flushed, cheeks heating. There was a twist to her lips, amusement twinkling in her eyes. You slipped closer to her again, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Whatever you want, Agatha,” you whispered.

“All I want is you, pet,” she replied.

Turns out, all you wanted was her too.

[c1phra]

Hugo relationship headcanons... please..... feed the starving........

... ❝ RELATIONSHIP HCS! ❞ ft. hugo x reader

𝒾. ⠀FEATURING : an assortment of headcanons about your relationship with hugo!

꒰ contents ꒱ mild spoilers for hugo's backstory i guess? gn!reader. fluff. headcanons. wc : 1052

꒰ notes ꒱ HIII ANON!! thank you for the request hehe i hope this is to your liking, i'm still getting a grasp on his character :")) + @rainswept hugo tag <3

a relationship with hugo is not easy. not at first, at least.

despite his collected exterior, the scars of his past still sting when pressed, and it's a pain not easy to ignore, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he has healed. it takes a while to allow himself to open up enough to begin the relationship in the first place, let alone let his guards fall, one by one...

but he'll manage. he's nothing if not resilient; give him time, patience, and the chance to ask you out himself, and he will be the most attentive lover you've ever had.

it starts with the classic: flowers, a huge bouquet that takes two hands to hold, and a box of chocolates. he's calm when he's handing them to you, his voice even as he spits out the confession speech that took hours in the mirror to prepare, but his mind is going haywire, worrying about whether it's too much, too soon. maybe he should have stuck with just the chocolates after all, or even just a smaller bunch of roses, or something else entirely—

he's thankful you don't let him languish in his thoughts for too long, cutting off his overthinking with a simple “yes.” it takes all he can to restrain himself from breaking out into relieved laughter at your response.

it's all history from there. when you're with hugo, nothing is ever boring; he'd consider it a personal affront for his beloved to be disinterested when they're out with him. no matter what you're doing, be it an extravagant day out, or quiet night in, there's always something to look forward to.

the more elaborate dates are what he leans towards in the beginning, as a means to impress you—dinners at the most high-end restaurants, and tours of art galleries—but it's the simple ones where he truly shines. when all of the grandeur and showiness is melted away, when it's just the two of you curled up under a weighted blanket with some trashy rom-com playing in the background, that's when he truly feels at home.

at the start of the relationship he's careful with his affection. even the most innocuous gestures are subtle tests, experimenting to see what you are and aren't comfortable with. pet names are one of the first things he tries out, a genuine “darling,” or “sweetheart,” slipped into the teasing, overly sappy “honey-pie,” and “snookums.”

when it comes to physical affection though, he tends to be... flighty.

a part of it is the natural touch-starvation that comes with being deprived of gentle touch for so long, but another is the fact that he simply doesn't know how to respond to it. it's not that he's opposed to the feeling, he simply prefers to be the one to touch you, to ensure he keeps some level of control over the situation.

it makes it easier. safer. if he knows if and when it happens, he doesn't have to worry about the instinctual recoil that happens whenever you suddenly grab his arm, or the overwhelming swell of emotion in his chest when you kiss his cheek. after a while, the instinct starts to dull, but it never quite ceases fully.

in any case, he doesn't stop you from touching him, (he doesn't know if he could bring himself to, even if he wanted to) but he favours the touches that he's warned about beforehand. ask for a kiss, and he'll never refuse; motion for a hug, and his arms will be open and waiting.

he tends to mirror what you like; every touch—even the ones that seem casual—is another test of what you're receptive to. once he's satisfied with his understanding of your boundaries, your wants and needs, he's more than happy to indulge you—no matter how much or how little you like.

one thing he does like is when you're walking together, he enjoys having you hold his arm, instead of his hand. it feels so much more intimate somehow, having your hands linked through his arm. he can't help but glance over at you every few seconds, a wide grin breaking over his face as he realizes how lucky he is.

hugo is extremely perceptive to how you feel, almost scarily so. there's no use trying to hide anything from him. surprises, secrets, suppressed feelings, he notices it all. if there's an issue in your relationship, he doesn't let it linger; he sits you down and confronts it together.

and if you're having problems of your own, he's also there to help. he might be slightly overzealous with helping you fix whatever you have going on, but he's more than willing to just listen if that's what you need. either way, he can't stand the idea of you keeping something to yourself when it's clearly troubling you.

somehow, despite his directness when it comes to resolving conflict, the first “i love you,” takes a while. it's a difficult sentence for him to muster up, even if it's been months since you got together. in a way, it's the weight of it that holds him back. speaking it aloud

so he saves it for a moment that seems casual, perhaps to steel his nerves slightly, or to simply soften the blow. it happens when you're half asleep, mid-way through your nightly routine. he's on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water when he pauses by you in the bathroom, kisses your temple and whispers an “i love you,” into your hair.

in fact, you're so tired that you don't even notice it at first, simply humming in response as he ducks out of the room. it's a few seconds later when the words finally process, and you almost drop the toothbrush in your hand.

what follows is you dashing to the kitchen to confront him, a flurry of questions on your lips. he's frustratingly impassive with his responses, an air of forced calmness about him, as if he hadn't just shocked your entire system. the bewilderment on your face is amusing to a degree, but there's an anxiousness that accompanies it; one that doesn't ease until he hears those sweet, four words that he's been craving ever since the day he asked you to be his.

“i love you too.”

©c1phra 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[alchemistc]

Based on my own post from earlier this evening because I can't stop thinking about it.

vanilla

He doesn't mean to see it. He swears. It's just - Tommy's laptop is right there and Buck's is all the way in the office and if he doesn't look up the lifespan of a Cecropia moth right now he's going to forget about it for a month only to remember in the middle of something vitally more important than watching Planet Earth reruns.

So he twists the thing around from its spot on the side table, boots it back up, types in Tommy's password (pA$$word3, because no one would ever guess that he'd be both so lazy and so creative in his laziness), and watches Firefox boot itself up. It's an older laptop, and Tommy doesn't take great care of it - case and point, he didn't even close out of his tabs, they're all still there, and - well. Shit.

That's the most ridiculous dildo he's ever seen.

Biggest, too.

Jesus.

Buck immediately forgets 100% of what he was doing.

And - and looking up Tommy's history is absolutely a line crossed - there's no reason for him to fucking spiral just because there's a bright purple dragon something on the screen with a base as wide as Buck's thigh. There's no reason why he should -

He clicks the search history and regrets it pretty immediately.

That kills two hours.

He has three more until Tommy's off shift, and now everything is worse. Because.

Okay so.

Like.

They have a pretty healthy sex life, Buck thinks. A year into Tommy and Buck Part Two and they still can't keep their hands off each other. And - so, like, sue him for preferring all the boring stuff he never really got to enjoy long term - the way he knows Tommy goes a little crazy when they're lying on their sides and Buck can just slip right in and press his lips to Tommy's shoulder, tuck his hand under Tommy's where he's got it on his chest, curl their fingers together and just breath into each thrust. Sue him for liking it when they're face to face and Tommy's looking up at him with the pads of his fingers tracing the shell of Buck's ear and he can see the love love love in his eyes, see the way his tongue curls out Buck's name like a prayer. Sue him for his fantasies always drifting to that sunny afternoon in their bed, Buck on his belly and Tommy everywhere around him, over him, inside of him, humming useless nothings into Buck's ear while the sweat from their skin eased the chafe of being pressed together from pelvis to collarbone.

Buck picks up his phone. Watches the familiar name ring out one, two, three - answered on the fourth ring.

"Am I not kinky enough, do you think?" Buck asks, and gets a drawn out moment of silence.

"Nope," Ravi says, and the call drops.

And who else is he gonna call, really? Hen and Chim? (Hard no, they nipped that in the bud back when Buck and Tommy were still in Part One) Maddie? Another line too far, but this one he doesn't feel like crossing today. Eddie? If he'd even pick up?

Buck dials out again.

Ravi picks up on the second ring. "Buck, I love you man, but I get a front row seat to your little love fest at least once a week, four hours a night. I am not equipped or willing to help you with your sex life."

Fair. That's fair. Boundaries are important. Ravi does an excellent job of setting his up and announcing where they are.

"It's just I found something in Tommy's browser that -."

"Absolutely not. I'll block your number for twenty-four hours."

"Right. Cool. Sure thing." Buck breathes.

"Talk to Tommy, if you're freaking out about it." Ravi caves, just a bit. "Every time. I say this every time, and it always works, doesn't it?"

True. On both accounts. When did Ravi become his go to guy?

(When he started picking up the phone whenever Buck called. When he came to Buck with his own shit and didn't apologize for it.)

"Yeah. You're right. I'm gonna talk to him."

"We're still on for Friday, right?"

Buck has to search his memory to figure out what he's referencing. Tommy's taking Ravi to the farmers market over in Venice Beach that Buck refuses to go to on principle because Sherri's Treats aren't even homemade. She gets the baked goods from Costco and decorates them with store brand icing.

"Talk to Tommy," Buck throws back, just to be a brat, and Ravi sighs.

"Touche."

He's still freaking out when the call ends three minutes later, and he doesn't want to have to pull this trigger.

Except. Like. It's still there. Right on Tommy's screen. Watching him.

The phone rings six times.

He's contemplating how ridiculous it is to leave a voicemail when Lucy answers with a groggy "'lo?"

"Am I not kinky enough?" Buck asks, and gets the start of a cackle and then a long, slow pause.

She's gonna hang up on him. She's absolutely going to -

"It's ten-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, Buckley."

And it sure is.

God, this would never have happened if he hadn't started an update on his phone mid-episode.

"Walk me through it," she continues, all business, all of a sudden, and so Buck tells her, grateful for her hums and uhuh's as she starts her day. Buck talks over the sound of her brushing her teeth, and pouring her coffee, and absolutely doesn't mention that he thinks she should probably have better sleeping patterns while he spirals about Tommy being unsatisfied with the sex they have.

"Gonna break bro code here a little to tell you you have literally nothing to worry about there. Seriously. You're getting gold stars every night, I promise you."

"He's been looking up gimp suits and gags, Lucy!"

She's quiet on the other end, for a moment.

Then she starts laughing.

Again.

Which is a great feeling for Buck. He loves it when Lucy laughs at him.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. Honey those aren't for you."

Well, now he's kinda mad at the implication that Tommy would -

"Not for Tommy, either," she interrupts, like she knows where that spiral leads. "I forgot what time of year it was. This is new for you."

"What's new for me?"

He can picture the sly grin on her face as she pours something into a bowl - milk maybe. Then cereal.

God, what a psycho.

"Tommy and an army buddy of his have had this escalating prank war going on for like...seven, eight years? I don't know, I wasn't here at the start of it, but I guess it started as the most heterosexual man you've ever met trying to be a good ally to his newly out buddy and sending a set of butt plugs to the only address of Tommy's he had available."

Weird. But not the weirdest thing he's ever heard. "Which was?"

"Oh, Harbor. Yeah. Got it his first week there. So now every year on the anniversary they try to send each other shit at work that should technically be grounds for a sexual harassment claim from their coworkers. Last year Tommy got a fully custom furry suit. Dude probably dropped thirty grand on that thing."

He shouldn't ask. He definitely shouldn't -

"It was a horse. Because of his big fat -."

"I get the picture, thanks."

"So yeah. It's coming up on time for them to push a boundary a little too far and actually have someone complain about it, this time. They won't stop until one of them gets a write up."

It's kinda funny. Kinda sweet, too, in that really weird way military men are with each other. Irrationally, Buck kinda wants to slew foot the guy for being an unintentionally massive flirt.

Straight dudes are the literal worst at allyship, in the weirdest ways possible.

"He's out of state, so don't go getting territorial, Buckley."

Never gonna live that down.

"But seriously though? Back to the original point. Which is you freaking out that Tommy is unsatisfied in your sex life. Number one: talk to him. You guys are the actual worst. Always gotta have a second opinion before you bite the bullet and do the normal thing. Number two: I know too much. And I know you have nothing to worry about. Number three: when he gets home I want you to record his reaction when you turn the laptop screen on him like a spurned wife and send it to me. I'm having a bad day. I could use the entertainment."

"You just woke up."

"And had to talk an old coworker down from a ledge about how satisfying his sex life is with a current coworker. Bareback, no lube, just wake up and go."

"I think this also counts as sexual harassment."

"You started this conversation with 'am I kinky enough' so I'm not super concerned."

By the time he gets off the phone with Lucy he's very firmly on solid ground. And also wondering exactly how much Tommy actually talks about their sex life when he's not around. Tommy keeps things pretty close to the vest. He can't imagine he's going around bragging about that time he started crying when Buck hit his prostate right as he licked into his mouth and slid a hand up his arm to link their fingers together.

Maybe in less detail.

Something about seeing God, maybe. That seems more like his style.

---

Tommy has a routine, when he gets home from work. Keys hung up, jacket on the coat rack, duffle tucked into one of the cubbies of his makeshift mud room. Shoes under the bench, two minutes of head scritches for Goose as she meows her way down the hall to greet the only man she'll ever love.

(Buck's super cool about the fact that Tommy's breakup cat hates him. Totally chill.)

When Goose has had her fill and darted off to go bounce off the walls of the office, Tommy likes to amble in to whatever room Buck is in and drape himself across Buck's back for a moment, mouth pressed to the knob of Buck's spine, hands roaming for a moment before he manages a greeting.

He's making risotto for dinner when he hears the lock click in the front door.

He's ignoring Lucy's text reminding him to get a reaction shot.

He listens to Tommy talk back to Goose like he understands every "mrow" listens for the shuffle of socked feet down the hall, listens to him pad across the kitchen tiles, braces himself for the dead weight of Tommy against his back.

Tommy's got a hand halfway up his shirt when he mumbles into Buck's ear. "So I hear we have something to talk about."

"Ravi snitched."

"Ravi still thinks I'm the sensible one, of the two of us."

Buck snorts. Tips his head back against Tommy's shoulder and basks in the moment while Tommy buries his nose behind Buck's ear.

"Before I say anything else, I know you said I can use your laptop whenever I want but you should know I definitely snooped where I shouldn't and jumped to some wild conclusions. Which Lucy has already cleared up on your behalf, because apparently we're both too chicken shit to have a conversation without using a lifeline."

Tommy stills. "I didn't close out my browser session last time, did I?"

"You did not."

"And Lucy told you about the horse costume Dom sent me last year."

"She sure did. She very specifically called it a furry suit, though."

Tommy blows out an exasperated breath against his neck. "And you were freaking out because...?"

"I thought maybe you were bored with the sex we have."

That gets Tommy going. He pulls free just to get enough leverage to spin Buck to face him, hands on his hips and eyes catching Buck's like if he doesn't see Buck's eyes in the next five seconds he'll do something crazy, and Buck doesn't really know how he got so lucky but he's not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it's a furry.

"Evan. Please understand when I say this I'm not exaggerating. Our sex is life altering. I want to have slow, quiet, vanilla sex with you until the day I die."

"Which won't be for like another fifty years."

Tommy hums. "I'm gonna be popping Blue Chew when I'm ninety-five and have two bum hips."

"Oh, so I have to do all the work?"

"Why do you think I dated younger?"

Buck has to kiss him about it. And then he has to pull back and duck his head to remind Tommy of the part he blazed right past. "Full disclosure, when I said I snooped I meant I went into your search history."

Tommy's chuckle shakes them both. "I figured. You go back far enough to find the single porn link in amidst all the shitty plastic used actuators for sale on eBay?"

"I'm not a masochist, Tommy." Figures he'd get so frustrated looking for a part to fix the rattling in the Jeeps dash he'd want to rub one out. Usually takes him more than a single video, though. Probably he'd decided he'd feel too guilty to actually get off until he had the part ordered.

Tommy shifts his weight a bit. Wedges a knee in between Buck's legs. His eyes get that sparkle to them that means he finds Buck to be an adorable menace. "How married to the risotto are you?" he asks, hands shifting from Buck's hips to behind his thighs.

"Not - not terribly." It had been a distraction from thinking about Tommy's army buddy, mostly. The recipe still isn't perfected and even though Tommy's complimented it every time, Buck can tell it's missing something and Tommy is just letting him figure it out on his own.

"Maybe we could order in and I can show you how satisfied I am with your service."

"We - that's definitely an option. On the table."

"How about this very sturdy counter, instead?"

They haven't done it somewhere not-the-bed in months.

Their knees aren't gonna thank them for it.

Buck has to attempt to ignore Tommy mouthing at his neck to remember if there are enough ice packs in the freezer for the both of them, right now.

"Yeah - yep, let's do that instead."

Tommy gets both hands under his ass and lifts.

He doesn't quite swoon over the move, anymore, but it still makes him more than a little giddy.

"Wait, did you decide on the dildo over the gimp suit, because if you're escalating at the same rate as your friend I think -."

"Can we talk about Dom after I get my satisfaction scores in, please?"

"Shutting up now."

"I don't believe that for a second," Tommy says, and then shuts him up with his mouth anyway, just for good measure.

[differenteagletragedy]

Price who gets a little older and finally retires but is BORED OUT OF HIS MIND.

He's right around 50, give or take a few years, and years of active duty plus a shot to the leg made it so that he can't do his job the way he used to, and damned if he's going to ride a desk and watch the rest of his team flit in and out doing what he should be doing. So he takes the pension and leaves.

It's less than a month of trying (and failing miserably) to sleep in, starting (and failing miserably) to grow a garden, reading and smoking cigars on his porch (that part goes all right) before he's about to rip his hair out. He ends up takin a job as an adjunct professor at the local university, teaching history.

And he ADORES it, so much more than he thought he would. He gets paid to run his mouth about World War II, something he would most definitely do for free, and he finds it surprisingly rewarding to interact with the students. He always loved taking care of those under him, and this is another version of that. He's a natural born leader, and while teaching is less regimented, it still fulfills something in him.

Another unexpected perk? You.

One of his more attentive students, always sitting in the front row, eyes wide and focused on him -- always on him. You hang on his every word during lectures, jotting down notes and asking questions, offering observations. You're bright, funny when the opportunity arises, and the way you just listen to him so well ... you're young enough to be his daughter, but beautiful enough for him not to be too bothered about it.

Not that it matters anyway. Nothing will ever happen, he knows that. He's your professor, he's sure you see him as an old man, if you even see him as a man at all.

What he doesn't know, however, is that you don't only listen because you're a good student. You listen because he's got the hottest voice you've ever heard, you pay attention because sometimes the dress shirts he wears stretch a little too tightly over his broad, well-muscled shoulders. You hover at his desk after class and ask him questions because you're genuinely curious, sure, but also because that close, you can smell him -- a rich tobacco scent that you're pretty sure you could become addicted to.

"Excellent work, as always," he tells you in that low, gruff voice one day during his office hours. You'd stopped by to get him to take a look at a rough draft of an essay you were writing for him. "You've definitely got an interesting point of view, sweetheart."

He glances up at you, a small, tight grin on his face, and you positively beam at him.

It was a slip of the tongue on his part, the pet name, and he's just about to smooth over it, a quick apology, but when he sees how your eyes light up at the tiny bit of affection, he can't bring himself to do it.

After all, it doesn't really matter, does it? He tells himself again that nothing will ever happen. And if more little names slip out, if maybe he hovers a little too close over your desk when you have a question in class, or if his shoulder brushes against yours when you're reading something in his office? Well, then that won't matter either, will it?

[neonbonded]

MC is an independent, strong woman—we love her for that—but what if… what if she told the LIs she wanted to quit her job and go full-on wife, kids, stay-at-home life? I feel like it’d be fluffy and hilarious like Sylus and Caleb would be over the moon spoiling her into the richest most pampered wife in the country, and Xavier would immediately start making babies lol

Stay-At-Home Sweetheart

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader ♡ cw: fluff, future talk, domestic life, possessiveness, soft power fantasies, rich boyfriend behavior ♡ a/n: thank you for the suggestion—this was such a fun little fluffy write! I hope you enjoy your taste of spoiled wife life

CALEB — “So you’re telling me… I get to spoil you forever?”

You say it offhandedly.

You’re sitting in his lap, one leg draped lazily over his thigh, sipping tea in your sleep shirt while he’s scrolling through post-mission reports.

You don’t even think he’s really listening when you mumble,

“What if I just quit and stayed home full time? Cooked, cleaned, wore pretty dresses. Full wife mode.”

But Caleb freezes.

Like you slapped him with an engagement ring.

His hands drop to your hips. His head tilts. He stares at you like you just offered him divinity.

“Wait. Say that again.”

You blink. “I said maybe I want to be a stay-at-home—”

“Wife.” “You said wife. Don’t skip the good part.”

You try to laugh it off. “I mean, it’s a dumb idea—”

“No, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

And he’s already spiraling.

Out loud.

“You’d look so good barefoot in the kitchen. No. Wait. In my t-shirt. Holding a toddler and a spatula. Crying over a baking fail while I kiss it better—Jesus Christ.”

You: “You okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

Five minutes later, he’s dragging out a notepad and scribbling:

“Baby name list, but chaotic: Nova, Toast, Jellybean???”

“Do we buy a second house or just knock out the wall next door?”

“I need to up my life insurance because you’re not lifting anything heavier than a glass of wine ever again.”

You tease him—ask if he’s going to make you do laundry, too.

His response?

“You? Laundry? No. You’ll be too busy getting railed over the dryer while I fold towels with one hand.”

You: “CALEB.”

He grabs your face in both hands, deadly serious.

“I love your independence. Your brilliance. Your strength.”

A pause.

“But if you ever, ever, give me permission to spoil you full-time, to keep you warm and soft and loved and mine all day long?”

“I will become the most insufferable, overprotective, apron-wearing husband in recorded history.”

And the worst part?

He’s dead serious.

There’s already a Pinterest board. And a credit card. And probably a draft resignation email saved to your tablet—you didn’t write it.

But Caleb?

He’s just… ready.

Because to him, you are home. And if you want to stay there forever?

He’ll make it a kingdom.

XAVIER —“If that’s what you want… I’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s quiet.

Late evening, somewhere between mission fatigue and domestic stillness. You’re both curled up on the couch—your legs stretched across his lap, his hand absently resting on your shin.

He’s reading through intel logs. You’re chewing on the corner of a cookie. The room smells like his tea and your lotion and something safe.

And then you say it. Casual. Sleepy. Barely even meaning to.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting fieldwork. Just staying home. Full wife era. Maybe some kids. You’d visit on lunch breaks, and I’d make bad pancakes in your hoodie.”

You don’t even look at him right away. You expect a raised brow. A quiet “You’d get bored in a week.”

But instead?

Silence.

Followed by the soft slide of a datapad being set down.

Then his hand curls around your ankle. Just slightly. Anchoring.

“You’d really want that?”

You glance over.

His face is still neutral—stoic, quiet, unreadable—but his eyes?

Locked on you. Sharp. Focused. Lit with something that looks too much like longing to be casual.

You nod, shy. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just sounds… nice.”

He’s quiet for a second longer.

Then?

“Then we should start planning.”

You blink. “Planning what?”

“Everything.”

And then—without a hint of irony:

“I’ll map out when I can reduce field time. We’ll need a safer neighborhood. Somewhere with open sky. Room for a crib.”

You stare.

“Wait, are you being serious—?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says simply. “You said kids. You want to stay home. That’s not something I’d let you do alone.”

His fingers trace a line down your calf.

Soft. Possessive.

“You want a family with me.”

You flush. “I said maybe—”

“Maybe is enough.”

He leans in. Presses a kiss to your knee.

“We’d be good at it. You’d be good at it.”

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he usually lets himself sound:

“I think I’ve wanted that longer than I realized.”

You’re too stunned to reply.

So he does what he always does: fills the silence with something that sounds like logic but bleeds affection around the edges.

“We’ll need to track your cycle,” he murmurs. “If we’re going to do this properly.”

You: “XAVIER—”

He shrugs. Calm. Unfazed.

“I’ve already marked probable dates.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or climb into his lap and tell him to start now.

(You do both.)

RAFAYEL — “My muse… in an apron? I need to sit down.”

He’s painting.

Or pretending to.

Really, he’s mostly shirtless, barefoot, standing in the center of his studio surrounded by chaotic swatches of violet and gold while a brush dangles lazily between two fingers.

And you?

You’re curled up on the floor near the open window, sipping tea, flipping through a magazine when you say:

“I kind of want to quit working. Just stay home. Full-time wife. Cook, nap, look hot, raise tiny artistic children who only wear linen and answer to names like Moth and Cypress.”

You mean it jokingly.

Casually.

But the sound of a paintbrush hitting the floor makes your head snap up.

Rafayel’s just staring at you.

Mouth slightly open.

Eyes blown wide.

“You…” he breathes. “You want to be mine?”

You blink. “I— I am yours?”

“No, no. I mean domestically. Biblically. Artistically. Legally.”

And then?

He drops to one knee in the most chaotic half-prayer, half-shock position you’ve ever seen.

“I always knew you were divinely unhinged, but this—this is the final painting. My muse. My wife. My aproned disaster angel. I need a moment.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He lunges for you.

Pulls you into his lap on the floor, paint still wet on his hands, smearing across your shirt like it’s a signature.

“Say it again.”

You: “What?”

“That you want to stay home. That you want to make soup and babies and let me buy you pastel oven mitts.”

You laugh. “I mean, I do like pastel.”

“We’ll get matching ones. For the baby.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

“Rafayel—”

“I want them to have your mouth and my hair. Or your hair and my mouth. Either way, they’ll be dramatic and ruinous.”

He starts sketching. On your thigh. With paint-stained fingers.

“Tiny limbs. Stubborn expression. Covered in jam. Perfect.”

You can’t stop laughing now, your face buried in his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be more excited about this than me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, kissing your collarbone. “I’ve been ready to ruin you with love since the moment you snuck into my studio and insulted my color palette.”

You whisper, “So you’d really want that?”

And for once, he goes still.

Serious.

His fingers curl at your waist.

“I’d worship you every day for it.”

“I’d paint your swollen belly and your tired eyes and your messy hair like it’s the only truth I’ve ever known.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to be anything for me. But if you want to just… be loved? Be kept?”

His voice drops.

“I was made for that.”

ZAYNE — “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

You say it on a Tuesday.

The apartment smells like coffee and something citrusy—probably the linen spray you used on the couch that made him sneeze earlier.

You’re curled into the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under you, still in one of his oversized shirts from last night. Your hair’s a mess. Your heart? Still not at full strength after last month’s mission.

Zayne’s at the kitchen island, scrolling through research on his tablet.

And that’s when you say it:

“I’m thinking of quitting.”

His eyes don’t move at first.

Just a slow blink. Still calm.

“Quitting…?”

You shrug, voice light. “Hunting. The whole thing. Maybe it’s time. I could stay home. Rest. Get spoiled. Be your sexy little housewife or whatever.”

You expect a scoff.

Some half-snide retort.

Instead?

He sets the tablet down.

Quietly.

Then walks over.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He crouches in front of you.

Not joking. Not teasing.

Just… looking.

“Say it again.”

You falter. “That I want to quit?”

He nods once. Slow. Like he’s memorizing every word.

And then?

He exhales. Deep. Controlled.

“Good.”

“Zayne?”

His hand comes up to your chest—right over your heart. Like he’s checking it. Like he always does. Thumb brushing that familiar spot beneath your collarbone.

“Do you know what it’s been like watching you come home hurt?” he says softly. “Waiting to see if you’ll faint halfway through a sentence because your pulse is erratic again?”

You go quiet.

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle.

“You think I didn’t notice how your hands were shaking after that last field run? Or how long you spent in the medbay?”

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“I do worry.”

A pause.

Then—

“But if you’re really done… if I can finally stop wondering whether your heart will give out before mine ever gets the chance to break…”

He trails off.

Then rests his forehead against your knees.

Breath shaky. But steadying.

“Then I’ll build you the quietest life imaginable.”

“You’ll never have to lift a finger again. Not if I can help it.”

You lean down, fingers threading through his hair.

He presses a kiss to your thigh.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he whispers.

And for the first time in months?

He doesn’t check your pulse again.

Because for once, he can feel it—steady. Safe. Home.

SYLUS — “You want to be mine? Fully? Then say it again.”

It starts as a joke.

Just a passing comment while you’re still half-asleep in his bed, buried in his obscenely expensive sheets.

“I think I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

You say it with a yawn. Barely conscious.

But Sylus?

He stills.

Lays back on the pillow and turns his head toward you.

His eyes narrow just slightly. That unreadable look—the one that means he’s calculating something dangerous in the background.

“Say that again.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What?”

“What you just said.”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “I said I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

His smirk curves slow and sharp.

He sits up. Drapes one arm across the headboard. The sheets slide down his chest, revealing the fine lines of muscle.

“Finally,” he murmurs.

“Finally what?”

He leans in.

“Finally you’re giving me an excuse to spoil the hell out of you without pretending to feel guilty about it.”

You blink. “Wait, I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.”

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“I’ve seen the way you melt when I buy you things. The way you light up when I feed you. The way you pout when I’m gone too long.”

He grabs his phone from the nightstand.

You frown. “What are you doing?”

“Canceling every mission you had this week.”

Tap. Tap.

“Calling my architect to add another garden wing to the house.”

Tap.

“And messaging my tailor to start designing custom loungewear.”

“…Sylus.”

“You’ll need something to wear while you parade around this apartment doing absolutely nothing except looking pretty.”

You try to sit up, but he throws an arm around your waist and pulls you into his lap instead.

“No more early meetings. No more danger. No more stress.”

His fingers trail down your spine.

“Just this. Me. Spoiling you.”

You blink up at him. “What if I get bored?”

He smiles slowly. Dangerous and amused.

“Then I’ll give you something to do.”

“Like what?”

His voice drops.

“Like carrying my last name.”

“Like letting me put a baby in you.”

You go silent.

Your face heats.

And Sylus?

He just hums against your neck.

“Thought so.”

“Now shut up and let me shop for your new walk-in closet.”

[chevxyn]

VIDEO GAME LOVER!

you guys met at a roblox game, which game did you meet and how did it went?

featuring; nagi, hiori (bllk). kenma, suna (hq) x you.

crackfic, romantic outcome.

NAGI SEISHIRO

you both met at royale high— he was one of those jake/single/prince guy as a joke, and you wanted to be a troll for him.

you met him at the cafeteria of royale high, you saw him and his terrible name— wanting to mess with the (what you thought) kid, seeing him all alone in the corner, you joined his seat. and the conversation went like this:

you : hii!

nagi : hey

you : ur very cute :3

nagi : thx, u too

you two kinda went back and forth (trolling eachother by flirting) until someone in chat went ‘eww’ and then he private chatted you.

nagi : ur not a 12 year old aren’t u

you : nope

right after that, he sent you a friend request. and that was history, after 2 years— both of you met and strangely enough, actually started dating after catching feelings for one another.

HIORI YO

you both met at life in paradise— he was a random guy that you picked up to be the father of your kids

he was just a random guy that was chilling outside the adoption center, when you pulled the hearts item to him cause you were bored. seeing that, he wanted to mess with you, so he pulled the hearts item from his inventory too.

from there, he sorta just followed you around as you took (kidnapped) 2 kids to roleplay with. but with your odd way of roleplaying and raising the kids, he immediately catched on that you’re most likely a troll and not a kid playing this game.

hiori : why are u giving our kids that

you : it’s healthy

hiori : that’s literally metal

you : it’s natural, so technically it’s healthy

that’s when he shot you a friend request, after around a year— you both face revealed to eachother and began a long distance relationship after learning about eachother.

KOZUME KENMA

you both met at arsenal, you were the always ranked first player until he came and then he destroyed you.

you were peacefully playing, destroying all these children until a player called “kodzuken” joined the game. safe to say, you were humbled. the guy would always choose the other team, or the team where you’re not on.

not to mention, always targetting you, and he never missed. being a little annoyed, you wanted to leave the game but decided to stay until you finally get your revenge. but after countless of times, he private chatted you.

kenma : just give up lol

you : no

kenma : i will keep targeting you

you : alr then vro

and so you did— well, tried to get your revenge. when you thought you won when his profile wasn’t in the leaderboard, you suddenly realized; he had left. curious, you went to check who kodzuken is and found his twitch. turns out? bro was a monster at arsenal.

you shot a dm, and when he replied— you both (somehow) befriended eachother. when they figured out they were at the same school, they became friends. well, until their third year where they dated.

SUNA RINTAROU

you both met at my little pony 3d : friendship is magic roleplay, he was discord and you were playing as fluttershy.

you both met in the canterlot castle, you were using fluttershy and he was using discord. the catch? you both act the opposite of the way the two characters interact.

suna : p-please fluttershy.. i’m so sorry

you : don’t worry girlie, i got you

suna : my hero!

you : grrr..

it was so bad, that a few kids even raged and told you guys that’s not how they act and how both of them are stupid friends. but, both of you didn’t even knew eachother before this.

suna : b-b-but fluttershy, i-i can’t..

you : yes you can ### (bbg)

you : oh come on

suna : ####### (LMAOOOO)

after you said you needed to go, he sent a friend request— which you accepted. you both were initially just bestfriends, but after 4 years being with eachother. you both realize you can’t function without the other. in that equation? you both date.

©chevxyn

[ceoofglytchell]

A Monster‘s Bride

Summary: In the middle of the war, you are urgently called to Harrenhal to finally fulfill your duty and wed the Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen. However, you have heard what man he has become and the haunted halls of the ancient castle are not the only thing you are afraid of.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader

Word count: 5737 words

Warnings: MDNI, Angst, brief dubcon, Reader has Baratheon features, unwanted touch, mean!Aemond (at first), arranged marriage, dark fic, brief suicidal thoughts, secret longing, Alys Rivers making a cameo, brief smut at the end, no mention of Y/N

Notes: My first ever solo Aemond fic! I hope you like it! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

The first time Aemond Targaryen kissed you was the night he became a kinslayer.

He was supposed to choose one of the daughters of Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End to marry. He looked at all of you, all of your sisters, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

You were the last.

You had watched him kiss each of your four sisters for a few seconds, but he never showed any reaction. Except maybe with Maris, when he grimaced afterwards.

And then he finally leaned toward you and pressed his lips against yours, his hand resting on your cheek. You stood still, not knowing what to do because you had never been kissed before. By no one. Not even by the stableboy you had liked for a while.

But the prince did not lean back as quickly as he had with your sisters. He sighed against your lips and ran his long fingers through your hair. When he finally pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, you could feel that he had found his answer.

"What is your name?" he whispered, out of breath.

You whispered it to him, and only then did he lean back, a small smile playing on his thin lips. It was the first and last time you would see him smile.

"Well, my prince? I hope one of my daughters is to your liking," said your father, who sat on his throne not far from you, scrutinizing you with eagle eyes.

"I want her," he replied simply, placing a hand on your shoulder, whereupon Lord Baratheon laughed softly.

"My youngest. She inherited her mother's beauty. I assure you that she will make a good wife for you."

Prince Aemond leaned back and let his one violet eye roam over your figure. He did not know how your mother had looked like, but she must have been beautiful. You were by far the most beautiful of your sisters. Long, raven-black hair, pale skin, a light blush that spread across his cheeks, and full lips that begged him to kiss them again. You proudly wore the colors of your house—black and yellow—and looked at him like a small, shy fawn.

He knew immediately that he had made the right choice.

"Please, speak to her. Even if she is quiet, I assure you she has a tongue," Lord Borros laughed, making a hand gesture that indicated to your sisters to step back.

Gently—too gently for a man of his status—he took your arm and led you a few steps away from your father's throne.

"Tell me of your interests, my Lady Baratheon," he demanded, but he did it in such a gentle tone that it did not sound like a demand. He gave you the illusion of a choice.

You hesitated, but then gathered your courage: "I enjoy reading, my prince."

Something flashed in his eye, recognition or perhaps interest. "What exactly?"

"Poetry, my prince. History and philosophy I enjoy as well," you answered him, looking down at the ground beneath your feet. The stone was cold and wet, as it often was these days.

"And beyond? Besides literature. What else excites you?" he asked you, his one watchful eye boring into your soul.

You were just opening your lips to answer him when you suddenly heard the sound of armor striding through the door. The guards had arrived, and among them was a young man—a boy.

He was brown-haired, wore a sword at his hip, held a message, and wore the colors black and red.

Your eyebrows furrowed in question, but you immediately noticed the prince's attention shifting completely away from you and his shoulders tensing.

You quickly learned who this boy was. Lucerys Velaryon. The boy who stole the eye of your betrothed. One of the many bastards of Princess Rhaenyra, who now wanted to be called Queen, even though her half-brother Aegon had only been crowned King a few hours ago.

A war was looming on the horizon, and the thunderstorm raging over Storm's End seemed to be only a harbinger.

"Give me your eye or I will take it, bastard!" your betrothed suddenly shouted, rushing toward the boy, but your father's loud voice held him back.

Lucerys disappeared as quickly as a frightened mouse, and Aemond adjusted his eyepatch, which he had apparently ripped off his face while talking to his nephew.

You did not see it because his back was to you.

Arrax flew away over Storm's End, and the One-Eyed Prince hurried off.

There was no goodbye; planning the wedding had not even been a topic of discussion.

It was not until the next morning that you discovered what monster would soon be bound to you.

Your betrothed was a kinslayer and the one responsible for the war that was about to come.

Your sisters repeatedly examined you with pity and sadness. Even in the weeks that followed, when you heard no word from the prince, they all knew that the gentle deer would soon be in the clutches of a bloodthirsty dragon.

You became fearful.

Every time you heard a guard approaching your chambers, you feared that your betrothed had come to finally claim you as his wife.

You did not want to become his wife.

Even though you could not forget the feeling of his lips on yours and longed for a gentle hand to pull you in, you were afraid of the chaos he would bring.

But he did not come.

Not even a letter reached you.

You had started one once, but you simply did not know what to write him. Why are you not coming back? Do you still want me? Has the betrothal been annulled?

You barely knew him.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months.

Your betrothed had now also murdered Princess Rhaenys and her dragon Meleys and now bore the title of Prince Regent. He was now on his way to Harrenhal to face Prince Daemon, who had already been residing there for a few weeks.

"My Lady! My Lady!"

The panicked voice of your handmaiden woke you in the middle of the night, and you sat up straight, your eyes wide and questioning.

"The Prince Regent—he has gone mad! He is burning down the entire Riverlands, and the Blacks have taken King's Landing! The king has fled, Rhaenyra now sits on the throne!" your maid explained to you, grabbing your shoulders as if she were trying to force the news into your body.

"What?" you asked her, not quite registering the words yet.

"Look!" your maid cried, jerking the curtain aside so you could look out the window.

And indeed—there were wisps of smoke in the night sky, and the distant sky was drenched red like blood.

You were the bride of a monster.

The very next morning, you emptied the entire contents of your stomach into the nearest pot at breakfast when a raven arrived with the news that the Prince Regent had slaughtered the entire House Strong.

Neither man, woman, nor child survived the massacre at Harrenhal.

You began to pray every morning, every night, that the Stranger would come for you. To you or your soon-to-be Lord Husband. You did not want to be held by hands soaked in blood.

You refused to carry the heirs of a madman.

Unfortunately, you had no choice.

The raven arrived a week later, just as the sun disappeared over the horizon, making way for the moon. Your father delivered the news to you personally.

"The Prince Regent wants you to join him at Harrenhal immediately," your father said in a monotone voice, your nails digging deeper into the leather cover of the book that lay in your lap.

"Did he write why?" you asked him, and although you tried to keep your voice as emotionless as possible, it still trembled.

"To secure the royal line of House Targaryen," Lord Borros replied, letting the small note that had been in the prince's blood-soaked hands just a few hours earlier fall into your lap.

You flinched. Slowly and carefully, as if his words contained a curse, you opened the note and ran your eyes over the dried ink.

The ink, too, looked like blood under the flickering candlelight.

The words were simple, but you could still hear his voice deep inside your head.

To Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End,

I hereby request the immediate presence of your daughter, my betrothed, at Harrenhal. With the pretender seizing the throne, the bloodline of House Targaryen hangs by a thread. Your daughter is needed to secure it. She will want for nothing.

May the Warrior give us strength in these times of war,

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen

You dropped the note into your lap. Your hands trembled and you felt like you could not breathe.

"I will have your maids pack your things. A carriage will be waiting for you in the morning, daughter. Rest well," your father said before closing the door to your chambers behind him, leaving you alone again.

That night, lying alone in your bed, with the smell of your home spreading around you like a warm blanket, you considered opening the window and jump.

But were the Stranger's arms gentler than the prince's?

You closed your eyes, and in the far distance, in the cold ruins of Harrenhal, a cold-hearted prince did the same.

You dreamed of shadows haunting you. Of blood staining your dress, dripping to the floor, and carrying with every step. In your dream, you screamed when you saw him—his sword raised, flames surrounding him, his silver hair wild, his gaze mad, and his one eye resting on you and you alone.

The prince dreamed of gentle hands resting on his shoulders. Of a warm smile that could banish the cold of these corridors, and of a kiss he could not forget.

But you had one thing in common. You both awaited the morning. You with a heart full of fear, and he with a heart full of longing.

You hugged each of your sisters for several seconds before boarding the carriage. Cassandra waved goodbye to you, Maris turned away, Ellyn cried, and Floris embraced her tightly.

You were sure you would never see them again.

You traveled for thirty days.

After all, it was about seven hundred miles from Storm's End to Harrenhal, and you had to avoid King's Landing at all costs. The route took you and your guards from Storm's End northwest through the Stormlands, then through the southern Riverlands, which were still burning. The carriage passed Blackhaven; in the distance, you could see Tumbleton, from where you had continued southwest to Harrenhal.

The carriage stopped at two taverns along the way. The first was The Weary Traveler Inn, which was near a busy trade route. The food was good, and you were able to refill your water. You could also change and wash there.

On the outskirts of Tumbleton, you stopped at The Golden Stag Inn, which was even friendlier than the one before. You and the four guards who rode in the carriage to protect you stayed one night.

You knew it would be the last time you would see anything but blood and death, which is why you stayed late into the evening talking with some of the women who had sought shelter in the building after their homes burned down in the fire.

The fire your betrothed was responsible for.

You were not him and could not apologize for his actions, but when you finally left, you left behind a sack full of gold, which they would need more than you.

It was more than he would ever give.

The carriage bumped over the uneven ground, its wheels creaking under the weight of the ride and the strain. Thick fog surrounded them, creeping up from the shore of the Gods' Eye, and in the distance, the tall towers of Harrenhal loomed, almost like dark shapes, like the jagged teeth of a long-dead beast. The sun had not quite risen yet, bathing the ruins of the once-magnificent castle in a pale, sickly light.

The high stone walls loomed tall and imposing, while the ever-present whisper of the supposedly cursed place seemed to be carried on the wind. Everyone knew the rumors about this place. The dark expanse that dwelled within. You were sure that whatever dwelled there would quickly take a liking to you.

Hopefully, it would take pity on you and grant you a short stay.

As the carriage approached the gates, even the street seemed to grow colder, prompting you to pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders. The air felt stifling, heavy with the history of the recent atrocity that had begun there and the blood that stained these stones. The mounted guards rode in silence, their eyes scanning the shadows as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from them.

The gates of Harrenhal, massive and forged from ancient iron, loomed before you like the maw of a monstrous beast—a dragon. No banners waved here, no sign of life except the dark, watchful eyes that seemed to peer out of the broken windows in the walls. The only sounds were the muffled creak of the carriage and the soft shuffle of the horse's hooves as you reached the courtyard.

Your heart pounded in your chest. In the distance, beyond the walls, the faint call of a raven echoed through the silence. It was almost as if the air sensed something was coming. Or perhaps it was the castle itself—waiting.

No. It was he who was waiting.

You knew he was.

You took a deep breath before finally opening the carriage door and stepping out into the courtyard. The walls dripped, ravens flew over your head, but otherwise it was deathly quiet.

Your gaze wandered over your new home, where you would reside for the rest of the war, and then you saw him.

He stood high up on one of the balconies, engulfed in shadows. His pale hands gripped the railing as he looked at you and the intensity of his gaze gave you goosebumps and a lump formed in your throat. But then you noticed that he was not alone. A woman stood next to him.

You did not know who she was, but apparently he had let her live. The sole survivor of the massacre that took place in this very courtyard just a few weeks ago.

The realization that right where you were standing, people were being murdered in the most brutal of ways made your knees go weak. You stumbled to the side and would have definitely fallen to the ground if one of your guards had not grabbed your arm to steady you.

When you looked up again, the prince was gone, but the woman continued to look at you. Shadows played around her features, and for a brief moment, you thought you were staring into the eyes of death itself.

"Shall we escort you inside, My Lady?" asked the guard holding your arm. There was a hint of concern in his voice, and for a brief moment, you felt some warmth creep back into your bones.

The feeling immediately vanished when you heard hurried footsteps echoing across the stone floor.

"What is the matter with her?" The Prince Regent's sharp voice cut through the air, and when you looked up at him, you could see nothing but coldness in his one eye.

"I an afraid the journey has not been good for her, Your Grace. We have been traveling for a month," one of the guards explained to him in a calm tone.

Your eyes wandered to the sword hanging at his hip. Blackfyre. The sword Aegon the Conqueror once wielded, and which has already taken so many lives.

Vomit rose in your throat, even though you had not eaten anything that morning, and it took all your strength not to double over and empty the contents of your stomach right at the boots of your betrothed.

"Take her inside. She should rest," he instructed the guard, his tone leaving no room for questions, no opportunity for argument.

You looked up at him, and for a split second, you thought you saw a flicker of emotion on his face. However, it vanished as quickly as it had come, and you decided you must have been hallucinating.

"We will hold the wedding this afternoon in front of the Weirwood Tree. I will send for you."

A nod. That was all you gave him. Your arms brushed briefly as your guard led you past him and into the castle. You did not know which rooms were habitable or which were haunted by spirits from days long past. Let alone which room you would be sharing with your husband from tonight onward.

The mere thought of it made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end and sent shivers through your body.

"This one looks passable, My Lady," the guard said, giving you a cautious smile. At least there was one friendly person left within these cold walls.

"Thank you, Ser Garrick," you replied gratefully, closing the heavy wooden door behind you after entering the darkened rooms.

You could hear Ser Garrick walking down the corridor, and a soft sigh escaped you. You had never felt so alone in your life. Before, you always had your sisters, who annoyed you, but whom you still loved more than anything. Now you had no one.

You sat down on the bed, which was facing the wall, catapulting a load of dust into the air that made you cough. You slowly lowered your back onto the old mattress and looked up at the ceiling with tired eyes. Some shapes and symbols seemed to be carved into the wood above the bed, but you did not know what they meant. Your eyes suddenly became so heavy.

You blinked and suddenly you fell into a deep sleep.

The journey had probably just tired you out too much.

A sudden noise in the chambers startled you. The woman you had seen standing up on the balcony earlier was now standing not far in front of you. In her hands was a bowl from which steam rose. It smelled of tea, but something inside you doubted that this stranger would bring you tea just like that.

"Who are you?" you finally asked her as you cautiously sat up.

"I am Alys," she replied. She simply reached out and held out the bowl to you. "A tea to combat the tiredness from the long journey."

You hesitated as you accepted the bowl from her. Your fingers touched for a split moment, and not a second later, your hands began to tremble. It had suddenly become so cold.

"I have prepared a bath for you in the prince's chambers. You do not want to show up dirty at your own wedding, do you?"

"Are you his maid?" you asked instead, without answering her concern. The bath could wait. So could the wedding.

"Something like that," she answered, taking a few steps away from the bed you were still sitting on. "Drink. Otherwise, it will get cold and lose its potency."

You did not want to drink it, but for some reason, you did anyway. The liquid left a bitter taste on your tongue and burned its way down your throat. It should have felt soothing, but it did not.

"He let you live. Why?" you asked her, confused. The Prince Regent did not seem like a gracious man to you.

"I cannot say. I do not know what is going on in his head."

You nodded and took another sip from your cup. The tea stained your lips purple.

The woman, Alys, now stood with her back to you. Her hair was even blacker than yours, like the darkest onyx.

"But I told him I was once a wet nurse. Perhaps I can still be of value to you, My Lady," she said suddenly, and your hands immediately tightened around the wood of the bowl.

"It will be so lovely to hear these empty halls filled with children's laughter again."

You placed the bowl, still half full, on the bed next to you and stood up on unsteady legs. She was taller than you and quite a bit older, although you could not say exactly how old she was. She seemed infinitely old, yet young at the same time.

A dark suspicion spread within you, but you did not want to think about it right now.

"Where are his chambers?" you asked her, trying to make your voice sound as authoritative as possible. You were sure the attempt failed miserably because she turned to you with a knowing smile on her thin lips.

"Follow me."

Without another word, she walked past you and out the door, and you followed her with quick steps. The prince's chambers were not far from the rooms you had initially chosen. Alys opened the door, and you were amazed to see how well the room was. In fact, there was even a fire burning in the fireplace.

In the middle of the room stood a large tub, from which white steam rose into the air. The water seemed hot, and a smile crept involuntarily onto your lips. A healing bath was exactly what your muscles needed right now.

"Shall I help you undress?"

"No," you answered a little faster than necessary, to which the woman simply chuckled.

"Very well, My Lady. Your wedding dress is on the bed. Call if you need help getting dressed," she said, and immediately hurried back out of the room. The door closed with a loud bang behind her, before you could ask her how she would hear you if you actually called for her.

But you were now glad she was gone. She was frightening.

Your black dress with the yellow embroidery of little deer and antlers landed on the armchair in front of the fireplace, followed by your thin chemise and stockings.

The bathwater was still hot when you finally stepped in, and you could not help but sigh with relief. It felt a lot better than the tea, and you could immediately feel your muscles relaxing and a weight lifting from your shoulders.

But you were not relaxed. Not when you were about to marry the prince in the not-too-distant future. The white dress spread out in the middle of the bed was a constant reminder of that.

The bed. You did not want to think about what would happen right there later. On those sheets. Right where the dress lay, you would lie later.

At least you would be spared a bedding ceremony, you thought.

You washed yourself as best you could with the single bar of soap that was lying next to the tub. It smelled neither of roses, nor lilacs, nor any other scent you could identify.

You were not sure how long you bathed. All you knew was that as you dried yourself with an old, scratchy towel that smelled of old books, leather, and smoke, the sun was slowly setting outside.

It was almost time.

You quickly dried your naked body and untied your hair, which you had tied back to keep it from getting wet. You slipped into your undergarment, stockings, and shoes, and finally cleared your throat.

You opened the door a little and called for Alys.

She came in a few minutes later, and you were surprised to see that she had also done some tidying up. Her hair seemed more combed, and she was no longer wearing the dirty apron she had been wearing before.

"It has been a long time since I was last able to attend a wedding," she said simply, as she helped you step into the dress and tightened the laces at the back with nimble fingers. The bodice was so tight that you could barely breathe.

"Where did you even get that dress? I doubt there are any seamstresses left around here," you asked her, a hint of curiosity in your tone, trying not to curse as the older woman pulled one of the laces too tight again. It was almost as if she wanted you to suffer.

"It belonged to one of the Strongs. I do not remember which one," she said, smoothing your hair over your shoulders with surprising gentleness, letting it fall in soft waves down your back.

Your stomach lurched. You were wearing the dress of a dead woman.

Alys stood in front of you and placed her hands on her hips, examining her work. "He will like you. He has been waiting for you, you know? Told me about you in the nights while I made him tea."

Your eyes widened and you blinked. You did not know whether to be flattered or even more terrified than you already were. If he was waiting, then he had expectations. What if you could not fulfill them?

"He told you about me?" you asked, adjusting the sleeves of your dress.

The woman in front of you nodded her head, grinning. "He told me about the moment he chose you. He said you tasted the sweetest of all your sisters."

A blush flooded your cheeks and you immediately looked down at the ground. After all these weeks and months, he could still remember the taste of your lips? The feeling he had when he did it?

You could not believe this was the same man whose hands were soaked with the blood of hundreds of innocents.

"Are you ready?" her voice suddenly startled you from your thoughts, and you simply nodded.

Together, you both walked through the cold, empty, and wet halls of Harrenhal. Drops of water fell on your shoulder, you walked past a black billy goat, and you felt like thousands of eyes were staring at you, even though there were hardly any souls left in these halls.

The evening air was cold, but not unpleasant, when you finally stepped out into the courtyard with the older woman. Aemond Targaryen was already standing in front of the Weirwood Tree. The wind gently blew a few strands of his silver hair, and the setting sun cast a golden light on him and the tree, whose leaves shone red.

Only Alys noticed that the tree's face had finally stopped crying.

Next to the prince stood an elderly man dressed like a Septon of the Faith of the Seven. You wanted to ask where this man came from, since there was no Sept in the immediate vicinity, but you bit your tongue.

The Prince Regent seemed to have been waiting for this moment, and you did not want to ruin it. After all, you did not want to taste his wrath.

Alys let go of your arm and stood not far from you. Aemond's eye briefly flicked to the woman, and he gave her a nod- one of gratitude for her service.

"My prince," you greeted him, curtsying slightly to show his respect.

"My lady," he replied, extending a hand, which you hesitantly took.

You both turned to the Septon, who looked at you with an almost fatherly smile on his lips.

"We stand before the Old Gods, under the watchful eye of the Weirwood, to unite your hearts and your destinies. May you remain true to one another, in joy and sorrow, until the end of your days," the Septon began in a solemn tone. The wind in the courtyard began to shift, and it almost felt as if you felt a warm hand on your shoulder.

The older man pulled a red ribbon from his robe, which he carefully and patiently tied around your hands. Compared to the prince's, your hands were small and delicate.

He looked down at you, you looked up at him, and in that moment you thought you could see the ghost of a smile on his lips. Not a malicious smile or a cruel one, but a genuine one.

"You may speak now," said the Septon, once he had finished tying your hands together.

Aemond straightened his back and brought his other hand to your face, cupping your chin with two fingers so that you would not look away from him. He wanted to look you in the eye as he swore this oath to you.

"I am hers and she is mine," he spoke in a firm, confident voice.

For a moment, you just looked at him and swallowed the lump in your throat. A breeze flew over you, rustling the red leaves of the tree. From somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

"I am his and he is mine," you finally replied, but unlike his, your voice was soft and quiet.

It was a sound Aemond would call music.

The Septon placed his old, wrinkled hands over both of yours. They were ice cold.

"May the ancient gods watch over you, may your hearts be one, and may your love grow as old as the trees themselves," he announced, and even though you did not want to, you could not help but give your husband the slightest smile.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Your shoulders tensed, and Aemond sensed from the way your delicate hand twitched beneath his ever so slightly that you were nervous. He did not want you to feel that way in his presence. You were now his Lady Wife.

He leaned down slowly, carefully, as if you were a wounded deer that he now had to tend to: "Do not be afraid."

Your eyes moved down to his lips.

"I am not afraid," you whispered, a lie.

"Good. Because I do not want you to be afraid of me. Never, do you hear?"

You nodded your head. His warm breath brushed your cheek, and you instinctively leaned closer to him, seeking his warmth, while he could not wait any longer. Aemond closed the last distance between you two and pressed his lips against yours, while his free hand cupped your face.

Your lips were warm and soft, and you tasted just as sweet as he remembered. Fresh wild berries and something he would associate with you alone.

He sighed into the kiss, and you tentatively kissed him back, but that alone was enough to show him that you accepted him. You wanted him.

He only broke the kiss when he had no more air in his lungs, and even then, he rested his forehead against yours, for he could not bear to be parted from you any longer. Your breath came in short gasps, and your eyes roamed over his face, and for the first time, you saw him.

You did not see the monster that set the Riverlands ablaze, killed his nephew, and wiped out an entire bloodline. You saw the man behind it, and you found that you liked what you saw.

"Come with me."

Not a question, a command.

He untied the band that had been wrapped around your hands until just a moment ago and let it fall to the dirty ground in the shadow of the tree's roots, where the wind would soon carry it away. It would probably land in the Gods' Eye and disappear into the depths of the lake, never to be found.

Your husband intertwined his fingers with yours and led you, guided by his hand, back into the castle, where you already knew what awaited you.

Behind you, the Septon disappeared as if he had never been there.

Alys smiled and stroked her owl.

He was just closing the door to his—your—chambers behind you when his lips were back on yours.

"My prince—" you tried to say. "My husband, please."

"What is it, wife?" he murmured against your lips as he pushed you toward the large canopy bed.

He just could not stop kissing you. It was impossible.

"I need air," you protested, a small laugh escaping you. It was one of the most beautiful sounds his ears had ever heard.

His arms wrapped around your waist as his lips traveled down your neck, exploring every inch. Every single one.

„Better?“ he whispered as the backs of your knees touched the bed.

He gently bit into your warm flesh, eliciting a surprised gasp. No, that was his new favorite sound.

He wondered how sweetly you could else sing for him?

His hands smoothed the fabric of the white dress up your legs, desperate to get the fabric off you. He has been wondering for weeks what you would look like without it. Ever since the first time you kissed and you looked at him like a wounded little deer, he knew he could not resist you.

After arriving at Harrenhal, he had invited the witch into his bed to vent his frustration, but the moment her lips had touched his, he had pushed her away. Instead, he had talked about you.

The witch was a good listener, and that was why he let her live.

But he only wanted you.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and your fingers dug into his silky, silver hair, resembling the light of a full moon. The feeling sent an incredible heat through his chest, making him wonder if it had not been a dragon that had bathed him in flames, like he had the Riverlands.

He took satisfaction in the fact that they were still burning.

He pushed you down onto the bed and immediately climbed over you, his hands roaming up and down your curves, his lips exploring your neck, and you writhing beneath him.

You were about to lose yourself in his kisses and the feeling of his body's warmth when you suddenly felt his dagger pressing into your hip. The dagger he intended to use to attack his nephew, a sign of the violence and storm he carried within him.

Even now when he was laying with you.

The monster might have looked at you with a gaze full of gentleness, but it still slumbered within him.

The same hands that now touched you and ran over your body as if you were something precious had murdered and committed cruel acts just a few weeks ago.

His eye met yours, and he looked at you with such intensity that you could not help but lose yourself in him. You were a gentle breeze on a sunny day, he was the thunderstorm that followed.

He was what you were missing.

"Wife?" he asked you, his voice dripping with desire.

"Yes, husband?" you asked him, breathless.

"May I?"

He gave you the choice.

You nodded and he began to rip open the laces of your bodice with a sense of urgency and need.

And shorty after, when he thrusted in and out of you, your legs wrapped around his waist and his cock buried deep inside of your cunt, while he whispered of filling you up with his seed- you realized something.

Perhaps being loved by a monster was not as bad as you had thought.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen @sylasthegrim @danytar

[mahowaga]

your phone buzzes in your hands as you scroll mindlessly. you glance at the message preview for a second—just a message from a group chat, one of many—and go back to scrolling.

and that's when it happens.

out of nowhere, like some kind of smug white-haired hawk, gojo satoru swoops in and snatches your phone from your hands with a victorious, "aha!"

"satoru!" you shout, scrambling after him immediately.

but he's already halfway across the living room, standing triumphantly on the other side of the coffee table like he's just stolen the declaration of independence.

his grin is positively feral. "let's see what secrets you're hiding from me, hmm?"

you stare at him, completely unamused. "what are you, twelve?"

"emotionally? maybe," he chirps, flipping the phone around dramatically in his hands. "now then, what spicy stuff do we have in here? hidden chats? secret admirers? is your wallpaper still me wearing sunglasses over my blindfold?"

you cross your arms. "give. it. back."

he holds the phone up like it's an olympic torch. "nope. not until i confirm you're not part of some underground spy ring."

"i literally let you eat off my plate. why would i hide anything from you?"

"suspiciously defensive," he says, squinting at the screen and pretending to scroll even though he hasn't unlocked it yet. "what's your passcode again? your birthday? my birthday? the number of times i've been right in an argument?"

you glare. "try zero."

"ouch," he grins. "cold. but fair."

you plop onto the couch, arms still crossed. "are you done?"

"nope," he says cheerfully. "i'm fully committed to this investigation. as your incredibly handsome and slightly unhinged boyfriend, it is my duty to discover the truth."

"the truth is i'm dating a pest in gucci sunglasses."

he gasps, hand clutching his chest. "you take that back!"

"only if you give me my phone."

he considers this with an exaggerated hum, pacing back and forth like he's on the verge of solving a great mystery. "you know if you were hiding something, this is exactly how you'd act."

you throw a pillow at him. he dodges effortlessly. "i'm annoyed, not guilty!"

he finally stops pacing and stares at the screen. "wait. your passcode is literally my birthday?"

you groan and throw your hands in the air. "congratulations, detective gojo, you cracked the case."

he beams. "aww, you like me."

"i tolerate you."

he unlocked the phone with a smug flourish, only for his expression to immediately drop. "wait—there's nothing in here."

"wow," you deadpan. "shocking."

he stares at the screen, then looks at you. "your most recent text is you asking your friend if it's okay to put ten cloves of garlic in pasta."

"there is no such thing as too much garlic."

"i'm actually really disappointed in you. where's the scandal? where's the mystery man? the forbidden double life?"

you sigh and hold your hand out. "give me the phone, satoru."

he walks over slowly, dejected. "you're boring," he says, placing the phone back in your palm. "adorably, tragically boring."

"and you," you say, locking your phone again, "are never touching my phone again."

"oh, come on," he pouts, collapsing onto the couch beside you. "just one juicy secret? just one? i'll settle for a weird shopping history. you don't even have a secret pinterest board of wedding dresses."

you narrow your eyes at him. "that's because you already do."

"hey," he says defensively, "a man can dream!"

you shove him with your shoulder and he immediately drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with chaotic energy.

"next time," you mutter, "i'm locking it with your middle name. good luck remembering which fake one you gave me."

satoru's laugh is muffled against your shoulder. and despite everything, you can't help but smile.

because satoru, with all his pranks and dramatics, still ends up exactly where he always does—right next to you, grinning like an idiot, with no secrets between you.

just you, him, and the comforting knowledge that the most scandalous thing in your phone is a saved photo of him sleeping with a mouthful of marshmallows.

[machetelettuce]

One of the most interesting things to me is how, even after indoctrination, Narinder's name doesn't change from "The One Who Waits" it's there by default. YOU have to change it to Narinder. But even then, it's not really his name anymore.

I think the horror of being trapped in one place, in one area, for literally HUNDREDS of years, is unexplored in this fandom. Even though Narinder is a god, it's heavily implied he was bored with his task. He felt stifled by being the god of Death. Constant, Unmoving-- A binary. He was not in the flux his siblings were. And at the end of the day that feeling-- feeling stuck, is what led him to act. Also funny thing here; Feeling trapped in his domain is what led him to being literally trapped in his domain. LMFAO.

But the point of explaining that is to point out how he DID feel trapped and it was irritating him in some way. Great, now what happens when you trap someone who is irritated with their purpose in a room with nothing and nobody (spare 2 people) for a thousand years. Oh and also he just got betrayed by his siblings, one of whom is punishing him for doing what THEY introduced to him. Speaking of Shamura and Aym and Baal actually-- Fun fact, Solitary confinement is still Solitary confinement even if you have three people in a room together. It's still torture!

ANYWAYS all of this is to say Narinder losing his name is indicative of an identity change. Which makes complete sense, being trapped in one room with nothing to do but state and idfk guide souls to their destination (a task he was already fed up with) would drive someone actually insane. It's. Horrifying to think about. His name is completely erased from all records and history, he's given the title 'The One Who Waits' in response to a prophecy, thousands of innocent sheep are slaughtered to stop the prophecy from commencing, etc. Of course he's not going to be 'Narinder' anymore, the Bishop Narinder is long dead. He's replaced that with so much rage and anger and misery. The One Who Waits is the only part of him that remains.

Its so miserable and sad and it makes me SICK actually. Especially in relation to the other bishops. I like to think that even after they've 'made up' in some sense of the word, that their dynamic is completely changed. They're all wildly different people due to everything, yes, but Narinder-- The One Who Waits, is unrecognizable. I love playing with my toys i hope if you read this it makes you as ill as it makes me

[pawstriez]

BET | love and deepspace

⟡ tags : underground boxer! sylus + reader — sylus isn’t afraid of going all in when it comes to you.

ミ★ content warning : fem! reader uses she/her prns, mentions of blood & injuries, mentions of female anatomy as well as male anatomy, oral fem! receive, gentle to rough sex, pet names like bby, dove, kitten, honey, 5.0K WORD COUNT

you step into the dimly lit underground boxing gym, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cigarette smoke, and leather. it’s a seedy place, hidden in the heart of the city’s most notorious neighborhood, where the law doesn’t dare to tread. the crowd tonight is a mix of rough characters - bikers with gang patches on their jackets, local gangsters with glares and expensive watches, shady high-rollers in suits looking to place big bets on the illegal fights.

as you navigate through the throng of people, you spot him in the corner, preparing for his match. sylus - the man who happened to be your ex-boyfriend . . oh, and only the most feared bare-knuckled boxer in the underground circuit. he was a sight to behold, all rippling muscles and newfound tattoos, with messy silver hair that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. you watch as he methodically wraps his hands, his intense red eyes focused on the task.

your history with sylus is complicated, to say the least. you met him two years ago at a biker rally, drawn to his bad-boy charm and undeniable charisma. he swept you off your feet with his daredevil antics on his custom harley and his smooth talking ways. but sylus’s world was always filled with danger, violence, and illegal activities. as the leader of onychinus, the city’s most notorious motorcycle club, he ran an empire built on illicit evol weapons, protocore deals, and underground fighting.

at first, the thrill of it all was intoxicating - the adrenaline rush of riding on the back of his bike, the wild parties at the onychinus clubhouse, watching him dominate in the ring. but as time went on, you grew tired of the constant chaos and the fear that one day, sylus’s risky lifestyle would catch up to him. you wanted stability, a future - things that sylus scoffed at. ‘i live in the moment, babe,’ he would say with that infuriating smirk. ‘and right now, all i want is you.’

but it wasn’t enough. six months ago, after a particularly brutal fight that left sylus battered and bleeding, you reached your breaking point. you told him you couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore, that you needed more than he could give you. sylus, stubborn and proud as ever, refused to change. ‘this is who i am,’ he growled. ‘so take it or leave it.’ so you left, walking away from the man you loved, determined to build a life free from the violence and uncertainty.

now, seeing him again after all this time, you feel a mix of emotions stirring within you. anger, hurt, frustration . . . but also a undeniable pull of attraction and longing. as if sensing your presence, sylus glances up, his red eyes locking with yours. a slow, confident smirk spreads across his handsome face as he saunters over to you, the crowd parting before him.

“well, well. look who it is,” he drawls, looking you up and down appreciatively. “didn’t expect to see you here tonight, [★]. come to watch me dominate the ring as usual?”

you scoff and cross your arms, determined not to let him see how much his presence affects you. “i’m not here for you, sylus. i’m just here to collect on some bets.”

he chuckles, a deep, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “sure you are, sweetheart. keep telling yourself that.”

sylus takes a step closer, invading your personal space. he smells like musk and sandalwood, a scent that brings back memories of stolen moments and passionate nights. “i miss you, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “everything’s been so boring without you around to keep me on my toes.”

you try to stay strong, but you can feel your resolve wavering. damn him and his charm. “i’m not here to rehash the past, sylus. what do you want?”

his eyes glint with a challenge. “make a bet with me - when i win the championship belt tonight, you give me another shot. a chance to prove that we’re meant to be together.”

you laugh in disbelief. “you can’t be serious. we’re done, sy. i’m not falling for your games again.”

“who says it’s a game?” he counters, his expression turning serious. “i know i messed up, [★]. i wasn’t ready before, but i am now. i want you back in my life. i need you.”

you hesitate, torn between your lingering feelings and your better judgment. sylus is a force of nature, wild and untamed. being with him is like dancing on the edge of a razor - thrilling but dangerous. can you really risk your heart again?

“and what do i get if you lose?” you ask, buying yourself time to think.

sylus flashes you a cocky grin. “you know i never lose, kitten. but if by some miracle i do . . i’ll leave you alone. for good. unless you decide you can’t resist me and come crawling back.”

you snort at his arrogance, even as a part of you wonders if he might be right. sylus has always had a hold on you, an undeniable magnetism that draws you in against your will, “fine,” you hear yourself saying, almost as if from a distance. “you’ve got a deal.”

his grin widens, triumphant. “get ready to come back to where you belong, [★] - with me.”

the crowd starts to get louder, chanting and cheering as the lights flicker and dim. it’s almost time for the main event - sylus’s championship fight. he starts to walk towards the ring, but pauses and turns back to face you.

“watch closely now, honey,” he says with a wink. “i’m about to show you what you’ve been missing.”

with that, he strides away, his movements graceful and predatory. you watch him go, your heart pounding in your chest.

what had you gotten yourself into?

as the crowd’s chanting reaches a fevered pitch, sylus steps into the ring, the picture of coiled power and raw aggression. his opponent, a hulking brute known as ‘the mauler’, glares at him from across the mat, pounding his meaty fists together in a show of intimidation. but sylus just smirks, unfazed. he’s taken down bigger, badder fighters than this guy.

the referee calls them to the center, going over the rules - not that there are many in the underground circuit. “no biting, no eye gouging, fight ends with a knockout or tapout. keep it clean . . ish. touch gloves and come out swinging!”

sylus bumps his taped fists against the mauler’s, staring him down with those intense red eyes. then they’re backing away, the air crackling with tension as the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

the bell sounds and the mauler charges forward with a roar, swinging wildly. but sylus is too quick, too skilled. he slips and weaves, dodging the heavy blows, letting his opponent overextend himself. sylus fires off a rapid jab - cross combo, snapping the mauler’s head back and drawing first blood from his nose.

the big man snarls and redoubles his efforts, trying to use his size to his advantage, to trap sylus against the ropes and pummel him. but sylus is like smoke, always just out of reach. he targets the mauler’s weak spots with surgical precision - a knife-hand to the solar plexus to crush his wind, a heel kick to the floating rib, an elbow smash to the jaw.

each blow lands with devastating impact, chipping away at the mauler’s formidable stamina and sending the crowd into a frenzy. they chant sylus’s name like a war cry, thrilling at the sight of the chiseled, tattooed demigod of the ring in his element.

you watch in breathless awe, pulse racing, body heating. damn him. he’s magnificent like this - a perfect fighting machine, all fluid grace and controlled violence. it’s enough to make you forget why you walked away, to let yourself imagine those powerful hands on your body once more . .

a pained grunt snaps you back to the moment as the mauler finally lands a solid hit, a haymaker to sylus’s ribs that sends him staggering. your heart leaps into your throat. but sylus just shakes it off with a feral grin, spitting blood and bouncing on his toes as he beckons for more.

they trade blows in a brutal, lightning-fast exchange, neither giving quarter. the mauler is flagging but still dangerous, pure grit keeping him on his feet. sylus bleeds from a cut over his eye but barely seems to feel it, an unholy light in his gaze as he scents victory.

he presses his advantage with a dizzying flurry of strikes, driving the mauler back . . back . . until he’s pinned against the turnbuckle. sylus hammers his torso without mercy - left hook to the liver, right uppercut to the chin, again, again. the mauler’s knees buckle and sylus steps back, letting him crumple to the canvas.

the crowd erupts as the ref counts it out. at “ten,” sylus throws his hands up in triumph, basking in the adulation. his eyes find yours across the room and the heat in them makes your breath stop. in three long strides he’s out of the ring and hauling you into his arms, crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss.

for a moment, you forget where you are. forget the mob of rowdy spectators whistling and catcalling. forget every reason you swore you'd never let him back into your heart. all you know is the demanding press of his lips, the steel - cable strength of his blood-slicked body, the intoxicating rush of his victory and your surrender . . .

“looks like i won our bet, babe,” he says smugly, smirking down at you. “hope you’re ready to pay up.”

you scowl, hating how easily he affected you. “one. drink. that was the deal.”

sylus touches his tongue to the seam of his split lip, gaze roving hungrily over you. “oh, i’m just getting started.”

he drags you through the throng of well-wishers and sycophants, his grip on your hand unbreakable. outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, charged with tension and the distant growl of engines.

sylus leads you to his pride and joy - that sleek demon of a harley crouched by the curb. the way he straddles the throbbing machine is blatantly sexual, all hard muscles and black leather. he jerks his head at the space behind him.

“c’mon - you know the drill, hop on.”

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

then, sylus kicks off and you’re flying, the city lights a neon blur as he opens the throttle. your pulse pounds in time with the roar of the pipes, excitement and desire a heady drug in your veins. by the time he screeches to a stop outside a dingy saloon on the outskirts of town, you’re dizzy with need.

inside, the bar is a den of sin and swagger, all scuffed leather and polished chrome and clinking bottles. eyes follow sylus with a mix of fear and reverence as he stalks to a booth in the back, one possessive hand at the small of your back.

he orders a whiskey, neat, and your favorite poison, not bothering to ask what you want. at your raised eyebrow, he shrugs.

“i remember.”

two words. but the weight of history and unspoken emotion behind them squeezes your heart. your fingers tremble slightly as you raise your glass in a mock toast.

“to your victory. and my reckless wager.”

sylus’ gaze is molten as he clinks his tumbler against yours, gaze holding you captive over the rim as he tosses back the smooth liquid. the slight burn of the alcohol is nothing compared to the smolder of his stare.

“what are we doing, sy?” you ask into the charged quiet, liquid courage loosening your tongue. “why now, after all this time?”

a muscle ticks in his jaw. he looks down, spinning his empty glass, broad shoulders rigid with tension.

“i fucked up.”

his voice is low, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him. your breath snags.

“i thought i needed the rush, the rep, the respect. and yeah, maybe i did, for a while. but none of it meant shit without you.” slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he reaches for your hand — lacing his scarred, tape-wrapped fingers with yours, “i was a coward. i pushed you away because i was scared shitless of how bad i wanted you - needed you. needed your strength, your goodness. you made me want to be better. and it truly fucking terrified me.”

his grip tightens, almost painfully. anchoring you to him.

“losing you . . it broke me, [★]. made me realize that the only thing i’m actually afraid of is living without you.”

sylus swallows hard, his throat working. when he looks up at you, his eyes are blazing with fierce intent.

“i know i don’t deserve another shot. i know i need to earn back your trust. but i swear to whoever may hold my fate, if you give me a chance, i will spend every waking day proving that you’re my whole damn world.”

your heart is a wild bird in your chest, frantic and yearning. you search his face, finding only sincerity and aching tenderness beneath the bruises and blood.

“i never stopped loving you,” you confess, voice breaking. “no matter how hard i tried to hate you . . i couldn’t let you go.”

sylus makes a rough sound, halfway between a growl and a groan. then he’s kissing you, deep and urgent and saying everything he can't put into words. you fall into him, all hunger and desperation, the levee finally breaking on the flood of your need.

“take me home,” you gasp into his mouth, fingers curling in the sweat-damp silk of his hair.

“i thought you’d never ask, dove.”

the anticipation is a living thing as sylus speeds through the lamp-lit streets, the throaty growl of his harley between your thighs a heady reminder of the man commanding the machine. by the time he pulls into the cavernous garage beneath his loft, your body is humming, every nerve ending alight with need.

sylus is on you the moment you dismount, crowding you back against the rough brick wall, his large frame enveloping yours. his kiss is searing, possession and passion, strong hands gripping your hips as he grinds into you. you moan into his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his leather-clad shoulders, craving more.

“been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your lips, his voice like gravel and whiskey, igniting heat in your veins. “having you back in my arms, in my bed. fuck, [★], need you so bad it's like a sickness.”

“then take me,” you breathe, emboldened by the blatant hunger shining in those crimson eyes. “i’m here, sylus. i’m yours.”

something animalistic unfurls behind his gaze, a primal sort of satisfaction that has you clenching with want. in a burst of movement, he hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his lean hips as he strides purposefully to the industrial elevator that will carry you to his domain.

the short ride up is a haze of frantic kisses and roving hands, two years’ worth of pent-up longing seeking outlet. by the time sylus kicks open the door to his loft, you’re both panting, clothes askew and lips kiss-bruised. he carries you straight to the bedroom, a cavern of shadows and silver moonlight spilling across rumpled black silk sheets. when he lays you down in the center of that decadent expanse, the reverence in his touch steals your breath. his battle-scarred fingers shake slightly as they skim over your curves, learning you anew.

“so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, crimson gaze tracking hungrily over your body like he's committing every detail to memory. “can’t believe i almost lost this . . lost you . .”

“never,” you whisper fiercely, reaching up to cup his angular jaw. “i’m here, sylus. right where i belong. and i’m not going anywhere.”

he turns his head to press a fervent kiss to your palm, the heat of his breath making you shiver as his lips graze your fingers — and ever so gently, he bites. then slowly, deliberately, he divests you of your clothes, unwrapping you like a gift. you echo his actions, baring him inch by glorious inch to your avid gaze.

sylus’s body is a work of art, all chiseled muscle and inked skin, a roadmap of violence and survival. you take your time tracing the ridges and hollows, the scars and scrolling tattoos, familiarizing yourself with this new landscape of him. he shudders beneath your questing touch, eyes fluttering shut, a low rumble building in his chest.

“[★],” he grits out, and fuck, how you’ve missed the way he says your name, guttural and raw, like a prayer and a plea. “please, baby . . need to taste you.”

“yes,” you hiss, already aching, empty. “please, sylus.”

granted, he descends on you like a man starved, that talented mouth charting a path of fire over your sensitized flesh. he maps every curve and valley with lips and teeth and tongue, each nip and suck and lap stoking the inferno building in your core.

when he finally settles between your trembling thighs, the first bold stroke of his tongue punches the air from your lungs, your spine arching involuntarily. he groans in appreciation, strong hands splaying your thighs wider, opening you fully to his voracious appetite.

“fuck, i missed this,” he rasps against your slick folds, the vibration of his words making you keen. “missed the way you taste, the sounds you make when i devour this sweet cunt. could feast on you for hours, little one . .”

you whimper breathlessly, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other tangling in his silver hair, holding him to you. sylus takes the encouragement for what it is, sealing his mouth over your aching flesh and suckling greedily. stars erupt in your eyes, pleasure rioting through your veins as he works you ruthlessly, adding clever fingers to his oral assault. he curls them just right, rubbing that secret spot that has you seeing god, all while his wicked tongue paints obscene promises on your clit.

“s-sy, fuck!” you wail, back bowing, thighs clamping around his ears as he drives you higher and higher. “oh god, yes, just like that! don’t stop, please, i’m gonna’ cum . . fuck, baby-”

he doubles his efforts, a man possessed, growling his own pleasure into your core. “that’s it, my love,” he urges gutturally between long, lewd licks. “go ahead and give it to me, wanna’ feel you drench my face, want you gushing on my tongue . .”

his filthy encouragement hurls you over the edge with a strangled scream, release slamming into you like a freight train. you shatter spectacularly, pulsing and clenching around his thrusting fingers, slick gushing into his eager mouth as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

when you finally drift back down to earth, aftershocks still rippling through you, sylus is grinning up at you wolfishly from between your thighs, his beard glistening obscenely with your essence. “fucking incredible,” he rumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your still-twitching center. “could watch you fall apart on my tongue forever and never get tired of it.”

“get up here,” you demand breathlessly, tugging him to you. he comes willingly, settling his considerable bulk over you, caging you beneath miles of warm, hard muscle.

you claim his mouth in a filthy kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue. he responds with matching hunger, hips rocking into the cradle of your thighs, the thick ridge of his erection a brand against your sensitive flesh.

“please,” you whimper into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “need you inside me, sylus. been too long, i want it . .”

“fuck,” he snarls, the words seeming to snap his restraint. “far too long, honey. be patient, you know i will.” slowly, giving you time to adjust, he notches himself at your entrance and pushes forward, gasping harshly at the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him. “goddamn,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forehead pressed to yours. “silly me. i almost forgot how fucking perfect you feel. like coming home.”

“yes,” you moan, reveling in the familiar stretch and burn of his thick length entering your body. “missed this so much . . missed you . . love you, sylus, so fucking much.”

“i love you too,” he rasps, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in, starting a deep, rolling rhythm that has your toes curling. “i never stopped, never will. you’re only for me, [★]. only me.”

you lose yourselves to the timeless dance, bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, rediscovering every perfect angle and hidden sweet spot. sylus takes his time, building you back up with long, measured strokes, whispering words of worship into your skin, branding you with his love.

“so good,” he groans, hitching your leg higher on his hip, sinking impossibly deeper. “could stay buried in this tight little pussy forever. never wanna leave.”

“don’t.” you gasp, fingers clawing at his flexing back, desperate for more. “stay — harder, sylus, fuck me harder. wanna’ be able to feel it tomorrow.”

with a low, approving growl, sylus complies, snapping his hips faster, driving into your yielding body with the piston precision of the machine he rides. the wet, obscene slap of flesh fills the room, punctuated by your escalating moans and cries.

“i’m not gonna last,” he warns, rhythm faltering. “too good, too fucking good. tell me you’re close, baby . .”

“s-so close,” you pant, the coil in your belly wound to the breaking point. “just a little more - fuck, right there, sy . . o-oh my —”

sylus hammers into you, grunting with the effort, sweat sheening his skin. he wedges a hand between your straining bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles. “cum on my cock,” he demands, voice strained. “let me feel that pussy grip me, milk me . .” his words are your undoing, hurling you into oblivion with a keening wail. your inner muscles seize around him, rippling and fluttering, trying to pull him deeper as you drench his driving length in release.

“fuck, yes!” sylus roars, pistoning wildly, chasing his own end. “gonna’ - ah, shit, kitty, i’m cumming!” his climax overtakes him with a force that borders on violence, his cock jerking and pulsing as he spills himself deep in your still-spasming core, painting your inner walls with thick ropes of his seed. you mewl weakly in blissed-out overstimulation, aftershocks rolling through you as he fills you to the brim.

finally spent, sylus collapses onto you, taking care not to crush you with his bulk. you cuddle as sweat and other fluids cool on your skin, hearts gradually slowing in tandem. he’s still stuffed deep inside you and you clench involuntarily around his now-softening length, loving the way he groans, overused nerves sparking. “keep that up and we’ll be going again real soon,” he warns playfully, nuzzling into your neck.

you huff a laugh, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “yeah, yeah,” you tease. “we’ve got time now, sylus. all the time in the world. i’m not going anywhere.”

he raises his head to look at you, crimson eyes soft and full of wonder. “damn right you’re not,” he rumbles, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “i’m never letting you out of my sight again. you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“eh, could be worse,” you quip, grinning up at him. “i think i can handle being stuck with you. it’s only forever, after all.”

“forever,” sylus echoes solemnly, like an oath. “i like the sound of that. you and me. binded as one.”

“ . . . and loving each other stupid every chance we get,” you finish impishly, wiggling your eyebrows.

he barks a laugh, the joyful, uninhibited sound making your heart soar. “oh, that is definitely part of the plan,” he assures you, a wicked gleam in his eye. “gotta’ make up for lost time, don’t we?”

“mmhm, that we do,” you agree readily, warmth suffusing you. “better get started on that. forever’s not getting any longer.”

“as my lady commands,” sylus murmurs, capturing your mouth again as he begins to stir inside you once more.

and as passion ignites anew, the promise of countless tomorrows enfolding you like a benediction, you know this is just the beginning of the ups and downs.

because this love, tempered by loss and longing, by time and truth . . it’s unbreakable. a bond that even the harshest trials will only serve to strengthen.

and with sylus by your side, his heart in your keeping as surely as yours rests in his scarred and steady hands . .

. . you know you can weather any storm.

forever, and then some.

★ SUGUGASM 2024 | please don’t copy, translate or share my work on other platforms without my consent. tagging @ramonathinks <3

[acid-ixx]

— masterlist !

i'm thinking of this one au where it's not really a neglected batfam fic but it's within the timeline of again &. again. a darker fic, where instead of being taken in by the family, you were left to fend for yourself after your mother's death— which basically turned you into a version where you're more traumatized than you are with the awareness that bruce, who was supposed to be your father to take you in, never once came to find you after the incident.

which cues to you following your mother's footsteps: becoming the same wo/maneater. but instead of working in the streets or finding bars to perform and sell your body to— you force yourself to learn to be more promiscuous at an early age, find your mother's old clients, become trained by other criminals associated with her— your mentors aren't the greatest, they only use you to up their customer counts, they don't care about you, whether you cry or not, whether the clothes you wear are too tight or if you're tight in budget to even afford food.

you're exposed to the cruelty of the world at an early age. learn that bluntness, letting go of any empathy for people will be the only thing keeping you alive.

leading to your adult life: you became an underground model. with no known last name, with the reputation of an enchantress. your life is shrouded in mysteries, in conspiracy theories and endless rumors and dirt about your name—

but that doesn't matter, scratch that, your point of view doesn't matter because in this fic idea, i just want to focus mainly on how the batfamily starts becoming obsessed with you. i want to create something inherently focusing on their perspective of it all.

your mystery, your allure, your overall poise and stage presence. maybe bruce once forced himself to watch one of those boring runway performances, and he just sees you and sees himself in you—

which leads to this: one day of finally being able to attend one of bruce's fancy galas, courtesy of a very personal invitation from bruce from backstage. each member of the family manages to have one single interaction with you. any casual talk, any jokes thrown their way, a dance with one, a light, almost hesitant laugh to another— colored contacts hiding the ugly dimness which in turn piques tim's interest, makes him want to dissect your thoughts.

like, i don't know if i'm formulating my thoughts coherently enough for this concept to be entertained. but to sum it all up, just imagine those shows where it's told through a perspective of multiple people focusing on one cryptid, on a case long unsolved, a creature which holds no known record to human history— and soon those people's lives become revolved around that one mystery, consumed by familiarity at most.

because you are part of their family, none of them ever knew until the very end. think of that horrendous tom taylor plot twist within the nightwing run where there's this one girl who confessed being dick's long lost sister— now imagine you actively trying your best to stay unknown to them, long since given up through idolizing them through broken tv screens and focusing on yourself instead. you're well aware they're up to something, that they're pinning their curiosity onto you—

cue to me telling alexa to play anxiety by doechii, where like i said: not one thing is revealed about your thoughts unlike in the original a&a series, but rather me writing a series of everyone else's personal thoughts on you and how they each spiral into straight up obsession and the need to keep you for themselves despite never knowing why really.

because in their eyes, you've always been just a model who randomly piqued their attention. they never knew that you were always connected to them from the start— not until the very end at least.

any thoughts on this idea or do i scrap it?

just send in a comment or an ask because i'm in a writing crunch hehe.

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ix)

STITCH THEORY—Connection returns, not as it was, but stronger.

summary: Winter rolls into Jackson once more, but things are heating up in the big, white house across the street.

a/n: 18+ MDNI smut, but are you ready for the most wholesome smut you've ever read in your life? also update -> so, heh, I'm not really great at smut per se, this one, I've really tried to capture the luuurv, the physicality of it, and I really hope I've done it justice. also, happy earth day people!

There came a time in Joel’s life when he grew so used to boring bullshit that he actually preferred it. He didn’t know if that was old age creeping up on him, dragging him toward the inevitability of doing absolutely nothing, or if he was just plain tired of a life spent running from one disaster to the next. Either way, he found himself appreciating the small mercies. His own simple pleasures.

Going to bed without whiskey clawing its way down his throat. Waking up without his head feeling like a busted canteen. Fresh, warm socks straight from the laundry. Knuckling down and figuring out how to cook something that wasn’t just oatmeal or meat cooked to leather, not because he had to, but because he wanted to get it right.

At some point, he realized he didn’t care much to keep busy anymore—except for when it came to Leela and Maya. But it was strange how a simple life could still surprise him, could still land a punch straight to the ribs with five little words:

“Why don’t you stay here?”

It had caught him mid-sip, a few days after Leela’s little weed trip, while they were eating dinner. He’d had to set his cup down and stare at her. Make sense of it for three seconds. Even though the answer had already been waiting in his gut, inevitable as sunrise, he had smiled:

“Why not, darlin’?”

And yeah, he loved the big, white house. It was Jackson's history, with old black-and-white pictures lining the walls—Leela’s parents, grandparents, ghosts of people who had walked these halls before him. And maybe, in some small way, he was stitching himself into its bones with his work, care, and name. All the little fond memories in every nook of the home. His hands had worn themselves raw winterizing the garden, keeping the fences up, and scraping, painting, hammering, and patching up Maya’s nursery when she got naughty enough to climb right out of the crib. Light fixtures, floorboards, leaky pipes—he’d wrenched his calf muscle twice trying to fix that goddamn water heater.

Now, as Joel sat at Tommy’s dining table, peeling peas like a goddamn housewife, shoulders hunched, fingers working on autopilot, he continued sneaking glances at them—stuck on them. On all the ways it wasn’t working—on all the ways it was. Why not him?

Maya was perched on Tommy’s arm, fiddling with the salt shaker like it was some great mystery waiting to be solved. Tommy, for all his grumbling about how much of a menace she was, held her tight. That kid had him wrapped around her tiny little finger, and everyone knew it. He’d drive her nuts—hide her favourite toy just to get a rise out of her, tease her until she was practically throwing hands at him—but she’d always come racing back, tossing her arms around his neck, giggling as he swung her up high.

Joel’s hands stilled into peeling the peapod.

It was impossible not to notice how Maria and Tommy moved like two parts of a well-oiled machine. He watched them in the kitchen, just weaving in and out of each other’s space without thinking. Like those buzz magnets Sarah used to stick on the fridge from the capsule toys, repelling, colliding, but always snapping back into place. A hand passed a spoon without looking, a playful bump of the hip, a shared smile that needed no words. Tommy smoothed a hand over Maria’s forehead as she ducked too close to a sharp corner, and she didn’t flinch—just trusted.

Maria smirked at him. “Baby, you hover worse than Joel.”

“Please,” Tommy scoffed, stroking up her back. “Joel’s got me beat by a mile. He’s like a damn watchdog with our kid.” He bounced Maya on his arm, glancing at Joel. “Ain’t that right, big brother?”

Joel rolled his eyes, focusing back on the peas. “She’s one. Anybody with a brain watches a toddler.”

Tommy tsked. “You hear that, Maya? Your mean ol' daddy just called me stupid.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” Maria teased, setting a pot on the stove.

Maya giggled, still turning the salt shaker in her hands, getting salt everywhere. “Stew-pid.”

Tommy let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded. “Et tu, Brute?” He kissed her cheek anyway, undeterred.

Joel shook his head, hiding a smirk. He didn’t say it, but Tommy wasn’t wrong. He was like a watchdog when it came to Maya. Couldn’t help it. That little girl had carved out a place in him that he didn’t even know was still open. His little girl. Maybe not by blood. Maybe not by title. But she was his. Just like Sarah had been. Just like Ellie was.

But maybe that’s why watching Tommy and Maria hurt in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. Because what they had—this effortless, built-in kind of love—wasn’t something he’d dreamt of. Now he wanted it.

It wasn’t even physical, not really. It was just… love. Uncomplicated. Reciprocated. A year ago, he would’ve grunted something about getting a room. Tommy would’ve shot back about owning the whole damn house. But now—

He swallowed, shifting in his chair, wondering. Did he and Leela look like that in their home?

No, hell no. No, he wasn’t the type to put effort into how they were perceived. He barely liked acknowledging it himself, how he softened around her, how he let himself be someone else—someone better—when she was near. But it happened anyway, didn’t it? Without him meaning to. Made him want things.

And ever since he wholly made his home at their big, white house, he was sinking into it.

His love for her wasn’t flashy. He didn’t know how far to go beyond small things. He wasn’t the romantic kind of man, the kind to pick flowers or whisper pretty words. He wasn’t great at it, and wasn’t sure how far to go beyond having her coffee ready by her bedside in the morning. Beyond making sure that when he washed the dishes, hers were the first ones he cleaned, every time. Beyond leaving all the hot water for her and Maya, even if it meant stepping into a freezing shower himself when the temperatures were dropping fast.

She never noticed.

Or maybe she did. Because she had her own ways.

He wasn’t proud of how stupidly fond he got over the little things. The times he’d find his old boots, the ones he refused to part with, sitting by his bed freshly polished, patched up with rubber cement like new. Or how the busted projector in the dusty TV room—the one he’d given up on fixing—suddenly worked one night, humming quietly, waiting for him to indulge in some shitty action flick. She never made a big deal out of it and never expected anything in return. She just did things, because that’s how she loved.

God, the damn dopey grin he let out every time he caught on.

But they didn’t move in sync the way Tommy and Maria did around their home. here were rituals and rhythms, but they were dominoes—Joel would pick up where she left off.

Hell, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed. There was always a line. Physical. Emotional. Always a line, a place where he had to stop, where he had to get off.

He hated that fucking line.

He thought they’d been getting somewhere. That all the careful comforts, the small reassurances, the time—that it had chipped away at whatever was keeping her so guarded. Then there was that night.

That late night played back in his mind like a bad dream.

Leela, pacing back and forth, frustrated noises slipping past her throat, her blackboards covered in endless scribbles, eyes darting too fast, too desperate. Her hands shook as she wrote, erased, and rewrote. Then, suddenly, she just… crumpled. Joel found her there like that at two in the morning. Collapsed to her knees. Silent sobs racked her whole body, hands gripping at her hair, shoulders curling inward like she was trying to disappear into herself. The kind of cry that tore her apart, that was meant to be hidden.

It was like a jagged blade to the ribs, seeing her that way, and trying to ignore it. His Leela. His tireless, self-sufficient, do-everything-alone Leela, folded in on herself like a wounded animal.

He’d been on his knees before he even thought about it, hands reaching for hers.

“Hey, baby—” He cupped her palms, kissed them, trying to soothe her out. “It’s okay, darlin’. It’ll come to you.”

And then—she shoved him away. Like he burned her. Like she couldn’t stand him being there. “You don't know anything.”

“No,” he murmured, setting his palms on his knees, “but, talk me through it. I'm right here.”

And he tried to stroke the back of her head now, just to ground her to him, but before he could touch her, she'd jostled his hand off her.

“Please just leave me alone, please,” she’d choked out, voice small, broken. Final.

She might as well have reached into his chest and crushed his heart with her bare hands. He swallowed everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do, and stood up, silent. Left her there like he was the one who had misstepped.

And ever since that fucking breakthrough—the discovery she had been chasing for years on end—it had been like this. Slipping. Slipping deeper into whatever obsession had taken hold of her, staring past her own life's work like there was another world hidden behind it. Like she’d solved the last goddamn piece of the puzzle but couldn’t stop staring past it, searching for something else. A prisoner to her mind, a slave to her intellect—and he had no clue how to save her from herself.

He thought a discovery meant solace. That she’d finally rest. Kick back and focus on raising her perfect kid. Instead, she was spiralling. Faster. Harder. And he was left standing there, watching her slip through his fingers.

And maybe he should just let it happen. Let her go. Let her chase whatever was in her head, let it take her, let it swallow her whole. Ignore it, let it blow up in his face, pick up the pieces, and move on. It seemed like the easier option.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t dragging her on some death trip to L.A. to get a bunch of scholars’ rubber stamp of approval. And for what? To hear a bunch of stuck-up assholes tell her what she already knew? To chase after something that might not even be there anymore, past the patrol trails that promised nothing but death?

It wasn’t happening. Not on his watch.

“Joel, can you take this out to the kids, please?” Maria’s voice cut clean through his thoughts. He blinked, glancing up just as she pushed a bowl of garlic knots toward him. “Don’t want them starving before dinner’s done.”

Kids. How the hell Leela had ended up in that category was beyond him. But she’d started hanging around Ellie and her friends more, all of them messing around with her, out of good heart or the fuck of it, he did not know. They’d even managed to rope her into their little hijinks late into the night, like right now.

He’d seen Ellie dragging her outside earlier, that same oversized stack of star charts that Leela had gifted her tucked under her arm, Dina and Jesse trailing right after her with waves, and practically buzzing with excitement. He’d heard snippets of the invitation—something about mapping the constellations, something about seeing the stars “like they used to be.” And, to his surprise, Leela had actually gone along with them.

From inside, he’d catch the sound of laughter floating through the backyard. It wasn’t much, but hell, it was a little relief, knowing she was out there, around some good spirits, instead of pacing around those goddamn blackboards like she was trying to solve the meaning of life.

He stood to take the bowl out, but before he could even make it past the table—

“Da-da.”

Joel stopped in his tracks. Maya had her hands stretched toward him, little fingers grabbing at the air, grinning mouth already open in expectation.

“Pease gimme,” she demanded.

He snorted, reaching over to pop his finger between her lips instead. “Nice try, baby girl. Dinner first.”

“Pease, pease! Aw, da-da!” she whined, brown eyes big and pleading, nearly changing his heart, wriggling against Tommy’s chest in an attempt to get to him.

He just shook his head, slipping away toward the hallway. “Gotta do better than that.”

Tommy was already distracting her with a spoonful of tomato soup that was bubbling away by the time he stepped out the back door.

Outside, the kids were alright. Dina and Jesse were off to one side by the fences, heads bent together in their own little world. Joel should’ve broken them up, should’ve told them to leave some damn space between them, but—

His eyes flicked to Ellie instead.

She was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the happy couple long and hard. And the second she felt Joel watching her, she snapped her gaze away, clearing her throat and focusing on Leela instead. He tried not to dwell on it, though his brows shot right up in question.

Leela, on the other hand—she wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

She had her head tilted up, her gaze tracking the sky, that damn star map spread open in her hands. She was muttering under her breath, tracing something invisible in the air, her brows drawn together in deep concentration. That look she got—the one where her whole world shrank down to whatever puzzle was in front of her—alive, glowing.

It was the same look she had when she worked through some problem scrawled across her blackboards. The same look she had when she was fixing something—quiet, focused, all sharp edges and restless movement, pulling things apart just to put them back together again. It was amazing how much Maya looked like her mama, she had that exact same look when she tried to decipher the chords as he played guitar.

And god help him, he loved Leela like this. Loved the way she got lost in things, the way her mind worked like a racecar engine. Loved the way she’d get so caught up in the details that she’d forget the rest of the world existed, forget to eat, forget to sleep—loved it, even when it pissed him off.

Loved her. Jesus, it was amazing how his old ass could still get hooked on a girl like this.

Ellie barely had a second to react before he shoved the bowl into her chest. “Haven’t missed the boat just yet, kiddo,” he teased.

Ellie shot him a glare. “Oh, fuck you, Joel.” She shoved a garlic knot into her mouth. “I know Leela’s only tolerating your ass.”

Joel chuckled, stepping forward.

Leela was still lost in the map, tapping a finger against her temple, muttering under her breath as her eyes darted between the lines and symbols. Joel quietly came up behind her, lowering just enough to brush his lips against her ear.

“Lookin' up at your own kind?” he murmured.

Ellie, mid-chew, made an exaggerated gagging noise.

Joel, grumbling, kicked a lazy leg in her direction. “Get outta here. Go on, git.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, snatching another garlic knot from the bowl before slinking off into the house.

Joel, though—he stayed.

Leela finally glanced up from her map, blinking at him like she’d just realized he was there. The slight furrow of her brow softened, the haze of focus giving way to a quiet, warm smile. “Hi, Joel.”

That smile. His name shaped like a hymn on her lips. Subtle. A thing most people wouldn’t catch if they weren’t looking for it. But Joel was always looking, listening. And God, he loved catching her like this. Unaware, until she wasn’t.

He smiled back, slow and knowing, waiting for her to say something else, maybe acknowledge the way he’d lowered his voice just for her, the way he’d leaned in close enough for his breath to stir a few strands of her hair—

But she didn’t. She just turned back to her damn star chart, completely disregarded his sorry attempt at flirting, as if he was nothing more than a passing shadow.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. The only thing worse than flirting with Leela was getting ignored by her.

The air had shifted before he had even noticed. Not by much—just enough that he could feel it. The barely-there stiffness in her shoulders, all the implicit everything sinking in the inches between them.

Because this was the first time he’d properly approached her in two days. He hadn't crossed past the courtesies or bare necessities, this time, he felt like it had soothed over.

The last time being her breakdown. And she was here now—outside, breathing, looking up at the sky like she hadn’t spent days holed up in that house, tangled in her own mind. Like she was okay.

But Joel knew better.

Leela clucked her tongue, rolling up the chart in frustration. “It’s like I’m wasting my potential.” A sigh, thin and frayed at the edges. “I can’t think straight. I can’t find the stupid… star. Something’s wrong with me.”

Joel nudged his shoulder into hers, trying to shake something loose. “There ain't nothin’ wrong with you. You just need to get out of the house a little more.”

She shook her head, already brushing him off. “I’m not teaching at the school, Joel. I told you, it's not for me.”

There was something automatic about the way she said it—premeditated. A flicker of irritation behind her eyes, like she’d already decided where this conversation was going before he even had the chance to take it there.

Joel just lifted a brow. “Not askin' you to.”

Leela blinked, lips parting slightly. Like maybe she’d expected an argument. But he wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t anyone else. He wasn’t trying to fix her.

Leela ran a hand down her face, rubbing at her eyes. “I just… it’s so incomplete.” Her voice wavered slightly, barely above a whisper. “I know I’m done, I ran the numbers a hundred times, but I—” She bit her lip, frustration flickering across her face. "I can’t stand the fact that I don’t have anything else to work toward.”

Joel studied her for a long moment.

This wasn’t just about the damn star chart. She needed something. A goal, a project—something to occupy her hands, her mind, something to pour herself into. Because without it, she was stuck in her own head. Stuck waiting.

He reached out, sliding a hand to the back of her head. His fingers traced slow, absentminded strokes before his arm draped heavy around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

“You need a break, darlin’.”

Leela let herself sink against him, nestling her nose against the worn fabric of his shirt. Her hands slipped against his sides, resting at his ribs, tentative, like she hadn’t touched him in a while and wasn’t sure if she still could.

“And do what?”

“Help me fix up that swing for Maya’s birthday.”

Joel felt the small hitch in her breath before she even lifted her head.

“Maya’s—” She gasped, cupping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, her birthday. I completely—” Her voice broke slightly. “How did you know?”

Joel shrugged. “Did some mental math. She was barely a month old when we first met. Figure it’s comin’ up soon.”

Leela closed her eyes. “Yes. Christmas.”

“Holly jolly Christmas baby,” he said, snickering. He didn’t know if it was hard-luck or fortuitous that their baby girl’s birthday overlapped with a holiday.

Leela groaned softly, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I’m a terrible mother.”

Joel made a derisive noise, picking her hands off her eyes before cupping her cold cheek. “Nah, just a scatterbrained one.”

And when she finally laughed—light, breathy, warm—it was as if he’d struck gold.

He let himself look at her then. Her long hair was a mess, spilling around her face from the loose braid, wild and tangled from where she’d been tugging at it in frustration. The stars flecked in her big, dark eyes, dim and soft, like the whole night sky had been stitched there just for him.

Christ, he loved her. It hit him in strange moments like this. Not in the middle of some grand declaration, not when they were on the brink of tragedy. Just here. Just in the way she folded against him, breathing slow, in the way she trusted him enough to let her guard down.

Joel brushed his thumb against her temple. “You’re alright, you know that?”

Leela blinked. “What?”

“You,” he murmured. “You’re doin' okay. I've got you now.”

A breath. Then she smiled—small, almost imperceptible, but there. And Joel, stupid, old fool that he was—he fucking melted.

Because he’d said nothing special. Just a handful of words, low and gruff and barely above a whisper. And yet—there was something in her eyes now, reassurance, like she needed to hear it, and she hadn’t let herself believe it until now. Until he said it. Until it came from him.

She tiptoed, her forehead leaning into his, her fingers curling lightly into his shirt. He could feel the warmth of her breath, feel the way she hesitated for just a second, like maybe she was unsure—

But then she kissed him.

Slow, soft, uncertain, and God help him, but he could’ve crushed her right into his bones. “Right now?”

“Just a little one,” she whispered against his lips.

“Killin' me.”

Because it had been too fucking long since he had her like this—since she let him have her like this. And for weeks now, ever since that weed trip of hers, he’d been holding himself back, watching her from a distance, all while within their house, twenty-four by seven, just waiting for the right moment.

His large hand found the curve of her throat, his thumb pressing gently beneath her jaw as he tilted her into his smiling lips, deepening the kiss. She tasted of him, of her, a blend of them both, and Joel wanted to drown in it.

She made a soft noise against his lips, barely there, but felt, and he was already stretching for her ass, already—

“Mama!”

Joel flinched, eyes still half-lidded, mind heady with her, with them, but—Leela broke away immediately, her head snapping toward the deck.

And there stood Maya. The little menace herself, gripping the railing for balance, two entire garlic knots stuffed in her tiny fist.

Joel sighed sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. Just on time, the peanut-butt cockblocker.

Maya’s attention wasn’t on them, though. No, she was too focused on her real struggle—getting herself down the stairs while holding onto both knots, because apparently, letting go was out of the question.

Joel huffed, already moving. “Hey-ey—now, who the heck gave you those?”

Because Maya didn’t just find food. No, that kid knew exactly who to ask and how to ask. A little manipulator before she even hit two years old.

Maya just grinned at him, all teeth and mischief, one cheek puffed out with the stolen bread, and Joel didn’t even have to guess which poor soul had caved under that wide-eyed, baby-faced con job.

He reached for Maya's hand. “Gimme that. Didn’t I tell you no snacks before dinner?”

And because she was, without a doubt, his worst nightmare—she twisted away from him with a high-pitched squeal, shoving another bite into her mouth as she waddled to the other side of the deck.

Joel sighed. “Goddamn it, trouble.”

Behind him, Leela laughed with her daughter, already climbing up onto the deck. “Alright. C’mere, baby.”

Maya didn’t fight her. Just beamed up at her mama, eyes bright and full of adoration. Leela crouched before her, brushing at the curls on her forehead.

“Can you feed Mama one?”

And just like that—without hesitation—Maya held one out. Anything her mother said, she followed. Anything at all. It was Joel she was coming to rebel against with her little cheekiness. And Joel being completely susceptible to her charms, fell for it constantly.

Leela leaned in, mouth open, and Maya giggled before pushing the knot between her lips.

Joel shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, watching them. Leela, the master Maya manipulator, struck once more.

She hummed in approval, chewing theatrically. “Mmm, so good. One more, please?”

And Maya, delighted, shoved the other half-eaten, slobbery garlic knot into her mother’s mouth.

Joel made a noise. “Jesus.”

Leela, struggling through a laugh, wiped her mouth, grinning. “Thank you, baby.”

Maya clapped her hands together, voice piping up—“No-mo.”

Leela licked some garlic butter from her thumb, grunting as lifted Maya onto her hip. “Let’s get something real to eat before your poor dad pops a vein on his head.”

Joel scoffed, following them up the stairs, feeling every damn step in his knees. “Pop a vein—psh, yeah, you wish.”

Dinner with the Millers' was always a big thing nowadays. Joel, finally, had found himself growing used to the way the table felt a little more complete now, moored closer to one of his own.

Back in the old days—hell, even when it was just him and Tess in Boston—meals were quiet, nothing but the clink of cutlery, the scrape of bowls, the occasional grunt of acknowledgement if someone asked for the last bite. Food had been something to get through, not something to enjoy.

But here? This? It was a whole damn production.

It seemed like Leela, Maria, and Tommy were trying to outdo each other on every dinner occasion. Joel never saw them outright say it, but the evidence was all right here—plates filled to the brim with roasted vegetables and some sort of braised meat that smelled damn near decadent. There was even fresh bread, sliced and golden, butter melting into the soft notches. Warmth, everywhere—lamplight spilling golden across the table, the faint crackle of the fireplace, boots nudging against each other under the table.

And noise. So much noise.

Jesse had ducked out early, leaving Dina to make herself at home beside Ellie, and it didn’t take long for them to get into it.

“Okay, but that is not how you use a fuckin' knife,” Ellie was saying, waving her fork in Dina’s face.

Maria sighed. “There's a talking toddler at the table.”

As if on cue, Maya smacked her little hand onto the table. Ellie showed her teeth at her, sheepish. “My bad.”

Dina rolled her eyes, all dramatic. “Well, excuse me for not being a serial killer, Miss ‘Lemme Show You The Proper Stabbing Technique.’”

Joel smirked at that one, chewing on a piece of trout.

It was a different kind of comfort. Something he still wasn’t used to—this abundance after a long time.

And then there was Leela, stealing his heart, piece by piece. The way she’d always scooted her chair a little closer to his. The way her knee brushed his under the table. The way she let him rest a hand over her thigh, stroke it when he was tense like it was all his. The way she’d laugh when someone cracked a joke at his expense—which was often—squeezing his shoulder like he was some goddamn kicked puppy before turning back to her plate.

Didn’t even take long for that to happen. Joel knew Tommy had that look in his eye—that look, the one that meant he was about to open his dumbass mouth. And sure enough...

“So,” Tommy started, all innocent-like. “How's shackin’ up in the big house treatin’ ya, Mensch Miller?”

Joel wanted to put his fork through his brother’s skull. Right between the eyes. So, he barely spared him a glance. “Go to hell.”

Tommy snorted. “C’mon now, ain't no shame in it. We're all real proud of you for finally gettin’ over your fear of commitment. Folks?”

A round of agreements circled the table—Maria, Dina, even Ellie with a smirk and a nod, like they’d all been waiting for this exact moment. Joel sighed through his nose, already regretting every life choice that led him to this.

Dina leaned in, grinning. “Oh my God. Joel, did you finally put a ring on it?”

Ellie snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause there’s so many jewellery stores open these days.”

Joel shot her a flat look. “Could always carve one outta bone.”

Dina sighed with literal heart eyes. “Aww. So metal.”

Ellie recoiled instead. "Dude—what the actual fuck?"

Tommy wheezed at that one. But Leela didn’t react much at all. Just blinked at them, her expression blank, like she had no idea why the hell they were making such a big deal out of it. Then, casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—

“We’re partners,” she said simply, reaching up to his jaw, nails scraping at his scruff. “Right, Joel?”

Joel damn near choked on his own tongue.

Because—what the hell? She wasn’t one for casual touches, wasn’t one for public anything, really. Wasn't some joke, not a passing comment—she just said it, plain as anything. Like it was a truth she’d already made peace with.

Partners. Not a maybe. Not a half-measure. A fact. Halves. Two mates. And it knocked the wind right out of him.

Because Joel had spent so damn long waiting—waiting for her to say something, to define this thing between them, to give him even the smallest indication that she saw him as more than just a man passing through her life.

And here she was, not making a big deal out of it. Not afraid of it, simply stating the obvious. Because fuck, she was right. They were partners now. He had a partner now.

A slow sip of his drink was the only thing that kept him from making an absolute fool of himself.

Dina cackled, slapping the table. “Look at his face. I frickin' love you, Leela.”

Ellie groaned, shoving a bite of food into her mouth. “Jesus, you two deserve each other.”

Maria smirked. “So when’s the big day?”

Dina hummed. “Mm-mm, she'll have to wait, Joel promised to make the ring out of bone.”

Ellie gagged. “Oh my God, Dina—could you please stop with the bone talk?”

Tommy snickered, elbowing him. “Never thought I’d see the day. Big brother all wrangled up.”

Joel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know I got a gun, right?”

Tommy waved a hand, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah. But you ain't shootin’ me ‘cause our baby girl would be real mad at you.”

And then, of course, there was his baby girl in the midst of all this. It had become second nature by now—the back-and-forth of it all, alternating between holding Maya, fending off his teasing family, and feeding her.

Not that it was much of a competition with her. Most of the time, she quietly ended up in his lap, legs dangling over his thigh, picking curiously at the old scar on his forearm as he spooned food into her mouth.

Leela swore she’d grow out of that habit, but Joel wasn’t so sure. He’d seen that girl study the mark like it held the secrets of the universe since she was a few months old. Tiny fingers tracing the jagged edges, soft and intent, like she was mapping him.

Didn’t matter what he put in front of her—if he ate it, she ate it.

Thank God she wasn’t a picky eater like her mama. He still remembered the first few months of trying to get Leela to eat like a normal person—always picking at her food, losing her appetite, always eating just enough and nothing more.

But Maya? Shit. She was his. His perfect little girl—but nothing like him. Loud, expressive, always moving, always talking. She loved to babble, loved to laugh, loved to feed him right from his own damn plate.

“Da-da, aah.”

He moved his head away. “Nuh-uh. Sit your little butt down.”

“Dinna, da-da.”

“I can eat my own dinner, thanks.”

When her adamant whine pierced through the noise on the table, he gave up. Joel barely glanced at her, already sighing as he opened his mouth.

Sure enough, Maya balanced her pudgy feet on his lap and shoved a forkful of fish into his mouth, giggling like she’d just accomplished something huge.

Joel chewed slowly, unimpressed. “Real nice.”

And then—just to add insult to injury—she reached up and patted his forehead, all delicate and reassuring, just like her mama did to her whenever she did something right.

Ellie snorted. “She's just teaching you manners, old man.”

Dina smirked. “Yeah, ever heard of ‘em?”

He shot them both a look but swallowed the bite anyway. Maya squealed like she knew she was being funny, then reached out for his plate again.

Joel sighed, nudging her grabby fingers away. “Alright, move it, baby girl. Ain’t no way you’re finishing my plate before I do.”

The conversation rolled on around him, blending into laughter and stories. Joel drifted in and out of it, shifting his focus between indulging Maya’s antics and half-listening to Tommy and Maria trade jabs about whose turn it was to cook next.

At some point, the conversation took a turn.

“So,” Tommy started, leaning back in his chair. “What’s next, Lee? The last big thing was that lightning harvester. Then you set up the new water filtration thing.” He gestured vaguely as if the list of things she’d accomplished was casual, nothing major. “You always got somethin’ cookin’. What’s next for Jackson?”

The table quieted just a fraction, all eyes shifting toward Leela with a familiar kind of expectation.

Joel felt her stiffen beside him. She didn’t answer right away, just glanced around at them—Dina, Ellie, Maria, Tommy—all waiting for some brilliant, world-changing answer.

But only Joel knew the sleepless nights, he’d seen her try to redo the math, rework the impossible, just to feel like she had something left to solve. So all he’d been able to do was let her at it, leave her to her circles and theories, and go back to bed, waiting for her to wear herself out. He knew that math of hers had wrecked her—driven her to the edge of exhaustion, of obsession.

And now, sitting here, she looked like she wanted to vanish.

So before the silence could stretch too long before they could push her for something she wasn’t ready to say—Joel spoke for her.

“She actually solved the Riemann hypothesis,” he said, casual as anything, like he was commenting on the weather. A little smug, too.

A beat.

Dina blinked. “The—what?”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “You just made that up.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Nah. It’s a real thing.” He reached for his water and took a slow sip. “Some math theory. Big deal, apparently. Heck if I knew.”

Tommy, to his credit, pretended like he was just hearing about it for the first time, looking between Joel and Leela with exaggerated surprise.

Dina scoffed. “You don’t know?”

Joel gave her a look. “Do I look like someone who spends his time thinkin’ about math?”

Ellie snorted. “Okay, but you can’t just say it’s a big deal and not even try to explain it.”

Joel sighed again, this time more dramatically, because this truly was exhausting him. “Alright. Uh… somethin’ ‘bout numbers. Division. Shit, I don’t fuckin’ know.” He absently stroked Maya's curls. “S’got a lotta squiggles and letters. But little miss genius figured it out.”

Ellie’s face twisted to a shit-eating grin. “Squiggles?”

Joel turned to Leela, mortified at himself, seeking some reprieve. “Tell ‘em.”

Leela, looking a little like she wanted to shrink into the floor, tucked her hair behind her ear and gave a small nod. “I um, did prove the theory. Took my family a really long time to complete.”

“Wait, actually. I've read about Riemann,” Dina went on, straightening in her seat. “That’s the whole—prime numbers thing—no one’s been able to solve that, right? And if you did, you get like a million dollars or something?”

Leela barely glanced up. “Yes, actually. Millenium Prize problem.”

Joel, watching her carefully, felt the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants under the table.

Ellie leaned in. “Okay, but like—now what? You can’t just—sit on that, right? Don’t you have to tell someone?”

Leela exhaled, slowly. “It’s… complicated. Our world isn't the way it was.”

Joel saw it—the way her shoulders went tight, the way her face shut down.

Dina wasn’t getting it. “How? This is, like, huge. You should—”

Maria, sensing the tension, jumped in smoothly. “What about you, honey? You got any idea on this?”

Tommy, still side-eyeing Joel, shrugged. “Nah. Not a clue.” He sipped his drink. “I was more into the rabble-rousin’ with the Fireflies. And these FEDRA shits wouldn't care about all that.”

Joel let out a tense breath.

Dina groaned dramatically, throwing herself back in her chair. “Man. Would’ve been so cool to have your name in a book. Or somewhere. Professor of Mathematics, Leela.”

Leela managed a small smile, but her gaze had gone distant.

And Joel hated it. Hated that look. That quiet, almost-accepting disappointment.

He hated that she knew this world didn’t have room for her name in a book. That she’d spent years solving a problem no one would ever see, ever care about. And that should’ve been fine, right? Should’ve been something she could accept. But it wasn’t, because despite everything, despite how much she pretended not to care, she did.

And Joel, he wished like hell there was something he could do about it. That tiny drop of hope snuffed out in her eyes. Like for half a second, she thought—maybe there was a world where what she’d done actually mattered.

And it did. Just not in a way that’d ever change a damn thing.

Joel clenched his jaw, staring down at his glass like it might hold an answer.

There weren’t any. Not for this.

Because he knew how he could help her. Knew there were people—out west, in LA—who might care, who might listen, who might actually do something with what she’d done. There were still Fireflies, still remnants of old-world thinkers, people scraping together the last bits of science that hadn’t been buried under blood and ruin.

And if he told her—if he let her know they existed—she might go.

Leave him. Leave their perfect baby girl. Leave home. And that—he couldn’t let happen.

He needed her here.

Call him selfish? Monomaniacal? Maybe. But he didn’t give a fuck.

Joel had lived his life losing. Lost Sarah, lost Tess, lost whatever scraps of himself made him good once. And now—now, he had her. Had Maya. Had a reason to come home at the end of the day that wasn’t just the routine of it. He had that little vestige of trust and faith back in him, even if the ghosts lingered. He slept knowing he was going to wake up with purpose that wasn't just behind the flare of a rifle or the scent of blood. He had love, a warm home, all this food, these people.

And if Leela left—No.

He wouldn’t think about that. Not ever. He'd give up his breath before she risked it like a fucking idiot.

So he’d keep his mouth shut. Play dumb. Let the world stay small for her, even when she was meant for something bigger. Even when he saw the ache of it in her eyes. Even when he hated himself for it. But that was fine, he'd grown used to his hate.

So he did the only thing he could do—he raised his damn glass.

“To Leela,” he said, confident, eyes warm when they landed on her. “For doin’ the impossible.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening just a fraction. Under the table, her fingers curled tight around his knee, firm—don’t.

She wasn’t the type to bask in praise, wasn’t one to revel in attention. But Joel wasn’t gonna let her disappear into the silence. So instead of backing down, he just smirked, pried her hand off his knee, and brought it to his lips.

His mouth was rough, the scrape of his beard even rougher, but the way he kissed her knuckles—gentle, slow, promising. A prayer he wouldn’t say out loud.

She froze up, breath catching just enough for him to notice, just enough to make his heart slam against his ribs. This was good. She was okay.

The table had gone quiet.

Then Tommy grinned, lifting his glass. “To Lee.”

Maria followed, then Ellie and Dina, voices echoing the words, raising their drinks. “To Leela.”

And then—clap, clap, clap! Maya, grinning wide, smacked her little hands together, delighted by the sudden chorus of voices, as if she had any clue what was happening.

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You like that, baby?”

Maya just kept clapping, giggling as she looked between Joel and Leela, as if she understood this was about her mama, and that meant it was something right.

And Leela—God, she was looking at him now, like he was impossible, like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him. Joel just held her hand tight, letting his thumb trace slow circles into her skin.

“You deserve it,” he murmured in her ear, meant just for her.

Leela let out a soft breath, almost like a sigh. Then, with barely a beat between them, she squeezed his hand right back.

X

Joel knew he had it good because the thought of reality was the only thing keeping him awake. After all, it felt like his dreams had come true.

But of course, nowadays, when Joel slept, he closed his eyes and he fell deeply, just as he did in love and loss, displaced of his path back. When he did ultimately open his eyes once more to the old patterned ceiling, tucked up in a disgustingly comfortable bed, within a house you could hear the wind slide under the eaves, the soft creak of the old floors settling, Maya’s soft little snores down the hall, the occasional rustle of sheets when Leela moved on her bed, he wasn’t sure when life had slowed down like this, when the days stopped being about surviving and started being about living.

Whatever it was, it was all Leela. She had insisted he take the biggest room when he moved in, and she wouldn’t hear a word otherwise. Stubborn as a damn mule, she’d just stared him down when he tried to argue, and—hell. It wasn’t like he minded. The room was ridiculous, the bathroom even more, with more closet space than he’d ever need, but the real saving grace was the football-field-sized bed.

Probably a thousand silky white pillows, freshly washed and dusted, stacked against a plush leather headboard, spilling over a white duvet. Bed to end all beds. Big enough to sink in between. Lonely enough when it got dark. Close enough to Maya’s nursery that when she woke in the middle of the night, whimpering softly in the dark, he was already moving, already lifting her up before she got too lonely.

Outside, winter had crept in slowly. Mornings turned from golden to white, breaths corkscrewing in steam ribbons against the cold. The sky was that sharp, steel-grey that told you snow wasn’t far behind, and Joel had started waking up to a frost-lined world, rooftops silvered, trees edged in ice.

December now, and Jackson was easing into the Christmas season and spirit—garlands strung between shop corners, lights winking from one lamppost to the next, a huge tree going up in the square, handmade ornaments showing up on doors. He had his own big efforts for Maya's first birthday and Christmas.

And then—just like the night before—it hit him.

Maya was turning one soon. The thought still knocked something loose in him. This tiny thing, this impossibly small, impossibly bright piece of his world who barely reached his knee. Who stumbled around in her little boots like she had somewhere really important to be. Who giggled like it could undo every bad thing in the world, cutting straight through the cold, through the ache in his bones, like it was nothing.

His girl. God, that was still a hard thing to wrap his head around. That she belonged to him. That he belonged to her.

He lay back against the pillows, an arm resting behind his head, and let his fingers graze the stack of Polaroids and photographs scattered across his nightstand. He flipped through each one slowly like one of Maya's bedtime stories, but only this one was real.

One of him and Ellie, captured by Leela, sprawled out on the porch swing, their boots propped up against the rail. Ellie mid-laugh, a cup of iced lemonade dangling from her fingers, frozen in time. He could almost hear her voice, thick with dry humour, and see the way her nose scrunched when she got to the best part of whatever story she was telling.

Tommy, Maria and him, once again captured by Leela, arms slung around each other at the hoedown, cowboy hats tilted over their heads, two of them tipsy and flushed. A night of music and good beer and warmth—the kind of warmth that had been rare for too long. The kind they hadn’t thought they’d find again.

And then—his fingers slowed.

One of them. Pretty sure it was Ellie who took this one. Maya, wedged between him and Leela, four little teeth showing, curls and eyes shining, a fork clutched in her fist, attention stolen by something off-camera. Leela, so beautiful under the flash, one hand curled protectively at Maya’s back, the other resting lightly on the table. And Joel, beside them both, his smile unsure, caught between trying to look natural and trying not to think too much about how unnatural it still felt—being in a picture like this.

But when he looked at it now—it looked so real. The family aspect of it.

He held the photo at arm’s length, studying it, the three of them together.

Though he looked apart from them. Incohesive. Hell, anyone would say it. The rougher, older edges of him, the shade of his skin and theirs, the texture of his hair and their black locks, the way his eyes weren’t the same big, almond eyes. Maya had Leela’s delicate features, her wide dark gaze, and her gentle intensity. And him—well, he was just there. An outsider, a man slotted into the frame, but not quite of it.

Except… that wasn’t true, was it?

Because if he looked long enough, he could see it. The shape of familiarity, how lived-in he seemed.

The way Maya leaned toward him in the picture, just slightly, even distracted as she was. The way Leela’s fingers curled gently toward his wrist, even unconsciously. The way he fit there, in the space beside them, not because he forced it, but because—somehow, without realizing it—he belonged there.

It made sense. Anyone who looked at this—anyone who knew—they’d know exactly what they were to each other.

He swallowed thickly, staring at the picture like it might shift in his hands or it might tell him something new. He wanted to keep it that way, within this frame, the three of them, until the time was up. God, how long would that be? Another few years?

A knock at his door pulled him from it, and he blinked, turning his head.

Leela pushed the door open slightly, peering inside. “Sorry. Do you have some time?”

He had his whole life for her, even if it was overkill. Joel cleared his throat, setting the Polaroids aside. “Always.”

She stepped inside, and Christ.

She was barefoot, those thin gold-chain anklets winking at him in the low light. The soft curve of her calves disappeared beneath the loose folds of that goddamn pearl-button nightdress—the one that never failed to drive him insane. It was slipping off her shoulder just enough to make his life miserable, the bare silhouette of her body teasing at the edges of his vision, itching his palms with the worst kind of temptation.

Joel sat up, rubbing a slow hand down his face, across the scruff along his jaw, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more awake.

She didn’t hesitate, swishing the fabric under her as she perched on the edge of his bed, legs dangling off.

“I was just on the swing set before it started to snow,” she told him, her voice all wistful. “I think I might love it more than Maya does.”

Joel chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how baby girl’s gonna feel about sharing.”

It hadn’t taken him long to put together the swing set that stood proudly in the front yard—just a hell of a lot of effort, some cursing under his breath, and more muscle than he cared to admit. Sturdy wood, painted deep green, with painted pink and yellow flowers curling along the edges. The seat hung from two thick ropes, knotted tight, built to last. All safe and ready for his little girl.

Leela had helped, like she promised—though if her irritated grumbling was anything to go by, woodworking sure as hell wasn’t her calling. She hadn’t complained once about the splinters, but he caught her wincing every time she flexed her fingers, scowling down at the stubborn bits of wood lodged in her skin.

Joel, now, watched the way her gaze flicked to the photographs near his pillow, her expression shifting—soft, thoughtful. He didn’t move, just waited, letting her take her time.

Her brows furrowed slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “How are your feet?”

Joel smirked, sinking back onto one elbow. “They're toasty, thanks.”

She pulled one knee up to her chest, resting her chin on it, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her nightdress. “Mine too.” A grin flickered across her face. “I feel like my parents around you nowadays.”

That had him raising an eyebrow. “How's that now?”

Leela hesitated, her fingers stilling. Then, almost cautiously, she said, “You know… a couple. Partners. Married.” That last word barely even made the breath.

Joel stayed quiet, processing that for a moment. Shit, he couldn't. He almost blacked out.

“They were so crazy in love, Joel. Even at eighty.” A fond laugh slipped from her. “Dad would have her coffee ready every morning, help her tie her shoelaces, and open doors for her. Dance with her every night before bed. Never let her raise a finger around the home, even after the whole world came crumbling down around us.”

She smiled to herself, the memory a gentle thing.

“I’m gonna make you the happiest, fattest, laziest wifey in Jackson, sweetheart,” she recited, voice taking on a deep, playful lilt, like she was echoing her father's exact words.

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Sounds like a stand-up fella'.”

Leela nodded, then faltered, her lips parting like there was something else—something she wasn’t sure she should say. Joel waited, his fingers twitching against the blanket, patient.

Then softly, quietly, “He would've liked you.”

Joel looked away, to itch at his temple, hiding a grin. The thought of this man—the man who had made Leela feel safe, loved—looking at him and thinking he’s good enough for my little girl? No, he would've given him a hard time. Especially since no one stood to compare to Leela, much less a man like Joel, hitting sixty and greying. Her father would've come at him with his expensive shotgun.

Leela’s gaze lifted to his, eyes foolproof. She took a breath. “I feel like that with you.”

Joel's throat worked tough. His body had already moved before his mind caught up, his hand reaching out, fingers trailing along her temple, dipping into the thick waves of her hair.

“Like a fat, lazy wifey?” he murmured.

Leela let out a tiny, breathless laugh and immediately covered her face with both hands, her shoulders curling in. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

Joel’s grin pulled at his mouth, satisfaction sitting right on his bones. His thumb brushed over the curve of her cheek, a little more deliberate now, a little more his. “That’s the goal, sweetheart.”

Leela peeked at him through her fingers, then, as if gathering herself, slowly reached out and took his hand from her face. She held it in her lap, turning it over, tracing the rough lines of his palm. The callouses, the broken skin, the deep grooves time had worn into him.

She ran her thumb along the ridge of a scar, a flash of quiet passing through her expression. Not pity—Leela never looked at him like that. Just knowing. Understanding.

“Do you remember what you told me?” she murmured, still studying his hand, watching the way her fingers disappeared against the breadth of his palm. “That night after the bar?”

Joel exhaled, a deep thing, pulse hammering up his veins. “Do you?”

She squinted, like she was trying to piece a puzzle together, like it lived just at the edges of her memory.

“I don’t remember much. It's hazy.” Her voice dipped even quieter. “You told me you love me.”

Joel swallowed. His fingers flexed against hers before curling, his palm pressing lightly to her own like she might slip away if he didn’t hold onto her properly.

“And I’ll say it again,” he assured.

Leela finally looked up, meeting his gaze fully. Her fingers curled tighter around his hand, holding him there.

“I want to feel you now, Joel,” she said, soft but sure, like it was something she had already decided. “Loving all of me.”

A deep and molten flame uncoiled in him at her words, cracked something wide open.

Because she remembered. And he remembered the way she had trembled under him that night, high and reckless and desperate for something he wouldn’t give her. And he had whispered the only inevitable promise that he had ever felt—

“One day, when I’m deep inside you, I am all you're gonna be thinkin' of. Just me, loving all of you.”

And now—now Leela was here, in front of him, sober and clear-eyed and asking him for the very thing he had promised her.

Joel didn’t rush. He just reached for her, wanting and calm, his fingers trailing from her wrist, up the length of her arm, to her chin. He tilted her face toward him, waiting. Giving her the space to change her mind.

Leela stared at him, eyes, lips, eyes, lips, and it had him in agony. A prolonged soon enough, she simply lifted her lips to his like an offering.

And he took.

He kissed her like a man who had gone without for too long, hands crushing her closer to him, like a man afraid to break the very thing he craved. Worshipping her was softer than before because now he knew she wanted this. He knew she was choosing this. Choosing him. Out of all the sick, sorry bastards in this world, she picked him. Him.

“Gonna make you feel good,” he promised between kisses, hungering forward for more. “I'll make you feel like a queen, baby. I'll give you everything.”

Her fingers trailed up, skimming the scruff at his neck before splaying over his chest. The warmth of her touch shot straight through him, and he exhaled against her mouth, pressing closer. Mad, so mad for this.

Then, gently, he guided her hands to his shirt buttons.

He wasn’t in any hurry. This wasn’t about taking—this was about letting. Letting her have control, letting her set the pace, letting her know she could stop whenever she wanted.

Leela pulled away just enough to glance down at his shirt, her breath catching.

“Go on then, help me out,” he urged.

That’s when he saw it—the hesitation. The clear-cut hysteria that hadn’t been there last time, numbed to the effects of weed. With her clarity came everything else. Every dread, every old wound, every aching recollection, every scar she carried in places he couldn’t see.

Joel stayed still, barely breathing, watching the way her fingers hovered over the buttons, how they trembled as she carefully popped the first one open. Then the next and next.

She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her hands mapping him quietly, tracing it all. She touched everything—the pale scars left by unseen blades, the sealed bullet wounds, the old burns, the places where life had carved him up and forced him to heal around the damage. Her dark gaze lingered on the fine scruff dusting his chest, palms gliding lower, following the path where dark hair thinned down his stomach before vanishing beneath his waistband.

She wasn’t just looking. She was memorizing. Good, let her. This was all hers anyway.

“Ruined,” he mumbled.

“Survived,” she corrected.

He slid the sleeves off his arms, balling his shirt up in his hands before tossing it aside. Joel leaned back against the headboard like a king waiting on a feast, his legs spreading slightly, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he breathed. His gaze was heavy-lidded, thick, deep and everything unspoken.

Then, slowly, he stroked a palm over his thigh. “Come sit, darlin’.”

Leela hesitated. He could see it in the way her fingers curled and uncurled on the duvet, like she was feeling her way through the moment. But she followed, just like he knew she would, crawling over until she was straddling him, the seam of her legs spread over his zipper, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

Joel felt the warmth of her, the light press of her thighs against him, the way her breath hitched when her hands came to his shoulders, fingers curling lightly over muscle and scar.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “You're just perfect, aren't you?”

She nodded. Then blinked in realization, then shook her head, sighing. “Shut up.”

“Psh. Look at you. I ain't gonna.”

His own hands found her waist, steadying her, tracing slow circles over the fabric of her nightdress. This girl was made to be loved.

Then his fingers slid up, tracing her figure, until he was right over those goddamn pearl buttons.

He wanted to take them apart with his teeth, but that wasn’t the way to do this—not tonight. So he traced the cool surface of each one before carefully slipping them free, one by one, big fingers graceless over the little buttons.

The moment the last one came undone, he leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face. The anxiety, the confusion... the curiosity way beneath it. Observing him.

And then he sank his teeth into the delicate skin on her sternum.

Leela sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening on his biceps.

Joel groaned against her, dragging his lips over the mark, spreading slow, open-mouthed kisses over the same spot, soothing it, claiming it.

He let the thin sleeves slide off her shoulders, watching the way the fabric slipped down her arms, pooling at her midriff.

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip tightening just a fraction before smoothing over her skin again like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Because Christ, how was she real? Where had that lonely, grey fart upstairs been hiding her all this time?

She was all honey-warm skin and soft, dusky curves. Her breasts rose and fell with each uneven breath, her ribs tautening, beneath the subtle dip of her waist. His gaze traced the gentle flare of her hips, the little softness at her love handles, the way her toned stomach tensed as she held herself still, waiting—watching him with those deep, knowing eyes.

“Joel?” she whispered.

“You're...” He blinked twice. “You're so beautiful.”

For a terrible lack of words, he wasn't exactly a fucking poet. He really wanted to tell her that she was the Powerball lottery in his life, that even her smartass brain was sexy, and that when she breathed, he was pretty sure a flower bloomed right under her damn feet.

But she managed a quiet laugh. “Oh-kay.”

And Joel had never believed in God much, but if there was one, he’d have to offer up a damn prayer of thanks. Only took thirty whole years.

He let his hands roam, rough fingertips skating over the curve of her waist, following the soft lines of her body. She was delicate, strong, warm, and hesitant, all at once, and beneath the tension in her shoulders, he could feel the slight tremble in her limbs.

She trusted him with this. With herself.

Joel wasn’t about to fuck that up. So he took his time.

He smoothed his palms over her ribs, feeling the way her bones flexed beneath his touch. His thumbs brushed over her perfect nipples, the peaks stiffening, drawing the softest sound from her throat—a breathy little whimper that damn near destroyed him.

His control hung by a thread as he ducked his head, finally taking her into his mouth.

His lips closed over her, hot and slow, his tongue flicking, tasting, teasing. He lavished her with attention, spreading kisses across the swell of one, then the other, loving them equally, thoroughly.

“Fuckin' don't deserve any of this,” he said through his teeth, clutched on a nipple.

“What are you...” she whispered.

He was surrounded by Leela, arching into him, encouraging his lips where she wanted him, and he didn't spare a thought to her instincts. If she wanted him, she'd have it. Her fingers trembled before they slid into his hair, sweeping back through the silver-streaked strands, holding him there like she was trying to commit the sight of him—eyes half-closed, mouth on her, glorifying her—to memory.

Then, without thinking, Joel bit down—just enough to pull a sound from her throat, her grip on his hair tightening, nails scraping against his scalp.

Didn’t think she’d like that. But she did. Nice.

“Joel,” she whispered.

His smirk was slow, lazy, drawn out against her flushed skin as he let his tongue wander over the reddening mark he’d left before sealing it with a leisurely, possessive suck.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, voice gone husky. “If this is what you taste like here, can’t imagine what you taste like down there.”

Leela’s breath hitched hard. “Down what…?”

The way she said it—uncertain, like the thought had never fully occurred to her—lit a fire in his gut. Primal, claiming, wanting. Frantic.

She wouldn’t know. Of course, she wouldn’t.

It wasn’t like there had been time for teenage exploration when the world had gone to hell. No fumbling hands in the dark, no stolen kisses at parties, no whispered giggles between sheets. Sex was a free-for-all in QZs obviously, and he sure as hell doubted porn had been a practicality when she’d been at that wonderful age of curiosity.

Which meant this—the way she looked at him, the way her breaths stared back up when he so much as hinted at what he wanted to do—was something else entirely.

Yeah, Joel had never been more careful in his damn life.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his hands slowly down her back, fingers tracing the dip of her spine, the delicate lines of her body. "Well, at least a little touch. Lemme feel you.”

“Feel,” she murmured, confused.

He showed her his hand. Then two fingers. Then his thumb. Hoping that was enough for her to get the message across. “Feel.”

She hesitated for only a moment, but then—God help him—she nodded. That was all the permission he needed.

“Let's get this off you,” he muttered. “Wanna see you.”

He eased the night dress up and over her head, watching the fabric pool around her before slipping off completely. Her thick braid slapped softly against her back, and then—there she was.

All herself. Just Leela.

She sat before him in nothing but those little white linen panties, tied into thick knots at her hips—ruffled edges, sweet, soft, so goddamn cute—and his. Yeah, his. All mine.

And then his hands were on her again, slow, reverent, like he had the luxury of time. Because he did. Because this was about her, about her knowing she was safe, knowing she was loved, knowing he'd go wherever she liked him to.

His longest finger wandered closer and closer from her hips, and brushed beneath the edge of her panties, a featherlight bump against that warm, soft groove. Just to let her know.

His jaw clenched, muscles locking as he willed himself to go slow, to savour every second of this, to feel her breathe against his cheek as he did it.

Her eyes flickered up to his, eyes locking. Wide. Waiting. Knowing this wasn't over.

He held her gaze as he pushed further in between her folds, just enough to feel the heat of her, the damp silk of her against his fingertips—aching, perfect, warm.

Her lips parted. A little gasp, barely a sound.

And then her eyes fluttered shut.

He felt it the second she let go, the second she allowed herself to slip into it, to trust what he was doing to her.

His coarse fingers carefully traced, explored, and learned. A decade out of practice, but instincts were instincts. And he knew how to listen—how to really listen. The way her breaths stuttered when he circled just right with the pad of his thumb at the little bud of nerves, the way her body clenched when he curled deeper inside where he needed to. When his fingers worked her low and slow, in loving accuracy, how she completely arched into him, warm walls pressuring around his fingers.

Then, a tiny sound. Soft. Desperate. “Joel, please.”

Fuck. Every person needs to hear that once in their lifetime. Their whole other half just falling apart while clinging to your name.

His stomach tensed, heat surging through him so sudden and hard he had to close his eyes, had to bite down hard on his own restraint before he did something stupid—like buck against her like a goddamn teen and blow a load into his jeans.

Because of the way she moved into his palm, the way her hips found the rhythm like instinct, like something she’d always known but never had the chance to learn—Jesus Christ, his frail heart was going to fail him.

“I know,” he breathed, voice gruff. “I know. Goddamn it, you’re so beautiful. So perfect f'me.”

How unoriginal. Cliché as a bitch. But what the hell else was he supposed to say? Write haikus? Sing praises? He would, if he had any sanity left. She was carved from silent fire and untouchable grace, delicate and untamed, something that had no damn business ending up here, in his ruined hands.

Her fingers dug into his back, ravaged by sensation, nails sinking in, breaking the skin, drawing blood—maybe. Didn’t fucking matter. Even that was sexy. That pain was welcome, something he'd carry with him like a brand, a scar he’d look at in the mirror tomorrow with a lazy smirk and think, yeah, my girl did that.

And then—he felt it. That old familiar twitch against his fingers, the way her body tensed, breath shuddering, forehead dropping against his.

She was close.

And if she was going to come, it wasn’t going to be on his marred hands. No way in hell. He needed to feel her come on him everywhere. Needed it to hit him so deep he felt pinpricks behind his goddamn eyes.

“Baby, hang on. Fuck, honey, gimme a second,” he rasped, voice wrecked, dragging his fingers out from her, savouring the heat, the slick. He popped them into his mouth, groaning low at the taste, the perfection of her. Wasn’t about to waste a single drop.

Leela only watched him, unusual, confused. “So strange.”

He wiped his mouth. “Unreal, baby. Taste so good.”

Then, shifting back against the headboard, he pulled her closer onto his lap. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles, coaxing, calming.

He nodded at his pants. “Wanna help me out of this?”

She nodded, still flushed, and reached down. Soft, slender, long hands worked the button loose, nudged the zipper down, knuckles grazing his stomach, fingers tracing down the happy trail, lower, lower—

She sucked in a breath when she laid eyes on the good stuff that sprang free.

He saw the flicker in her eyes, and he prayed to whatever was looking over him that he was in all right proportions, that he was to her liking, that he was good enough for her. But the way she seemed to assess, hesitating... Curiosity? Oh, good—anything other than disgust.

Then she glanced up at him, brow pinched. “You’re not wearing...”

He blinked, momentarily lost in his own haze, until he realized. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. God bless America.”

The laugh that burst out of her was sudden, real, pure, like she hadn't expected it. She did a double-take, covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

“Omigod, Joel. You’ve been walking around without underwear this whole time?”

He smirked, gathering her back into his arms, hands already working at the ties of her little knotted panties. “Alright, get your judgy ass over here.”

Two tugs, and they were gone, joining the mess of discarded clothes on the floor. He gave her tight behind a nice squeeze. “Y'know, you've got the perkiest butt I've ever seen. All that lifting and stretching—you drive me crazy with those teeny little shorts.”

She twisted his ear playfully. “So that's why you're always messing up with the tools.”

“Oh, yeah. Prettiest pussy, too,” he whispered, winking.

“Joel!” she hissed.

And then—finally—she was straddling his lap, stripped, all soft thighs and tough calves, muscles flexing as she adjusted, aligned over him, and found her balance, fingers curled into the headboard for support.

A little smile tugged at her lips. And it killed him. “Hi.”

“Hi, honey,” he murmured.

She was stunning—lean, strong, effortless. A goddamn supermodel. That hair, those muscles, those striking eyes, she had him by the balls and he wasn't complaining.

He held her hips, warm, smooth skin beneath his rough palms, a thumb tracing the soft, wet seam at her legs. He pushed a testing finger in, and she shivered.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

She exhaled softly, before her hand came down, sliding into his hair, down his ear, his cheek—thumb brushing over his lips like she was memorizing him like he was something sacred.

And then, so quiet, so sure—“I want to feel all of you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Not fair. Not fucking fair. That should’ve given him a second, a moment to react, to curse, to do something—

But then she moved. And finally, finally, she took him inside her. Right where he’d been aching for her.

Heat. Tight. Unreal.

“Fuuuck.” A deep groan ripped out of his chest as she plunged down onto him, enveloping him in pressure so impossibly hot, impossibly incredible, that his head kicked back against the headboard.

Strain. Resistance. So much love.

Her body rebelled, not used to this stretch, this fullness, and when a sharp, quiet cry slipped from her, she buried it against his cheek. “Please.”

His breath stilled. Instinct flared hot in his veins—not desire, but protection, care, a tethered restraint that warred with the desperate need to move, to feel her completely.

His arms circled around her, strong. His lips found the edge of her eye, feeling the trail of tears, murmuring against her skin, “I'm right here, baby. You're doin’ so good. Take me so well.”

“It hurts,” she cried out sharply.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You want to take a breath for me?”

And she did. A nice, long, deep one into his neck. The hot air ghosted around his nape. Then two more, until it felt like her breaths were finally stuttering back into her.

He kissed her eye. “That's a good girl. You got this. Eyes on me.”

She nodded shakily, holding his gaze.

“Only me, alright?”

He tightened his hold on her hips, not to force, not to move—just to be there, to keep her close as he raised up, his back protesting with a pricking ache, meeting her halfway, easing her down inch by inch, a motion as old as time, gentle, ready, his.

“Feel like a dream, darlin’,” he whispered against her skin, voice barely holding together.

A shiver. A squeeze around him, tight and sweet, like a pulse, a welcome. This was his home.

And he felt it—this wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just something done to her, wasn’t something she was just letting happen.

She wanted every inch of him. And Joel was going to move fucking mountains to give it to her.

Joel moved with her, for her, matching the slow, hesitant rhythm she set. Each slide into her was deep, measured—he wasn’t chasing anything except her, wasn’t losing himself in the feeling of her wrapped around him, not yet. No, this was about letting her take what she needed. About making sure she knew, in her bones, that this was hers. He was hers.

“Joel, is this okay?” she panted.

He looked up at her and sighed from numb lips, “Baby, how the hell are you real?”

Because Jesus, if she wasn’t the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen—the way her brows pinched, the way her pretty mouth parted, the way her breath hitched when he hit that spot.

The way her body crashed above him, her hands clung to the headboard, his shoulders, nails gripping, grounding—she was giving him everything without even realizing it. A little gasp left her lips each time he lifted his hips, rocking against hers, pushing her just a little bit further, testing the limits of what she could take.

His fingers smoothed down her spine, following the curve of her back, his lips finding her throat, the little hollow just beneath her ear.

“That's my good girl,” he encouraged, voice rough, rasping into her ear. “Feels nice, don’t it? Feels real nice.”

She shuddered, a little whimper catching at the back of her throat. Her thighs tensed around him, gripping tight around his neck, but her movements faltered. A stutter. A hesitation.

Joel slowed. Just enough to feel her, to see her, to be sure.

And that’s when he knew. That she wasn’t quite there. No matter how wet she was, how ready and tight she was around him, something in her body held back.

But it wasn’t fear or pain or shyness or any of that bullshit. It was just unfamiliar. A wariness just under her skin, something holding her back, keeping her from letting go.

And Joel understood.

His gut tightened, hurt pulling at his chest, but this—this wasn’t just about fucking. It wasn’t just about getting her to some peak, some finish line, some goal he had to chase.

It was about unlearning. It was being with her. It was about replacing whatever fucked-up pain in her, whatever taking had come before, with something soft, small and theirs.

And if she didn’t come or if she didn’t even know what that felt like—hell, that didn’t change a goddamn thing. Didn’t change the way he was making love to her, how much he loved her, loved feeling her move on top of him, for him.

It also didn’t change the fact that he was already hanging by a thread, already wound too tight, already gritting his teeth to keep himself from losing it, because she felt too good, too right, like she was made to be wrapped around him, to take him this deep.

He wasn't going to last very long, he was pushing his limit here, his prime of life was to blame for that. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the moment, hold onto her—but it was too much, too perfect, too fucking good.

His hands flexed at her hips, gripping, steadying her, his own control unravelling fast.

“Jesus—Leela, I'm—!”

“Joel?” she called, concerned almost.

He wanted to wait as long as he could. Wanted to hold off, wanted to take her there with him, to let her feel all of it, but this old fucking desperate body—

But then she moved, sinking down, rolling her hips against him in just the right way, and he broke.

“Oh, shit!”

A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat, his arms snapping tight around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he spilled deep inside her, every muscle in his body seizing up. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, breath ragged, fingers flexing against her slick skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, ears ringing, buried in her, completely wrung out, slumping into her, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat pound against his own. Oh, but he was currently in orbit, in fucking space.

And then—when his thoughts returned back to planet Earth, back to Jackson, back to this home, when the haze started to clear—he pulled back, just enough to see her.

She looked… confused. Like she'd gone wrong somewhere. Lips parted, eyes hazy, looking between them, like she was waiting for something, like she wasn’t sure if this was it.

She blinked. “I...”

Joel watched her, studied the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her body still trembled around him, the way her fingers curled gently against his throat.

She didn’t know, of course. Didn’t realize. That she hadn’t come.

And he didn’t feel bad about it—not in the way a man might, not in the way that turned it into some failure, something to gnaw on, to carry like a weight. Shit, she'd gone as far as to relive this for him.

But still—he wanted to give that to her. Wanted her to feel it, to know what it meant to be shattered and held together all at once.

“One more try, okay?” he rasped, barely breathing it into her skin. He kissed her shoulder, collar and throat. “Gimme one more. You can do it. Just hold onto me.”

A small smile came alive on her lips. “Okay.”

Joel bore down again, gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer, pushing deeper—trying this time, rather than feeling.

His breath came wild, strained, body shaking with the force of it, sweat splashing lazily onto her breasts, in the effort of making her feel it. His heart was hammering, his arms flexing, his thighs burning as he surged up into her, chasing that high for her, something he needed to give her.

And still—still—Leela just watched him. Soft, quiet, moving with him, letting him take her, feeling his strength beneath her, stroking his cheek, his hair, her fingertips whisper-light against his damp skin.

No gasping desperation, no frantic, uncontrolled unravelling. Just… this.

And Joel—fuck—he didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t pretending. Would be nice if she did. She wouldn’t know how to fake it, would she? Wouldn’t know the right way to move, the right way to sound, the right way to let a man know he was making her come undone and get this over with.

And the realization punched him in the gut. Blindsided him completely.

It wasn't about to happen. He'd just have to let go.

But Joel couldn’t stop. Not now, not when he was this close. When he was teetering on the fucking edge. When his body was demanding release with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Sorry, I can't. I can't.”

“Joel, it's okay, it's okay,” she coaxed.

So he held her down, his grip firm, desperate. Feeling so fucking selfish as he pushed and pushed harder. Broke a sweat. Gave it everything he had left in him, one last time—until his muscles locked, until heat ripped through him once more, until he spilled deep inside her again with another ragged, shuddering groan.

And Leela—sweet, accepting Leela—just cradled him through it. Breathed against his cheek, kissed his ear, smoothed her hands over his hair, and ran her fingers along the tense lines of his back, comforting him.

Because Joel had never felt more fucking helpless in his life. He buried his face in her neck, his arms locking tight around her, his body wracked with aftershocks, his chest rising and falling hard against hers.

“Joel,” she said, a softness behind his name.

His throat was tight. He swallowed. “You have to—you haven't—”

“I feel really good,” she whispered. “Really good.”

Joel breathed in deep, exhaled slow. She meant it. She felt good. It wasn’t some half-truth, some lie to spare his feelings. Leela didn’t lie to him—she didn’t know how to, not in a way that mattered.

So he let it go. Let himself believe her. However difficult and excruciating it was.

“Do you wanna lie down?” he murmured, brushing the backs of his fingers over her jaw. “Lemme clean up and hurry back to you, alright?”

“Okay.”

She nodded, watching as he rolled out of bed, buckled up his pants, and stretched his sore back with a quiet grunt. That pleasant ache in his muscles, he could get used to this. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then disappeared into the bathroom.

The second he flicked on the light, he set both hands over the sink, bracing himself. His reflection stared back at him, every line on his face a little deeper, slick with sweat, his greying scruff a little rougher, hair a Leela-made mess. His body was still running hot, his ears still rung, still a little shaky in the aftermath.

But under all that? Confusion. Loathing. Every i had been dotted, every t crossed. So what the hell went wrong?

His fingers turned the tap on, ran cool water over his palms. He splashed some onto his face and neck and chest, let it dribble down to his throat, rinsed his mouth and took another breath.

“You goddamn dud,” he muttered to himself.

Maybe it was him. All those years of nothing. Years of his body belonging to no one but himself. Years of only touching for a release. A ferocious protector, sure, but it made him an incapable lover. He never knew a damn thing about the female body, how to work it, how to please her. Should've let her come on his hand when he had the chance. Stupid, greedy asshole.

With a final splash of water to his face, he scrubbed a wet hand through his hair and stepped back into the bedroom. Time to face the music.

Leela had already slipped her nightdress back on, the straps falling just slightly off her shoulder, her hair combed back a little neater. She was curled up against the pillows, drowsy, waiting for him.

Joel didn’t hesitate to slide into bed beside her, sinking into the warmth of her body like he belonged there. Like they’d been doing this forever.

She nestled in closer automatically, her breath soft against his cheek. His fingers trailed down her face with a slow, lazy kind of affection, committing the shape of her in this light to memory..

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

She smiled sleepily, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. “You said that a lot.”

“Mean it every time,” he said, voice rough. “You’re my dreamgirl.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, low and teasing, but her fingers curled into his chest, holding onto him like she didn’t quite believe it.

“So I’m supposed to come, is that it?” she mused, drawing out the words.

Joel had spent most of his life keeping things simple. Straightforward. No fuss, no questions, no goddamn talking about it.

He let out a long, suffering sigh, pressing his forehead to hers. Jesus, he could just roll over and fix this. He would—happily. But for once, he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to miss the quiet, golden stretch of time between basking in the afterglow and sleep.

“It amazes me that you don’t know that,” he muttered.

She shrugged, unbothered. “I did feel nice.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I couldn't give it to you.”

Her eyes softened. She turned her face into his hand, pressing a deep, lingering kiss into his palm. He swallowed around it, around the way it made him feel—too big, too much, too good.

“Don't be. I had a lot of fun,” she admitted.

Fun. Sex had never been fun. Not for him, Not in his whole goddamn lifetime. It had been a release, a need, a way to forget or feel an ounce of freedom. But fun? Especially from someone who'd been through hell on this?

He looked at her like she’d just rewritten the entire world in front of him.

“I could get used to this with you. Just... slowly.”

His brain short-circuited. “Used to this with me?”

She nodded, pushing half her face shyly into the pillow, a single, shining brown eye peering up at him.

Jesus Christ. He really was about a pop a vein in his forehead. “Right back at you,” he managed.

Then she lifted onto her elbow, hovering over him, her fingers trailing slow, aimless patterns over the fuzz on his chest. Her touch wasn’t meant to start something—to tease or demand. It was just her, touching him because she wanted to. Because she could.

“Don’t look at me like that, darlin’,” he grumbled, already feeling the heat creep back into his body. “I can barely see straight anymore. There’s three of you in front of me.”

She grinned, leaning in so close her lips almost brushed his. “It’s usually the one in the middle.”

He let out a hoarse laugh, shaking his head. “I ain’t one of your damn machines either. If I am, well—I need big repairs. Gotta oil my gears, tighten some screws.”

She kissed his cheek with a soft giggle, once, twice—then a third time to his lips, slow and sweet. A silent promise. A quiet goodnight.

“I’ll take twenty years off you in no time,” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against his. “You’ll be living till you’re a hundred. Goodnight, Joel.”

She nestled back into the cold pillows, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, guiding him close until his face was tucked between her neck and the soft swell of her chest.

Joel breathed out, letting himself sink into her. His arms slung over her waist, pulling her close until there was nothing between them, his leg tangling with hers.

“Till I’m a hundred, my ass,” he muttered, already halfway asleep. “You keep ridin’ me like that, I’m kickin’ rocks at sixty.”

She gasped, appalled. “Joel!”

He grinned against her skin, pressing a kiss to her throat. “G'night.”

X

Joel felt that night in his bones for three days straight.

The delicious ache, the lingering burn, the way his body still hummed like it was catching up to itself—he felt every damn bit of it. Like walking about with a brand on his chest, her name in big, fat capitals, burned into his skin that wasn't ever going to fade. If he let his mind wander, he swore he could still feel the imprint of her nails on his shoulders, the scratch of her breathy moans against his throat.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt this kind of soreness, since he'd let himself have anything that good. And now that he had—Christ, it was all he could think about.

Sure, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be. He wasn’t some young buck anymore, wasn’t out here trying to prove anything. That kind of energy belonged to a different lifetime. A life where survival meant running, fighting, bleeding, and losing.

But now?

Now, his life was slow. Lazy. Boring. And fuck, if it wasn’t the best goddamn thing in the world.

Every morning, he woke up in what he could only rightfully call the bed to end all beds—wrapped up in a too-soft duvet, which made it near impossible to leave. Sheets tangled around his legs, pillows propped just right. But the best part?

Leela. His girl. Partner. Whatever the fuck. Just call her his.

Sleeping right beside him, fingers still loosely twisted around his from sometime in the night.

He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But every single morning, without fail, he’d lie there for a minute, blinking slowly at the ceiling, feeling her warmth beside him, and he’d think: what the hell evil did I destroy to deserve this?

Because he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to wake up slow, wrapped in her warmth. Didn’t deserve the way she just let him have this—her body, her trust, her time. But she gave it anyway.

And if he was weak, if he was pathetic, well—he wasn’t strong enough to just lie there and not touch her.

So he’d roll onto his side, push his face into her shoulder, into her hair, breathe her in, feel the strength of her long legs beneath his palms. Because, deep down, some stupid, aching part of him needed to make sure she was still real. That she hadn’t just vanished into steam.

“Mornin’,” he’d murmur, voice gravelly with sleep, lips brushing over the soft skin of her neck.

And she’d hum, still mostly asleep, shifting closer without thinking, tucking herself against him like she knew. Like she knew she was his, and he was hers, and they had time—all the time in the world to wake up slow and warm in each other’s arms.

Joel didn’t know how to handle that. Didn’t know what the hell to do with the way it made him feel, all thick and too much in his chest.

So he did what he did know how to do. He kissed her. Once. Twice. Again. And again.

Unhurried and soft, against her shoulder, her arm, her cheek, wherever he could. Until she grumbled, barely audible, something along the lines of Joel, let me sleep, swatting at him half-heartedly.

He never listened. Not when he had her like this. Not when she was somewhat awake, turning over onto her back, peeking up at him with those bleary, half-lidded eyes.

“Last one before I get your coffee,” he’d lie, pressing a slow, lingering kiss behind her ear.

And it was never just one. Soon enough, Joel would drag himself up, forcing himself to leave the warmth of their bed, of her, if only for one thing.

His next favourite part of the morning.

His little girl. Maya.

The second Joel stepped into the nursery, flicking on the dim light, the world felt right. Scented in warm linens and baby powder, as the soft morning glow bled through the curtains, it painted everything in muted greens and pink.

And there she was. His baby girl curled in her little nest of blankets, fists rubbing at her groggy eyes, her dark curls sticking out every which way like she’d been fighting sleep all night.

Then she saw him. And the second she did—

“Da-da-da-da-da!”

Joel barely had time to brace before she shot straight up, balancing on the tips of her toes against the crib bars, hands clapping, a little bouncing bean of excitement.

And that damn sweetheart grin. All toothy and wide, like she’d been waiting her whole life to see him again. It got him every time, that overwhelming sense of sweet defeat. He'd take a knife in the heart for her.

He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head at her, at the way her tiny face was all lit up with him simply showing up.

“There’s my baby girl,” he rumbled, stepping forward, and scooping her up into his arms in one smooth motion, raining kisses on her cheeks.

Maya let out a squealing little giggle, tiny hands immediately going for his face, his beard, her favourite thing to grab early in the morning. She clutched two greedy handfuls, tugging at the scruff like it was hers.

He brushed a hand down her curls. “Did you sleep well?”

“Sleeeepy,” she said around her fist.

She babbled against his shoulder—nonsense, tiny sounds he swore had some kind of meaning only she knew—her chubby little arms tightening around his neck in a hug that damn near melted him.

Then—of course—she went right back to attacking his beard, tugging with all her tiny might.

Joel winced, letting out a mock grumble, “Yeah, alright. You just want Daddy for the whiskers, huh?”

Maya let out a high-pitched giggle, and he felt her breath, warm against his neck, little fingers wandering up to pat his cheeks.

Joel, of course, pretended to eat her fingers instead, lips smacking, making exaggerated chomping sounds. Maya screeched, all wiggly and squirming, kicking in his arms with laughter so wild and free, it made his whole day before it even started.

He sighed, pressing his nose against her cheek, breathing her in. Baby powder. Warmth. His baby girl.

“Alright, trouble. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He carried her over to the little bathroom by the nursery, got her washed up, and changed into one of the tiny little sweaters that had once belonged to her mama. Maya, of course, made it an ordeal—wiggling, talking to him, playing with her own toes.

Joel took his time. Didn’t rush a damn thing.

A normal, mundane morning—waking up next to the woman he loved, starting the day with his baby girl. That was his whole rhythm now.

Some days their mornings went quick—too quick for his liking. Early in the morning, shovelling down his breakfast alone, yelling goodbye to his girls, and heading out for patrol, only to spend every second waiting until he could get back to them. Waiting for that first breath of home, that happy squeal he would hear from Maya ten yards out, that first kiss again.

The house was still half-asleep when Joel clattered his plate into the sink. Maya let out a soft whimper from her mother's arms, travelling across the kitchen, getting his attention first, and Leela—half-awake, hair mussed, sweater slipping off one shoulder—murmured, “You’re being loud.”

Joel grabbed his jacket off the chair, shoving an arm through one sleeve. “Ain’t got time to be quiet. Tommy's gonna blow a fuse.”

Leela huffed, rubbing a hand over her face. “You ever think about waking up ten minutes earlier?”

Joel snorted, already at the door. “You ever think about wakin’ up with me?”

That earned him a half-hearted glare over her shoulder. “I'm a night owl. I need the dark to think.”

Maya stirred, a tiny, bleary-eyed thing, her hands stretching toward him. Joel hesitated, foot already over the threshold.

Leela, catching the way his shoulders pulled tight, sighed. “Go, Joel.”

“Don't work yourself too hard while I'm gone,” he warned.

Leela just hummed in accord, adjusting Maya against her shoulder.

Joel hesitated. Then, before he could think twice, he ducked back in, pressing a long, deep kiss to her lips, holding her chin tight between his palm, just until he fought for breath.

She startled when he pulled away, blinking up at him. Then playfully shoved at his chest to get him out the door. “Go already.”

But some days—the best days—mornings were slow. Breakfast on the island or out on the porch, the intense scent of coffee thick in the cold air, his hand curled around the mug that curled out steaming ribbons into his face, while Leela sat beside him, legs tucked up under herself, grinning at him over the rim of her cup.

Joel tipped his mug toward his lips, letting the heat of the coffee melt into him. Watching her.

She tilted her head, nudging his thigh with her knee. “Are you always this quiet in the mornings? I never noticed.”

Joel glanced at her. “Ain’t got much to say with you around.”

She raised a brow, taking a small sip of her own coffee. “That so?”

Joel smirked, sipping slowly. “Just like listenin’ to you talk.”

Leela scoffed. “That’s funny. ‘Cause last time I checked, you like cutting me off halfway.”

Joel pursed his lips, considering. “Only when you’re talkin’ nonsense. Y'know, your little nerdspeak thing you do.”

Her mouth parted in excessive offence. “Oh, so my technicalities are nonsense?”

Joel blew into his coffee cup. “Mm.”

She gave him a slow, evaluating look, then nudged him hard enough that coffee nearly sloshed over the rim of his cup.

“Goddammit, girl.” He shot her a glare, but it was ruined by the way his lips were twitching.

The mornings when snow blanketed the whole town, and he’d bundle Maya up like a little marshmallow, watching her waddle out into the white, her excitement vibrating through every inch of her tiny body. He’d stand there on the porch, arms crossed, watching her vigilantly as she threw herself into the snow, chubby hands slapping the ground, kicking her little legs while Leela laughed beside him.

Sometimes, mornings like this used to feel like a chore. Errands. Town. A list scrawled on his palm, running through daily tasks that he used to do alone—back when it had just been him and Sarah, back when Saturday mornings meant grocery runs, when her tiny hands would have been in his, tugging him toward whatever caught her eye.

Now, it was Maya, and she was a whole different kind of trouble.

Leela had gone off to meet Maria at the dam—something about some loose wiring, an issue that she was insisting she could fix, even though Joel had very strong feelings about her doing anything that required standing near running water with electrical tools. But that left him here, alone with Maya, tackling grocery shopping.

Joel let her wander, let her explore at her own level, tiny squeaky boots padding against the wooden floorboards of the trading post, soft little oohs and ahs slipping from her lips whenever she spotted something that intrigued her. He kept one eye on the list, the other on her, reaching out every so often to keep her from knocking into someone’s knees or tugging on a coat that didn’t belong to her.

But the second she drifted too far—too quick, too small, lost too easy in the crowd—he was on her.

A sigh deep in his chest, scooping her up, tucking her under his arm while she squealed and huffed, little hands batting at him in protest. Little gremlin.

“Don't gimme that, baby girl,” he muttered, setting her down just long enough to grab the last thing on his list.

Potatoes. Should’ve been easy. Joel let go of her hand for two damn seconds to grab the bag from the shelf—and when he turned back, she was gone.

His stomach dropped.

“Christ, not again,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his basket to his hip. “Maya?”

No answer. Just the quiet squeak of her boots, quick little steps padding away.

“Maya!”

Joel pushed past people, scanning, breath already working too hard through his nose. It wasn’t panic—not exactly—but it was something close. He had to remind himself that she wasn't made of glass and this was Jackson, yet that was still his baby.

His eyes locked on her in an instant. “Fast fuckin' menace,” he muttered.

She was standing a few feet away, tiny and oblivious, playing with the tab of a can of beans, flicking it up and down with rapt fascination. Didn't even bother looking at him.

Someone was crouched in front of her, blocking her from view. “Where’s your mother, sweetheart?”

Joel already knew who it was before he even reached them.

“Eugene,” he called.

The man glanced up at him, eyes narrowing for a beat before recognition settled in, mouth stretching into a knowing grin. “Miller.” He stood with a grunt, rolling out his shoulders. “Hey, help me out here. This kid’s parent—”

“Is me,” Joel muttered, already reaching for Maya, plucking her up onto his hip like she belonged nowhere else. “C'mere, trouble,” and a firm kiss to the top of her head, his fingers pressing into her tiny back.

“You?” Eugene questioned, thrown off balance.

What, had he been living under a rock? Maya had been the talk of the town since she'd been born. Who speaking off, squealed, giggling, smacking a hand against his cheek—some little game she’d apparently decided was hilarious.

“Me,” Joel confirmed, levelling Eugene with a look. “We got a problem?”

Eugene made a low sound in his throat, eyes flicking between them, like he was sizing up a damn prize mule. Then his mouth curled up once more.

“Oh yeah, I see it,” he said, nodding. “She’s got your big-ass nose.”

“Fuck off.”

“Calmeth thy tits,” Eugene grinned, “I’m tryna be polite.”

“Don’t need it.”

Eugene raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “So this is why you’ve been copping out of patrol a lot lately. Got Tommy's panties in a twist.”

He nodded toward Maya, who had now taken to tugging on Joel’s beard, testing its durability like she had every right in the world to grab at her old man’s face.

Joel sighed, prying her fingers free one by one. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess it is.”

“Yeah, by the looks of it, she's a handful. Cute as shit, though.”

And Eugene—he just stood there a second. Looking at Joel, smelling strongly of weed, basket in his grip, a box of food from the canteen and a bottle of whiskey sitting inside.

Joel saw it then. The difference between them. An old ghost of himself.

Eugene—the kind of man he might’ve been had it not been his instinct to quiet a baby's cries from next door. A year ago, maybe even less, he would’ve been the one with the bottle of whiskey in his cart, the one picking up meals from the canteen instead of making them. The one going home alone.

Eugene exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Huh,” he muttered. Then, a nod, a flash of grudging pride behind his eyes. “You came through. Good for you, Miller.”

Joel didn’t have the words for it. Didn’t know how to put into words what this was, what it felt like to have this, to have them—after years of nothing.

So he just cleared his throat and adjusted Maya in his arms. Eugene just chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder before stepping past him, humming under his breath.

Eugene didn’t walk off right away.

Joel could feel him there—still standing at his side, still weighing the words on his tongue. It set his teeth on edge, the way Eugene hesitated. Like he was debating whether to say what was already burning behind his lips.

Then, finally—

“You wanna tell me why Ellie and Dina are so interested in the Fireflies all of a sudden?”

Joel went winded. The Maya's little weight in his arms was suddenly the only thing keeping him upright, keeping him tethered. He barely blinked. Barely breathed.

His voice bit out dangerously low. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Eugene tightened the basket in his grip. Shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But his eyes were sharp when they cut to Joel, measuring.

“She’s been askin’ these ex-Firefly folks like me and Tommy,” he told him. “Came to me couple nights back—askin’ if I knew anything. If I’d heard anything about ‘em regrouping.”

Joel swallowed, throat dry as dust.

His grip on Maya didn’t tighten—he made sure of that. Kept his hands gentle, careful, even as the rest of him braced. But inside—inside, he clenched up like a fist.

Ellie. Asking about the Fireflies.

It wasn’t panic curling up his spine. Worse.

Because she’d known. She’d gone back to that hospital. She’d walked through the bloodstains, the echoes of gunfire, the remnants of what he’d done. She’d seen the truth laid bare, stripped of all the justifications he’d tried to wrap around it. And she’d spent months—years—dragging herself through the wreckage, trying to make sense of it.

Trying to make peace with him.

He’d watched her try. Seen it in the way she forced herself to stay, even when the silence stretched too long between them. In the way she looked at him sometimes, like she was still searching for something, still waiting for an answer he could never give. He thought—he hoped—that with time, she’d let it rest. That the scars would settle, and they could leave that part of their lives buried where it belonged.

But now—now they were here again.

And Joel didn’t know if they could come back from it this time.

The walls of the room felt like they were creeping in closer, like if he stood still too long, he’d get swallowed whole, but Joel forced his breath steady. In. Out. In. Out. Kept his shoulders loose even as something behind his ribs coiled tight, wound like a spring.

“And?” He made his voice even, ironing out the edges. “You tell her anythin’?”

Eugene huffed, shaking his head. “Nothin’ worth tellin’. Just old stories, y’know? Old bases, old rumours, old movement. And about that research base over at Caltech. I don’t know what she’s lookin’ for, but maybe keep an eye out for your other little girl, too, yeah?”

Joel stared at nothing. His heart pounded heavy, like a fist banging against a locked door. Ellie had stopped asking a long time ago. Or at least, he’d thought she had. Maybe she’d just stopped asking him.

But why now? After all this time?

Not unless—

His mind snagged on the past few weeks. The time Ellie had been spending across the way. The quiet conversations, the way she lingered at their porch, shifting her weight like she was waiting on something. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Leela kept to herself, and Ellie wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Two closed-off people drifting toward each other, not expecting much in return.

But that wasn’t it.

Ellie was digging.

And Leela had handed her the shovel.

Of course she had.

Joel’s stomach twisted, that sourness settling deep. He should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve recognized the signs.

Leela—the girl with something ripped from her before she ever had the chance to claim it. A name that couldn’t be rooted in history. A life that had been rewritten for her before she could write it herself.

Ellie had always been drawn to ghosts. The lost, the forgotten, the ones who didn’t get a choice. She saw herself in them. Clung to them. And Leela—she was another reflection in the glass.

Another kid who could’ve been something more.

Another wasted potential.

Another shot at redemption.

Joel clenched his teeth. He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve stopped it before it got this far. Because this wasn’t just curiosity—not for Ellie. It never was. She was always looking for meaning in the wreckage. Always chasing the answers that would rip her open in the end.

And now she was looking again.

For the Fireflies. For Leela. For something she thought she’d lost. For something Joel had taken from her. Taken from them.

His chest tightened, breath coming sharp through his nose. He hadn’t just lied to Ellie all those years ago. He’d tried to close the door. To bury it, deep enough that she’d never claw it back to the surface. But maybe that was never the way it was going to go. Maybe it had just been a matter of time.

Eugene must’ve caught something in his expression, because he turned fully then, brows knitting together.

“You alright, Miller?”

Joel blinked. Swallowed. Got a hold of himself

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “M’fine.”

Eugene didn’t look convinced. “You take care now.”

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—Joel wasn’t either.

But Eugene didn’t push. Just cleared his throat, nodded once, winked at Maya, and finally stepped away, boots heavy against the floorboards.

Joel stood there a second longer, the world shifting around him. It was a feeling he despised. The sensation of something slipping just beyond his grasp.

Then he looked down at Maya, small and soft in his arms, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of his coat, trusting. “Da-da, go. Go.”

The only part of his world that still made sense. He focused on that. On her warmth.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing her in. “Yeah, baby. Let's go.”

Then turned, stepping toward the door, already knowing—

He needed to find Ellie. Now.

X

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[tennessoui]

modern au where obi-wan works in a used bookshop and they have a wall dedicated to all the pieces of paper they find in donated books (ticket stubs from concerts, old post cards, train tickets, receipts, etc) and it’s a part of Obi-Wan’s job to add to their collection while he’s flipping through and pricing donated books.

in the most recent haul though, he finds a very sweet card that says something like “dear Anakin, I’m so very proud of you for graduating and so happy I was able to see it. The deaths of all of our toasters when you were growing up always felt worth it to see you tinkering with something that made you happy, but now the world will see you as well. Love, mom”

something about this card moves him more than anything else he’s found has. maybe it’s the handwriting, or the sentiment, or the fact that Obi-Wan’s own father just passed away, putting an end to their complicated relationship forever. Whatever the reason, Obi-wan decides to find Anakin and give him his book back, or at very least the card. On the inside cover, there’s a name of the previous owner: Padmé Amidala. perhaps she knows how to get in contact with Anakin.

(meanwhile of course, anakin had misplaced the card in that book he’d never finished reading, which was a political history book Padmé had been after him for years to read. When he and Padmé divorce, both of them downsize and Padmé donates much of her library to various places to make room for the twins’ playroom instead. When a bedraggled but well-meaning bookshop owner shows up at her doorstep with one of those books, she’s all too happy to point him in her ex-husband’s direction, if only it means she doesn’t have to deal with whatever problem Anakin’s found himself in)

(meanwhile of course post divorce single father anakin would love nothing more than a good romp in the sheets with Bedraggled Bookshop Man who appears at his doorstep with the most boring political history in the world - and an old card from his mom who passed away a few years ago. Anakin loves signs from the universe. This seems like a good one.)