#I believe it should be carefully labeled

[nomoretears-707]

Sex can be something beautiful, and shouldn’t be forbidden as if it was mere violence. Labeled? Yeah, of course, that’s more than valid. But forbidden?

We are in the XXI century. Sex deserves everyone starts to see it as what it is, a healthy act full of fun, fantasies, and bliss, not something worse than violence.

Not a monster we should defeat.

I cannot stop thinking of this quote that, as far as I know, belongs to George R.R. Martin. This one:

I can describe an axe entering a human skull in great explicit detail and no one will blink twice at it. I provide a similar description, just as detailed, of a penis entering a vagina, and I get letters about it and people swearing off. To my mind this is kind of frustrating, it’s madness. Ultimately, in the history of [the] world, penises entering vaginas have given a lot of people a lot of pleasure; axes entering skulls, well, not so much.

This quote encapsulates all my thoughts.

When I was young, I was at a Catholic school. All my male classmates used to talk all day about their cum and how they spilled it over super models’ faces after jerking off. “Last night I did it twice over Pampita’s face”, “I did it over Sabrina Rojas’ face!”, etc.

One day I thought, “well, if they can talk about it, I can, too”, and I talked about it, about how I learned to jerk off thinking of a beautiful actress from the erotic movie that was so popular on midnight cable those days. My friend felt she discovered a new world; she made me all kinds of questions, but other people heard my story.

All school attacked me. All school. “Of course you jerk off; you’re so fucking ugly that no one would ever want to fuck you”, “fucking lesbian”, “you’re weird”, “you’re not normal.”

Nice (?).

Fanfiction.Net, during the before AO3 era, used to label violence & sex as if they were the same; both were forbidden, but those self-called critics only reported sex, not violence. Axes kept killing people, but a penis and a vagina or ass or mouth or thighs having fun together were reported non-stop.

My problem with all this is the double moral. Is sex as bad as violence? You can tell me both are explicit, but is it fair to label them as the same? Does Tumblr say something about violence?

Can I post an axe entering someone’s skull but not a penis entering another body with the latter’s consent?

I think the only problem here is we still see sex from a conservative perspective. We don’t see it as something natural, beautiful, healthy, all what it is when consent reigns. I respect everyone’s thoughts, but I still remember Teen Pam and how bad she felt after realizing boys could talk about their cum, but I had no right to talk about my middle finger between my legs while thinking of Emmanuelle.

I will always stay on her side, preferring penises & vaginas & more penises & more vaginas & nudity & pleasure & sex than axes entering skulls.

Penises & vaginas are hotter, if you ask me.

[pucksandpower]

Lover

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: the little (and not so little) ways that you and Charles show your love for each other

You’re in the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you listen intently to Charles’ mother give you her famous tiramisu recipe step-by-step. “Now, this next part is very important,” she stresses. “You’ll need one cup of granulated sugar to add to the mascarpone filling.”

“Got it, one cup sugar for the filling,” you confirm.

Pascale chuckles warmly. “I’m so glad Charles has found such a lovely girl who wants to learn my recipes. He’s always loved my tiramisu since he was a little boy.”

You smile, touched by her kind words. You and Charles have been together for a year now, but it still makes your heart flutter to be so accepted into his close-knit family.

“It means so much to me that you’re sharing this recipe with me,” you tell Pascale sincerely.

You chat with her a while longer, going over some of the trickier steps and getting tips on how to best soak the ladyfingers. Finally, you have the full recipe memorized and are ready to give it a try.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it now. Thank you so much again, Pascale! I really appreciate you taking the time to walk me through this.”

“Of course, chère! Let me know how it turns out. Charles is a lucky man to have such a thoughtful girlfriend,” Pascale says warmly before hanging up.

You grin, eager to get started. You know tiramisu is Charles’ absolute favorite dessert and you want to surprise him with a homemade version tonight after he finally comes back from his latest race.

Humming to yourself, you gather the ingredients — mascarpone, eggs, espresso, cocoa powder, and of course, the sugar. You double check you have everything and preheat the oven so the ladyfingers will be perfect.

As you start the recipe, you feel a rush of excitement. You follow each step meticulously, Pascale’s voice guiding you in your mind. You carefully separate the eggs and beat the whites to stiff peaks. When it’s time to add the sugar to the mascarpone filling, you pause.

Now, which one was the sugar again? You look between the two identical jars of white powder, second-guessing yourself.

Shoot, you should have labeled them.

After a moment of hesitation, you decide on the bowl on the left. Yes, that must be sugar, you reassure yourself. You mix it into the silky mascarpone filling until it’s perfectly combined. Once assembled, you spread the filling over the ladyfingers and cover it with a final dusting of cocoa powder.

It looks absolutely beautiful. You did it! You made Charles’ favorite dessert completely from scratch. You can’t wait to see the look on his face when he takes the first delicious bite.

You glance at the clock as you clean up. Charles will be home soon. You carefully store the tiramisu in the fridge to chill until after dinner.

Right on time, you hear Charles’ keys in the lock. You hurry to greet him, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “I missed you!”

He grins and nuzzles your neck. “And I missed you, ma belle.”

Over dinner on the balcony, Charles tells you all about the race and his ambitious one-stop strategy under the Suzuka cherry blossoms. You listen attentively, asking questions and laughing at his dramatic reenactments.

Finally, it’s time for dessert. “I have a surprise for you,” you say with a playful smile.

Charles’ eyes light up. “Oh really? Do tell!”

You bring the chilled tiramisu to the table, along with two small plates and forks. “Ta-da! I made your favorite, with your mom’s secret recipe.”

“No way, you’re kidding!” Charles exclaims. He takes in the layered dessert with delight. “It looks incredible, mon cœur. I can’t believe you did this for me.”

You blush happily as you dish out servings for both of you. “I hope I did it justice. Your mom walked me through the whole thing over the phone.”

Charles takes a big eager bite, closing his eyes as he savors it. “Mmm … it’s absolutely delicious,” he declares after swallowing. “Seriously, this is amazing. Here, you have to try it!”

He holds out a forkful toward you. You accept it into your mouth, immediately bursting into incredulous laughter. “Oh my god, this is so salty! I definitely screwed up somewhere. You don’t have to eat it!”

But Charles just grins and takes another hearty bite. “What do you mean? It tastes perfect to me.”

You stare at him in confusion. “You can’t actually like this, Charles. It’s like I poured the entire salt shaker in by accident.”

“No no, it’s great! The best tiramisu I’ve ever had,” he insists. Seeing your disbelief, he takes your hand from across the table. “Really, Y/N. I love it because you made it just for me. With love. That’s what makes it so special.”

You feel your insides turn soft and melty at his words. “You’re just saying that to be nice,” you protest weakly.

He shakes his head. “I’m saying it because it’s true. Because ...” He pauses, looking into your eyes sincerely. “Because I’m completely in love with you, mon amour. I’d eat a thousand salty tiramisus if it made you smile like this.”

You can’t help the joyful laugh that escapes you. “You’re such a hopeless romantic, you know that?” You tease him.

“Only for you,” he flirts back with a playful wink.

You lean across the table to kiss him tenderly. When you pull back, the adoration shining in his green eyes leaves you breathless.

Maybe he’s right. It doesn’t matter that the tiramisu is an utter fail. All that matters is that you made it with love.

And that’s the sweetest taste of all.

***

It’s been a few weeks since your salty tiramisu mishap. You and Charles laughed about it afterwards, but you were still determined to make him something special with your own two hands.

So you decided to take up crocheting. It was trickier than you expected, but you persevered, watching YouTube tutorials and getting tangled in yarn for hours.

Finally, after a month of work, you’ve produced your first wearable creation — a sweater for Charles.

It’s an oversized style, cream colored with red racing stripes across the chest. You did your best to evenly stitch the rows, but there are gaps in some places that cause the stripes to waver drunkenly.

The sleeves are several inches too long, dangling adorably over Charles’ hands when he tries it on. And the neckline gapes open no matter how he tugs it.

But none of the flaws matter to Charles. His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning when you present it to him.

“You made this? For me?” He asks as he eagerly pulls it on.

You nod, suddenly shy. “I wanted to make something special for you, even if my skills are still .... developing,” you admit with an embarrassed chuckle.

But Charles is beaming, admiring himself in the mirror. “It’s perfect! Seriously, I love it. This is the best gift ever!”

He engulfs you in a big hug, sleeves flopping over you. You hug him back, relieved and happy he appreciates your efforts.

From that day on, Charles insists on wearing the sweater constantly, even styling it with whatever eclectic pants he decides to wear on race weekends.

You try to discourage him — the holes along the hem are getting bigger from snagging and the neckline is truly unsalvageable.

But Charles won’t hear it. “Are you kidding? This is my new lucky charm!” He declares. “I have to wear it for every race now.”

Sure enough, he starts a winning streak whenever he dons your handmade sweater, even though it’s quite a departure from the fitted shirts and designer hoodies he previously favored, leaving his fans scratching their heads at the sudden change.

You watch in amused endearment as he proudly wears your gift for candid pre-race interviews and photo-ops. The overlong sleeves just make his exuberant gestures even more adorable.

Finally, a reporter works up the courage to ask him about the quirky sweater. “That’s quite a statement piece you have been arriving in each Sunday,” the reporter comments during a press conference. “What made you decide to wear it?”

Charles’ face lights up even more. “My sweater? It was handmade for me by my incredible girlfriend,” he announces, making you blush furiously from the audience.

“She worked so hard on it, even though crocheting is totally new to her. So I wear it to show how much I appreciate her and how talented she is,” he continues sincerely.

The reporters “aww” as Charles shows off the uneven stitches like they’re couture. “It’s my good luck charm now too! She put so much love into making it that I feel like I can’t lose whenever I have it on.”

He looks directly at you, eyes shining. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever received, because she made it just for me. I’m the luckiest man in the world to be with someone so thoughtful and caring.”

You have to wipe away joyful tears at his heartfelt words. You never imagined your clumsy crocheting would come to mean so much to him.

But Charles wears that sweater for every race, no matter how tattered it gets. Because for him, it represents something priceless — your love.

***

You hum along to the radio as you stir the melted chocolate in a bowl. The rich aroma fills the air of your shared apartment. Today is Valentine’s Day and you want to surprise your boyfriend with homemade chocolate-covered strawberries when he gets home from training.

You dip the first plump, red strawberry into the silky chocolate, letting the excess drip off before placing it gently onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. One by one, you coat each strawberry, taking care to fully submerge them.

When the tray is full, you quickly pop one glistening strawberry into your mouth and slide the rest into the fridge to let the chocolate harden. As you wait, you tidy up the kitchen, washing the bowls and utensils used to make the treat. A glance at the clock on the microwave tells you Charles will be home soon.

The sound of the front door opening makes you grin. “Mon amour, I’m back!” Charles calls out.

You grab the tray of chocolate-covered strawberries and head towards his voice. “Welcome home! I have a surprise for y-”

You stop short, your throat suddenly feeling scratchy and tight. Your lips tingle oddly.

Confused, you lift a hand to your neck. Is this just excitement to see Charles? But no, your tongue is starting to swell now too. Your breathing becomes labored.

Charles rounds the corner. “Mon ange, what’s wro-” His eyes widen as he takes in your distress. In a few quick strides he is by your side, the tray clattering forgotten to the floor. “What’s happening?”

You wheeze, barely able to force out words. “Can’t … breathe …”

Charles sweeps you into his arms and runs for the front door. “Hospital. Now.”

You cling to him, each ragged breath a struggle. The world seems to blur and tilt alarmingly.

Then somehow you’re in Charles’ car, speeding down the street. One of his hands grips the wheel while the other clutches yours tightly. “Just hold on, stay with me. We’re almost there.”

You try to respond but only manage a choked gurgle. Black spots swim across your vision. A feeling of detachment steals over you.

The car screeches to a stop outside the emergency department entrance. Charles lifts you from the passenger seat, calling for help. There is a flurry of activity as a team of doctors and nurses rushes over with a gurney.

You are barely aware of being wheeled into an exam room, too focused on trying to pull air into your lungs. A mask is fitted over your face, dispensing blessed oxygen. An IV is inserted into your arm.

The medical staff works quickly, asking Charles questions as they begin treatment. Antihistamines. Steroids. Epinephrine. The medications slowly start to counteract your reaction. The vice-like tightness in your chest and throat gradually lessens.

After what feels like an eternity, you are able to take full breaths again. The room comes back into focus, no longer spinning. Charles sits at your bedside, clutching your hand, his handsome face creased with worry.

The doctor examines you, nodding with satisfaction as your symptoms continue to improve. “It appears you had a severe allergic reaction. We’ll run some tests to determine the cause.”

Charles looks stricken. “But how? What could have possibly …” His gaze falls on your swollen lips. “The strawberries,” he whispers.

You nod weakly. It had to have been. You’ve never reacted to them before, but an allergy can develop at any time.

Charles smoothes back your hair, distress pouring off of him. “I’m so sorry, mon cœur. I should have been there with you.”

You squeeze his hand. “You couldn’t have known. I’m okay now thanks to you.”

He just shakes his head, unconvinced.

The testing confirms it — you are now mysteriously allergic to strawberries. The doctor gives you an EpiPen prescription and strict instructions to the fruit in the future.

After several more hours of observation, you are finally discharged from the hospital with an exhausted Charles supporting you.

The sun has long since set on what was supposed to have been a romantic Valentine’s Day. Instead, you spent it swollen and terrified in the ER.

Back home, Charles tucks you into bed, insisting you rest. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — puffy-faced and red-eyed — and cringe. Some Valentine you turned out to be.

You reach for Charles’ hand again. “I’m so sorry I ruined our evening. I wanted it to be perfect but instead I ended up scaring you half to death and forcing you to rush me to the hospital.”

Charles silences you with a gentle kiss. “Not another word, mon amour. You have nothing to apologize for. All that matters is that you are safe.”

He caresses your cheek, looking at you with such love and tenderness it makes your heart ache. “You could never ruin anything. You are the light of my life — my everything. No Valentine’s Day is complete without you.”

You feel yourself tearing up. Even after the ordeal of this evening, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“You’re still the most beautiful Valentine I’ve ever had, you know that? A little swelling can’t hide that.” Charles brushes away your tears and pulls you close. “Rest now. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You nestle into his embrace, letting his warmth and steady heartbeat soothe you. As you drift off, you can’t help but marvel at how lucky you are to have this man. Even at your puffiest and most distressed, he thinks you’re beautiful.

No matter what surprises life throws at you, with Charles by your side you know everything will be okay. He loves you unconditionally — swollen lips, hospital visits, and all.

***

“Close your eyes,” you say to Charles as you lead him into the living room.

He laughs and covers his eyes with his hands. “What are you up to, mon amour?”

You grin, though he cannot see it. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

You guide him across the room, hands on his shoulders. He shuffles along, peeking through his fingers.

“No peeking!” You scold, and he squeezes his eyes shut again, smiling.

You position him in front of the coffee table. “Okay,” you say. “You can open your eyes now.”

Charles drops his hands. On the table sits a large gift-wrapped box with a massive red bow on top. His eyes go wide with surprise and delight.

“For me?”

You nod, bouncing on your toes excitedly. “Happy birthday!”

He pulls you into a tight hug. “You are too good to me, ma belle. Thank you.” Leaning down, he captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

You swat his shoulder playfully. “You don’t even know what it is yet! Open it.”

Charles grins and turns his attention to the present. He carefully unties the bow and lifts the lid on the box. Inside sits a sleek red bomber jacket with the Ferrari logo embroidered on the chest. He runs his fingers over the leather appreciatively.

“This is beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Look on the back,” you prompt.

Charles turns the jacket over. Across the back, in bold white letters, it reads: DADDY.

His eyes go wide again, and for a moment he just stands there gaping at the jacket. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses to the floor in a dead faint.

“Charles!” You rush to his side, kneeling next to him on the plush carpet. Gently you pat his cheek, trying to rouse him. “Charles, wake up!”

After a few tense moments, his eyelashes begin to flutter. You breathe a sigh of relief as he opens his eyes.

“Wha … what happened?” He mumbles.

“You fainted, silly.”

You help him sit up slowly. He puts a hand to his head, still looking dazed.

“I had the strangest dream …” He trails off, glancing around the room. His gaze lands on the jacket lying nearby, and his eyes widen again.

“It wasn’t a dream,” you say softly.

Charles looks at you, lips parted in shock. “Then you … you’re …”

You furrow your brow in confusion. “I’m what?”

“Pregnant!” He exclaims. “We’re having a baby!”

Now it’s your turn for your eyes to go wide. “What? No! I’m not pregnant!”

Charles frowns, thoroughly bewildered. “But the jacket said … I thought it was your way of telling me we’re expecting.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Oh my goodness, no. The jacket is for a very different reason.”

He looks almost disappointed. “It is?”

You take his hands in yours. “I know you’ve been talking about getting a dog for months now, ever since you met Mimi.”

Comprehension begins to dawn on Charles’s face. “So the jacket …”

“Is for our new puppy!” You finish excitedly.

Charles’ face lights up. “You got me a dog? Really?”

You nod, grinning. “Really! I picked him up yesterday from the shelter. He’s the cutest little dachshund, white with brown spots. I’ve been keeping him at your brother’s so I could surprise you today.”

Charles whoops and tackles you in another ecstatic hug. You laugh as he covers your face in rapid, smacking kisses.

“This is the best birthday surprise ever!” He crows. “I can’t believe we’re finally getting a dog. And the jacket — it’s perfect!”

He grabs the bomber and shrugs it on over his t-shirt. It fits him flawlessly, the white lettering bold against the red.

Charles scrambles to his feet and rushes to the nearest mirror, twisting this way and that to admire himself. “I love it! Thank you, thank you!”

You stand and wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. “I’m so glad. But you should really be thanking your new baby boy.”

Charles turns in your arms and cups your face in his hands. “Have I told you lately that you’re the best girlfriend in the world?”

You grin up at him. “Hmm, I don’t recall. Feel free to remind me.”

“You …” He punctuates each word with a kiss. “Are …” kiss “The …” kiss “Most …” kiss “Thoughtful …” kiss “Loving …” kiss “Girlfriend …” kiss “In …” kiss “The …” kiss “World.”

You pretend to swoon. “My, what a sweet talker you are.”

He chuckles and kisses you tenderly. When you break apart, his eyes are shining.

“So when do I get to meet our new baby?” He asks eagerly.

“Right now, if you want,” you say. “We can go pick him up from Lorenzo.”

Charles pumps a fist in the air. “Yes! I’m going to be the best dog dad ever, just you wait and see.” He crouches down and coos, “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

You pat his head playfully. “You’re a good boy.”

Taking your hand, he practically drags you out the door, babbling excitedly about names, beds, toys, and treats for the puppy the whole way to the car. Your heart swells watching his enthusiasm. You know that dog is going to be the most loved and cared for pup in the world.

When you arrive at his brother’s apartment, Charles bounds up to the front door ahead of you, unable to contain his excitement. Lorenzo opens it laughing, the wiggling brown and white puppy in his arms.

“Someone’s here to see you!” He says, handing the squirming bundle of fluff to Charles.

“Hello, hello!” Charles cuddles the puppy to his chest, his whole face alight with pure joy. The pup responds by licking every inch of Charles’ face he can reach.

Charles laughs delightedly. “Aren’t you just the sweetest boy? Yes you are!”

He looks up at you, eyes shining. “Thank you, mon cœur. This is the best gift I could have asked for.”

You lean in and scratch the puppy behind his silky ears. “Of course. Happy birthday, my love.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles cradling the puppy like a newborn, you know in your heart that your little family is one step closer to completion.

***

The race weekend after Charles’ birthday feels strange. As you wander through the Ferrari garage during free practice, Fred rushes over looking concerned.

“Here, take a seat,” the team principal says, grabbing a folding chair and positioning it behind you. “You should not be on your feet so much in your condition.”

You frown in confusion. “What condition?”

But the French man has already hurried away. Shaking your head, you continue walking. It’s a few minutes later that you spot Pierre.

“Hey!” He says, jogging up to you. Before you can react, he places both hands on your stomach and smiles brightly. “Wow, it’s hard to believe that little baby Leclerc is in there! I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.”

Now you’re really bewildered. You take a small step back from Pierre’s wandering hands. “What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant!”

Pierre laughs. “Very funny. You don’t have to hide it from me.” He winks and walks away.

When Charles finds you later, you’re still puzzling over the strange encounter.

“Everyone is acting so weird,” you tell him, explaining what’s been happening all day. "It’s like they all think I’m pregnant or something."

Charles frowns. “That is odd. Where would they get that idea?”

You shake your head. “I have no idea …”

Later, after the last practice session of the day, you wander into Ferrari hospitality for a quick cup of coffee. Carlos quickly spots you and makes a beeline over, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“I just saw the photos of Charles wearing his new jacket.” He says. “A mini Leclerc on the way, how wonderful! Congratulations to you both.”

“What? No, there’s no …” you start to protest, but Carlos is already walking away.

Charles comes up beside you, having overheard. “This is getting out of hand,” he mutters. “We need to clear this up.”

“I know!” You say. “I feel bad, they all seem so excited. They must think we’re hiding a pregnancy from them.”

An idea comes to you then. Turning to Charles, you say loudly, “Honey, why don’t we go introduce the baby to everyone? I know they’re all just dying to meet him!”

Charles catches on immediately, smiling slyly. “Of course! Let’s go get our little one right now.”

You nod, linking your arm through his. As you walk away, you hear gasps and murmurs behind you.

“They already had the baby? When did this happen?”

“I can’t believe they’ve been hiding it all this time!”

You have to stifle a laugh. Charles grins and squeezes your hand.

In his driver’s room, your puppy is napping contentedly on a plush dog bed. Charles scoops him up gently so as not to wake him. Cradling the pup, you both head back out to the hospitality suite.

Everyone turns to look at you eagerly as you enter. Carlos steps forward, craning his neck to see the bundle in Charles’ arms.

“Here he is!” You announce proudly. “Our baby boy!”

Charles turns so they can see the sleeping dachshund nestled against his bomber jacket. A shocked silence falls over the room.

“Wha … that’s not a baby!” Carlos splutters. “That’s a dog!”

You and Charles just shrug with matching sly smiles. “He’s our baby.”

As the puppy yawns and stretches in Charles’ arms, licking his chin affectionately, you know with certainty that your furry new addition will be showered with just as much love and adoration as you both share for one another.

Who could ask for anything more?

[luveline]

i have a request for bombshell!reader if you're up for it!! <33 maybe somehow the team finding out that they're *actually* together and their reactions to it!! it would be soo funny i think naisnakaka 😭 thank you and i hope you have a good day!!

thank you lovely, you too ♡ fem

Emily isn't expecting it. She's been betting on you both for months, she has money in the pool, but knowing you're together versus really truly seeing you together are surprisingly separate things. 

Spencer has you up against a wall. It's funny but it isn't, how shockingly intimate the moment is, how you're looking at him like he's hung the moon just for you. “It's not a bad thing,” you're saying, a hand pressed softly to his front. 

He's not kissing you or anything salacious, he's not even really shoving you, he's just got his hands on you, one on your shoulder holding you to the wall and the other just under your arm. “I know it's not, don't worry–” 

“I do worry. I don't want you thinking that anything about you is wrong.” 

Emily should walk away. This is clearly private, but she's just never seen you both like this. She had her suspicions, that behind the shy touches (and the more confident ones from you) and secret smiles was a real, intimate relationship, but to see it displayed in front of her has her jaw dropping. 

“I don't think that," he says quietly, ducking his head in a way that forces you to make eye contact. Emily might call it brave, but it would be better labelled as comfortable. Spencer's not shy because he knows he can be vulnerable with you, and he's reassuring you now because you can do the same. “Why would I think that?” He kisses you. 

It's sudden. Emily almost gasps. 

He pulls away, says, “You don't need to think about that kind of stuff, angel, I know who I am,” over your lips, and then he kisses you again. 

“I just love you,” you say, words half lost in the kissing and the quiet. 

Emily shakes herself and backs away, guilt like lead in her fingertips. She should not have watched so long, no matter how curious, but it's not as though you're in a private place, it's a shared conference room—

“What's with the face?” 

Emily waves her hand, as if to say, don't talk, but Morgan's a fiend and JJ not much better, looking over Emily's shoulder eager for the drama. “What, Prentiss?” Morgan asks. 

“Y/N and Spencer,” she whispers, giving in. 

Morgan's face is a picture, and predictable. He shuffles around Emily and JJ follows, her lips parted in surprise. 

Morgan peeks inside, and doubles back, pushing JJ before she can get a look. “Wait!” she insists in a whisper shout. 

“That's not PG viewing.” 

Emily saw it herself, but she still can't believe it. Nor can she believe when you appear from the conference room together unabashed ten minutes later, Spencer's hair in disarray, his cheeks (and his whole face) a rosy pink. You sit at your desk and Spencer touches your shoulder, promising you a cup of coffee. 

You're smiling as you reapply your lipstick. Your teammates look on in poor acts of casualness.

“You guys are perverts,” you murmur, rubbing your lips together to spread the colour evenly. 

“I– we–” Emily sits back in her seat, defeated. “You could've told us.” 

“Should've,” JJ says. 

“Thought you guys already knew.” You put the cap back on your lipstick and beam at them. “I'm not subtle, am I? But don't tease him too much, okay? We wouldn't want to torture him.” 

“Come on,” Morgan laughs. 

Spencer returns with your coffee. He's not subtle, either, come to think of it, putting your coffee mug carefully on your coaster. “That okay?” he asks. 

You don't even try it. “That's perfect, handsome, thank you.” 

He strokes the soft line of your jaw with the back of his finger, a split second touch that practically glances off of you, and heads back to the kitchenette. Morgan gets up, presumably to chase him down for congratulations, while the girls move in. 

“It's actually funny how it happened,” you say immediately. “I kissed him by accident.” 

“How do you kiss someone by accident?” JJ asks. Emily nods furiously in agreement. 

“Surprisingly easily,” you say, looking as pleased as a person can be. “It was a few weeks ago, we were in the police precinct in Jacobsville…”  

[just-antithings]

Anti-ism is psuedoscience and a moral panic rolled into one

One of the most dangerous things about therapyspeak leaving the intended audience is that now antis feel fully qualified to tell survivors how they should and should not be coping, even to the point of attempting to override/contradict the advice of certified therapists.

I've had antis tell me the fiction I enjoy writing is retraumatizing myself, that I am doing harm by writing it; when I responded that actually, my therapist signed off on the stories I wrote (even when I mentioned the specific phrase "consensual nonconsent"), they said that my therapist doesn't know what she's talking about since she sanctioned my coping mechanism and explicitly labels her practice as kink-positive. Antis are attempting to make me, a survivor with mental illness that could ultimately be fatal if I leave a psychologist's care, disregard the advice of the medical professional supervising me when they have no certification at all. This could, if I were a more vulnerable person, be dangerous for not only my trust in my therapist, but it could sabotage my treatment as well.

They are using what amounts to little more than memes, based on misinformation, that use a few intelligent-sounding phrases that very rarely apply the way they think they do, as a wedge to attempt to assert themselves as authorities who can, with certainty, dictate the appropriate course of treatment for a total stranger, including telling them to disregard the therapies administered by a trained professional.

In other words? Antis are frighteningly similar to anti-vaxxers, who took medical terminology they didn't understand, applied it to shaky cause-effect logic models, started a moral panic, used statements generated by that moral panic as a citogenesis-fueled proof their initial starting of the moral panic was justified, damaged the doctor-patient relationship of millions of total strangers, jeopardized the healthcare of those strangers who now believed their doctor to be incompetent for following accepted medical best practice, and fomented dangerous fringe political ideologies that coupled themselves to other conspiracies based on rejecting commonly-acknowledged practices.

"Vaccines cause autism! Narrative therapy that implements any form of controversial kink causes retraumatization of the writer, reader, or both, and starts the writer on an inescapable slippery slope to becoming an abuser themself! It's better to be dead than autistic! It's better to suffer feelings of shame and/or isolation in silence than it is to use fiction to put a voice to your feelings! Your child is vaccine-damaged from thimerosal and is getting sick from virus-shedding! Your fiction caused me to groom myself and you're a porn-addicted monster for not facing your trauma the proper way! Your doctor doesn't know what's good for you, I do! Only I understand how your body/mind work and what treatment is appropriate for you! Your doctor has been manipulated by Big Pharma/kink supporters! The empirical-study-informed best practices for pediatrics/psychology are what's wrong, not me, whose research is carefully informed by TikTok videos and Twitter posts carefully formulated to cause amygdalar growth to keep me afraid so I will continue to engage with fear-mongering content that causes my politics to shift towards the alt-right, who coincidentally also push narratives based in fear, not in medicine! I am being perfectly logical here!"

Antis fundamentally reject empirical medicine just the way anti-vaxxers do. They just seem to get a free pass on it since it's "only" mental healthcare they are sabotaging, and few people acknowledge it as something as legitimate and lifesaving as other medical care.

[5ummit]

So there's this post with a troubling number of notes going around insisting that "dead dove" is not a genre, it doesn't inherently have anything to do with darkfic, and that the tag could be applied to fics that are "100% fluffy where everyone's having a good time" if they happen to contain some abnormal (though entirely non-problematic) content like an unusual kink. The claim is that "dead dove: do not eat" is simply a "courtesy tag" that means "this is a very specific niche, mind the tags." And that's just... wrong.

I wrote up a whole rebuttal to this post since I can't stand misinformation and frankly OP was being kinda rude and judgey on top of their wrongness. But right after I posted my reply, OP turned off reblogs because, and I quote, “some fuckwad added some dumb shit onto this post and it is no longer educational” (the “fuckwad” being me and the “dumb shit” being proof that they were wrong). A couple people have asked me to make a rebloggable version of my response, which I've decided to do because this isn't the first time I've heard similar claims and I want to help set the record straight. However, I'm not linking the original post on the off chance this gains traction because OP did the right thing by turning off reblogs, preventing it from circulating further, and I don't want them to get hate for being unfortunately misinformed.

For those who don't know the history, "dead dove: do not eat" was originally proposed as a catchall "hydra trash party" alternative label for any fandom to warn that the content of a fic may be considered problematic or potentially upsetting and to read the tags carefully so you know what you're getting into and won't complain later. Specifically, DD:DNE was intended to convey that the Bad Things in the fic would likely be reveled in and not explicitly condemned by the narrative, which some people tend to get up in arms about, hence the need for the extra warning in addition to the tags. Don't believe me? Here's the original proposal (note DD:DNE can be found on a handful of fics dated before 2015 but this is when it really took off and became a Thing).

There are currently around 50,000 fics tagged as "dead dove: do not eat" on AO3 and close to 50% of those also include the rape/noncon warning (which of course is not the only type of "dead dove" but is one of the most popular and most consistently tagged). The normal percentage of noncon fics in any given fandom? Around 1-3%. That's a HUGE disparity. So don't tell me that dead dove is just a general "courtesy tag" and doesn't or shouldn't have dark connotations. Even the context of the original joke on Arrested Development has a dark undertone. Micheal Bluth casually finds an animal carcass in a bag in his refrigerator with the label "do not eat", as if eating it would be any sane person's first thought. The whole situation is kinda fucked up. And this fucked up vibe very much carries over into fandom usage too, as was intended.

The claim that dead dove has nothing to do with the content's genre and could just as easily be used to describe a 100% fluffy fic in which everyone's having a good time is straight up Wrong, or at the very least, severely warping the original meaning. Also, when someone these days says that they like/dislike "dead dove" most people in fandom automatically understand what that means because of the consistency of its usage over the years and the way language evolves. Whether you like it or not, "dead dove" IS a genre now and the term does carry a specific connotation. I do agree that DD:DNE should definitely still be used in conjunction with other tags, when applicable, to be explicit about the exact type of fucked up content you may find, but to say that the term is meaningless on its own is patently false and I'm tired of people who don't know what they're talking about pushing this narrative and causing even more confusion.

You want a generic term that also means "mind the tags" and doesn't have any inherently dark connotations? Just use good ol' "what it says on the tin" instead of trying to force dead dove to be something it's not.

[pinksilkribbons]

COLLAGE: yan! classmate

CW/TW: non-consensual candid photos, elijah has a shrine of [name], mentions of praying to and basically viewing another human being as god, small implication of a boner, general yandere stuff ig.

You guys my last post on Elijah got quite a few likes I’m so glad y’all like him!! He’s my least developed OC so i decided to write more on him and develop his character. I’ll post some of my others soon!

Ever since he bought his new polaroid, Elijah has discovered a new side of himself. At the beginning he’d only taken pictures of you and hung them around his closet.

But eventually…he grew tired of it. Not of his darling, no! Of course not! But…it was rather difficult to sneak photos of you without getting caught. Not to mention the majority of them turned out blurry anyway.

Something needed to change.

He didn’t just want pictures of you at school. He wanted pictures of everything. When you’re angry, when you’re sad, when you’re eating. Pictures in normal clothes instead of a school uniform for fucks sake!

In the beginning school was the easiest (and only) way he could gain access to you, but now it’s proving to make his job that much harder. There’s too many risks involved.

With a dramatic sigh he shut his closet door, making sure to click the padlock into place. After hanging so many pictures of you on his closet walls he decided it would be wise to invest in a lock.

He knows it isn’t normal. Taking pictures of people without asking isn’t normal. Being so deeply obsessed with someone isn’t normal.

But not being normal doesn’t make him bad. Just…more passionate!

“Hey mama?”, He asks, trudging down the stairs.

His mother turns away from her phone with a quick glance his way. Her head tilts up as if to silently ask him what he needs.

“You aren’t using these magazines anymore, are you?”

A small stack of magazines with a bunch of ‘trendy fashion’ labels catches his eye. On the front cover a young lady with blonde hair is posed in a field of flowers. The lady, however, isn’t what he’s interested in.

She laughs playfully and watches Elijah pick up the stack. “Well, not exactly. But why do you need them? I’ve never known you to be interested in fashion.”

Elijah feels a rush of red to his cheeks. A part of him feel dirty. Perverted, even. It’s clear his mother is implying something dirty, and while she isn’t even wrong, he’s probably planning something much worse than whatever she’s imagining right now.

It takes a few good seconds for his mind to come up with a plausible excuse. “W-well, I’m not interested in fashion! I just need some material for this project in art class.”

Luckily his mom doesn’t question him further. She definitely rolled her eyes at him though, clearly not believing his story.

As soon as he makes it back to his room Elijah is quick on his feet. He rushes over to his closet so quickly he almost falls over. A pulse of excitement gushes through his body as he begins to unlock his closet door.

The password to which is his darlings birthday, of course!

Upon opening the door, one wouldn’t suspect much of anything. Clothes, shoes, some random boxes, but nothing out of the ordinary. The real magic is in the far right corner, at the very bottom of the wall.

So far his collection is pretty small. The few photos he does have are all taped beside one another, carefully placed to ensure nothing is crooked or overlaps with the other. This small corner is Elijah’s entire life.

He lives and breathes [Name]. In fact, every morning, without fail, he finds himself in this exact position; sitting on his knees, admiring his darling. He bows his head and prays to your existence.

The amount of sheer joy your being grants him should never be taken lightly. Elijah is a good boy. He’s thankful. And He proves it every single morning.

“I feel kinda bad, cutting up her picture like this”, he mumbled to himself. His hands carefully maneuvered the scissors, making sure to save as much of his darlings face as possible.

Believe it or not it came out pretty good! Next he needed to cut the cover from his mom’s fashion magazine, which proved to be the real challenge.

The blonde lady on the cover was dressed in a blue flowy sundress. From the moment he saw it Elijah knew that dress was meant to be his darlings. The chances of him getting a real photo of you in this dress were zero, but he’d like to think he’s quite creative!

To finalize his creation he glued [Name]’s head onto the models face, successfully dressing her in the beautiful gown. Just imagining her in such an outfit had his heart racing and pants tightening.

It made him feel proud knowing he found a way to grow his collection while also reducing the risk of getting caught. Next time he visited the library, Elijah would be sure to pick up a few books on collaging.

You truly did bring out a new side of him. Who knew he was so artistic?

[tzurelles]

stunning ✦ kim minji

pairing kim minji x f!reader oneshot genre : fluff !!!!!! clara’s note ✦ hi um this is my first written fic so ik its not that good 😣 not proofread sowry feedbacks and reblogs really appreciated!! :3

you were going to combust with curiosity.

since your girlfriend, minji, had told you about a seemingly massive birthday surprise she had for you, not a day passed without you bugging her for answers. questions such as “will you tell me if i buy you nayeon’s album?” and “ when will you tell me " were quite frequent in you vocabulary as you clinged on to minji, tormenting her with endless questions and acting exaggeratedly cute to convince your ever so patient girlfriend (she acted annoyed but she really did find you adorable 🥹) 

two weeks before your birthday, minji was nowhere to be seen- quite literally. you barely saw her in the morning before she used her alternating excuses of having to do errands or volunteering to help her younger sister with her math exam which you didnt believe in the slightest ( she sucked at math 😭)

but as the loving girlfriend she is, she never forgot to kiss you before she left or prepare breakfast for you to eat when you wake up with a small note labelled “ xo, minji 💋” which always brought a smile to your face. she really did feel bad about not spending quality time with her girlfriend, but she always assured you that it was completely worth it.

since she was busy, you always distracted yourself by doing what you loved most- swimming in your local pool. you adored swimming since you were young. as you grew up by the coast, you always loved swimming in deep waters and watching the ocean’s waves move back and forth endlessly. if you were having a bad day, swimming was the way to go.

on the day of your birthday, you woke up almost shaking with excitement as you wore your pleated summer dress with its designated jewellery and makeup style which you picked from pinterest, hurrying out of the house and picking up your phone to reply to all your birthday wishes.

minji opened the car door for you, bowing to you as if you were some princess. you chuckled, pecking her cheek as she started driving to the place your mystery present awaited you. 

you blushed as she put her arm around your shoulder, inhaling her dreamy perfume as she carefully hid your vision with her hand, guiding you slowly along a path.

“minji?” you muttered quietly, making sure she was still there as you walked along 

“im here, bae “ she replied back with her cheerful voice , reassuring you with a swueeze to the shoulder.

as you walked along, you could smell the homey familiar scent of the sea becoming nearer and nearer. minji suddenly let go of your shoulder and positioned herself in front of you. “y/n! ” she called out to you in excitement, “you can open your eyes now, cutie!” she exclaimed.

as you slowly opened your eyes and adjusted to the lighting of the area, your mouth formed an ‘O’ shape as your eyes were wide open in astonishment. “you did this for me..?” you muttered with emotion, trailing off at the end of your sentence as you taller girlfriend placed her head on yours, hugging you tight as you stared at the gift in complete shock.

she had fixed your old mini boat you used to spend loads of time in, polished it and painted it your favourite (specific ☝️) shade of deep crimson, with small white flowers patterned across the ocean of red. all your friends who helped smiled lovingly, giving you the chance to explore it hand in hand with your girlfriend. 

“look at the view… oh its stunning…i love you so much ” you whispered dreamily, resting you head on minji’s shoulder. “you’re the stunning one, and i love you the most!!” she replied with a soft smile, chuckling and weaving her fingers through your hair.

“we should call the boat stunning then,” you remarked, blushing and looking at minji with a shy smile

“stunning it is then”

[vanderdyks]

I geniunely cannot stand when allistics try to say Resident Alien is actually making fun of autistic people because they believe Harry is too childish now because I JUST-

In the beginning, Harry tried SO MUCH HARDER to fit in with the humans around him. He mimicked their speech patterns, consistently observed them, emersed himself in their activities so they wouldn't suspect he was different.

The Harry now? He doesn't care. He's loud in places he should be quiet. He talks how he wants. He laughs FREELY. He's learned large crowds of people? Not for him. He doesn't like being touched by strangers.

He's just Harry. Himself. Because he can be. Because he's realized even if some of the people of Patience find him strange, it doesn't matter. They'll never guess he's from outer space.

Have you noticed that every other alien we have seen is not like Harry? Not the greys, or the half human hybrids, not even Heather. When Heather is around humans who know she is an alien, we get to see the difference, but when she isn't? She fits in so well with any other neurotypical human.

Not Harry though. So yes, he is autistic because I said he is. Because I am autistic. And if you're allistic, you don't get to tell autistic people they shouldn't headcanon Harry as autistic (even though it is very obvious they're purposefully playing him as neurodivergent now.)

When you take an autistically coded character that a lot of autistic individuals relate to, and try to argue the character is actually a "child" and being "infantalised," you're actually being ableist.

You're saying that the traits we have resonated with are childish... Harry seems like he's "regressed" because instead of trying to adapt and pretend to be human, he is becoming something else entirely. Not human, but not fully alien either.

The body of doctor Harry Vanderspeigle was once just a disguise. Now it IS Harry's. It's his body, his own skin. And he's gotten comfortable in it and you know this because you deliberately witness times where he might be holding his hands like he would his claws (primarily when he's sleeping.) His brain doesn't realize he's not in his normal form, because in many ways, this is his new normal form.

He has emotions. He cares. He's in completely new territory and finding himself. And in doing so, that carefully crafted human mask? It's fallen a bit.

So that thing you label as "regression" is a thing I label as progress. He's learning still. Let him learn. Let him be. And give it time. And I hope to GOD Harry never becomes fully human to the point we can't recognize him. I hope he never loses his unique inflictions, or his love for pizza and pie. I hope he continues to love the quiet. I hope he ALWAYS laughs obnoxiously. I hope he always runs like he doesn't know what to do with his limbs. I hope you always see his emotions throughout his body because they simply cannot be contained. I hope he continues to jump when excited or pace when he's angry. I hope he stays obsessed with Law & Order forever.

Because if you take all that away, you're taking away the bits that make him Harry. You want a carbon copy human. I want the autistic alien struggling to understand human nature.

That being said, of course you can express your opinion him. And it can be discussed because everyone is going to have a different perspective.

But you don't get to dictate an autistic perspective if you are not autistic. Or try to cancel anyone for it either.

I love Harry. And I relate to him SO MUCH. And I love how much representation I can see him through him for me. Because I personally believe Alan and the writers have chosen to keep presenting this character as ND.

It's okay to dislike the direction of his character development. It's okay to find the flaws. It's okay to share that perspective. What's NOT okay is dictating the feelings of others because they might not agree with you.

I don't find him childish. I see him as an autistic individual trying to navigate a society that his brain hasn't been hardwired to understand.

And if you think he's too childish, please look closer at the why you think he is. Really be introspective on this one.

Because Harry is a parent. And has a child. And he has relationships. And he takes care of himself. Not only that, he is the town doctor and takes care of everyone else too. He is the smartest. He is the strongest. None of the characters have had to worry about the wellfare of Harry specifically. Its why no one realizes the greys have captured him. Because of course Harry would be fine, hes the alien expert. He knows what he's doing. So while everyone else spent so much time worrying about each other, no one was left to worry about Harry.

So ask yourself why you believe Harry has become "too childish" and if your answer comes down to any of his quirky traits or his misunderstandings of human nature, then you really need to consider if what you're actually uncomfortable with is autism/autistic traits.

[beastandfirehose]

Honey, Honey (How he thrills me)

@bucktommypositivityweek round 2, day 1: make your own season 8 opening disaster. Read on ao3.

“How are you still so chipper?” Tommy groaned, trying not to rub any of his bee stings as Evan paused his chatter about every bee fact he had ever memorized in his life to unlock the door to his loft.

“Well, it’s not every day you find yourself facing off against a Bee-nado,” Evan tossed a grin over his shoulder as the door swung open. Lucky bastard only got stung once: on the chin.

"That was not a 'Bee-nado', Evan," Tommy griped as he dropped his bad next to the stairs, "It was a giant swarm. You would need an actual tornado for a bee-nado, and I'm pretty sure the winds would have killed the poor things".

Evan pulled a pair of beers out of the fridge, handing one to Tommy as they settled onto the stools by the island.

"Bee's are pretty good at surviving natural disasters. Though I think a lot of that is how they build their hives." Evan picked at the label on his bottle for a moment, thinking. "I wonder how protected artificial hives are. They're out in the open, right? if a heavy storm or tornado hits…"

"Maybe they have their own storm shelter. Beekeepers are pretty protective of their swarms." Tommy traded an amused grin with Evan, remembering the apiarist practically screaming at them when they recommended more permanent solutions to the giant swarm. Like flamethrowers.

"More likely they just don't have a lot of beekeepers in tornado alley."

"Oh, but imagine if they did. They could get some real bee-nados going," The playful glare Evan shot him at that looked so much like a disgruntled puppy Tommy just had to kiss him. No choice. Would have been a crime not to.

Unfortunately it had been a pretty long day, and the kiss was interrupted by Evan yawning.

"Mmmm. Maybe we should lie down." Evan murmured, resting his head on Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy held Evan for a few moments more, before pulling back, giving him one last peck on the lips.

"Go on, get yourself ready for bed. I'll be right up."

Evan made his way slowly up the stars to his bed. Exhaustion visible in the way he moved, the long day catching up to him now they were home safe. Picking up the beer bottles Tommy quickly dropped them in the recycling before grabbing his sleep shorts and a singlet out of his bag to change into.

Carefully folding his shirts and jeans, leaving them and his shoes downstairs, Tommy following his boyfriend to bed. Climbing underneath the covers he pulled Evan flush against himself, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

"Did you know bees actually have four wings? and five eyes." It took Tommy a moment to register the claim, the image conjured in his mind by Evan's words was pretty ridiculous.

"I'm going to need some details on that one, Evan. because what I'm picturing right now does not look like a bee."

"Well, the wings on each side hook together, so they look like one big wing. And the three middle eyes are a lot smaller than the compound eyes. I guess they're for depth perception? I didn't actually look that up."

"I can't believe you know so much about bees. I can't believe there's so much to know about bees." Tommy wondered in amazement.

"I think I'm all out now," Evan chuckled, wrapping his legs around Tommy's. "Apparently repeated bee stings can give you an allergy, even if you didn't have one before. We should probably avoid bees as much as possible from now on."

"Evan, If I see a bee again I'm running in the opposite direction. Allergy or no." Tommy snaked his arms beneath Evan's shirt, gently squeezing his belly. A sly grin bloomed on his face as Tommy thought of something. "I don't think I heard any facts about honey, just the bees themselves."

"Honey is an antibacterial," Evan shot off immediately, "Its used to treat minor burns even today."

"Hmm, I know my Honey is good for stopping burns," Tommy pressed another kiss to Evan's neck.

"Are you going to give me a compliment with every fun fact?" Evan asked.

"Until we fall asleep. Yeah." Curled up against his Evan's warm back, legs entwined and arms wrapped around his boyfriend's tummy, listening to him talk about bees and honey. Tommy couldn't think of a more peaceful place to be.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Hi!! Could you write jealous!steve and childhood best friend!reader for the blurb week. nothing else specific I know whatever you come up with I’ll love

18+

“Are— are you being serious?” You stared at the boy, wide eyed, face a little warm and when Steve simply stared back, you felt your heart stutter. “You are serious.”

————

You’d been in Steve’s bedroom for an hour or so now, unexpectedly so, after a date went to shit. You hadn’t even knocked on the boy’s front door, just walking in and toeing off your shoes in the hall, barrelling into his bedroom mid rant about how men were awful and what was the point in dating?

Steve had handed you a beer, let you steal the pillow you liked from his bed to curl your arms around and he’d listened - surprisingly quiet - as you spoke about Brad, his lack of chivalry, and what kinda guy asks for another girl's number when he’s on a date?

“He’s an asshole,” Steve eventually grumbled. “More than an asshole, actually. Fucking idiot shouldn’t have even gotten a chance with you anyway.”

You’d snorted, self conscious, smiling anyway as you shoved a foot softly to Steve’s thigh. A silent thanks, one he accepted when he flicked at your toes.

“It’s whatever,” you’d said, shrugging. “S’not much of a loss. He couldn’t even make me come, you know?”

Steve choked on his beer, but to his credit, he recovered quickly, swiping at his mouth while he eyed you carefully. He seemed to straighten up a little, brow knitted together when he asked. “I didn’t know you’d… slept with him.”

“Didn’t think you’d be interested in that kinda chat, Harrington,” you had smiled softly, staring at your best friend with more fondness than you should’ve. You felt too warm - you didn’t talk about sex with Steve for a reason. “You wanna know about my sex life?”

Steve had went pink in the cheeks, but he kept his voice steady when he had said: “you normally tell me everything, princess, c’mon now.”

Not everything.

You’d shrugged again, nursing the half full beer bottle between your hands as you started to pick at the label. “Not that much to tell, to be honest. We didn’t even sleep together, just— you know— fooled around a few times. Back of the car kinda stuff.”

Steve’s eyes had flashed with something you couldn’t work out and his jaw tensed before he spoke again. “And he didn’t get you off? Not once?”

You had taken a drag of the beer and shook your head. “Seemed like it was too much effort for him.” You squinted at Steve, half embarrassed, half sardonic. “Maybe I took too long.”

Steve scoffed, looking a little wild eyed, gaze roaming over you, fingers curling around his own beer and he seemed like he couldn’t quite stay still. He’d swallowed hard, throat bobbing and then—

“I could make you come, princess.”

————

“You are serious.” You stated it with awe tinting your voice.

Why not?” Steve asked, setting down his bottle, the amber liquid still swirling around in it. “You’re not the problem, you know that, right? This Brad guy, he’s selfish.” Steve sucked in a breath, gaze heavy on you, more so than you’d ever seen before. “Dude should be lucky that he was allowed to get his hands on you.”

There was something too hot about the way he spoke, your best friend staring at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide with the thoughts he was having, head tilted back as he leant against his bedroom wall, jaw tensed and neck taught.

You exhaled, felt it hitch in your chest and you sat your beer down too, something final about the move. “Are you drunk?” You asked Steve. You weren’t sure if he’d had more to drink before you arrived.

He shook his head. You believed him. He wasn’t drunk, he was just feeling brave.

Fuck.

“Okay,” you said, ignoring the part of your brain that told you this was a bad, bad idea. Your best friend? But there was another part - a much larger part - that was shouting yes. The part that had been waiting too long for this, that whispered that the boy knew you so well, better than anyone… of course Steve would make you feel good. “Yeah, okay. Make me come.”

He made you come twice.

Once with his fingers, two hooked inside of you, calloused pads rubbing up at that that spot that hardly got touched, thumb dragging over your clit as he kissed you too sweet for how he was fucking his digits into you. Steve kissed soft and slow, deep and with his tongue licking over yours, pulling back just enough to whisper if it felt good, to ask how you liked it, to tell you to tell him how you wanted it.

The second time, he used his mouth. Hushing your protests that ‘he didn’t need to if he didn’t want to.’ Steve had kissed away your words, nudged his nose against your own and asked:

“Do you want me to?” He said it softly, without any push or pressure. Another kiss, sticky sweet. “Because I really, really want to. If you’ll let me.”

You nodded.

So he did, with more enthusiasm you’d had from any date, any hookup, any ex-boyfriend. Steve pushed your dress up, slid your underwear down and kissed at your thighs, waiting until you relaxed and softened for him against his pillows, smiling when your toes curled at his pretty, dirty words.

“You’re so gorgeous, you know that? God, princess, wanted to do this for too long.”

And:

“Gonna make you feel so good, promise. Such a pretty pussy, Christ, you taste so good, so sweet, fuck.”

When Steve wasn’t running his mouth, he had in on you, big hands holding your thighs open for him, coaxing you back to the edge with his tongue licking flat over your clit, dipping down to push his tongue around your entrance, groaning when you moaned for him, whispering into you to keep making those noises for him.

And when Steve knew you were getting close, back arching, gasps falling from your lips, he tugged you closer, threw your legs over his shoulders and encouraged you to move your hips against his face. His nose nudged at your clit when his tongue wasn’t on it, and when you came, it was harder than the first time, white behind your eyelids, your best friend's name in your mouth.

Steve missed you as you came down, lips dragging over your thighs, mumbling nonsense about how hot you were, how fucking pretty you looked when you came, how he really liked you saying his name like that. He kissed you sweet again on the lips, grinning when you hummed at the way you tasted yourself on him and when he pulled back, he looked a little smug.

“Better than Brad?” He asked, jealousy tinting his words despite the taste of you still on his tongue.

“Who?” You asked, still breathless, hands seeking warmth and bare skin under Steve’s shirt.

He grinned, more than pleased.

…..

[toxicanonymity]

Black Math. Left in Lincoln, pt. 5

8.6k words. dark dbf!Joel Miller x virgin!reader story master list / spotify playlist / joel master

🍑 amazing art by @bonezone44 💙

Now spicier courtesy of the label His smile faded as he looked at you, then he added hoarsely, “God, if you knew how many times I’d thought about you.” There wasn’t so much as a hint of shame in his voice. It had the warmth in your cheeks traveling down, down, down. . . “We’re almost there, baby, but we gotta do it right.  We’re almost there, I promise.” He reached into his pants to tuck in his shirt and adjusted himself while he was there. Your eyes fixated on the bulge in his jeans. “God damn,” he exhaled.  “Turns me on thinkin’ about it.”  

WARNINGS: I8+, Not graphic, but it gets twisted. Lots of plot, including flashbacks, disturbing implicit horror (really), angst, brief self-shaming, big girthy age gap (reader is legal the whole time), pet names and praise, toxic dark joel/fluff, family fluff, gaslighting, manipulation, yearning, pining, obsession, grinding, mutual touching, oral f receiving.  NO use of Y/N

A/N: This picks up right after part 4. Word-count wise, parts 1-4 were like half of it. There are two more after this, and I wrote a lot on those before finalizing pt. 5. Thank you all for your patience and enthusiasm. It's so rewarding to see people discuss. Additional thanks to @dark-scape for your help, Raider Joel for your support. I couldn't get the text off bold fyi.

---------------------------------------

You awoke to the sound of stairs creaking under heavy steps, a sound you didn’t often hear at home.  You blinked awake, still disoriented as your eyes focused.   The vanity, the dresser, the empty glass on the nightstand. The closet. Your mind was catching up when the bedroom door opened.  Joel was fully dressed with his hair combed back.  His brows were knitted in concern  as usual, but his eyes brightened when he saw you waking up.  

You lifted your head and squinted at him as you propped yourself up with one elbow. 

Joel’s tone was as cheerful as you could ever expect to hear it. “Mornin’, sleepyhead. Makin’ sure you're okay.”

“What time is it?” 

“Li’l past noon. Still sleepin’? I’ll leave ya ‘lone.”

“I should get up.” You put your head back down on the pillow.  

He came over and sat down on the bed. “How’d ya sleep?” 

“Good, once I fell asleep.” 

“Does the trick, don’t it?” He nodded to the empty glass on the nightstand. 

“Yeah,” you laughed. 

“Dr. Miller, at your service.” 

You giggled again and his eyes glazed over as they fell on your smile, your chest, then met your eyes.  He leaned over and put his elbow down on the far side of you. 

“Well, you’ve made me believe in beauty sleep, peaches.” He put a hand on your shoulder, dwarfing it with his massive palm as he brushed your skin with his thumb.   “Always a beauty, but ya wake up even prettier.”  Your face got hot and you looked away shyly. 

Joel bit his lip, holding back a smile. He traced the outer curve of your ear with his fingers.  “Hungry?” 

“Kinda.” 

“I’ll go make ya somethin’.”  He looked at you warmly then kissed you on the forehead before he went back downstairs. 

—-----

You took a shower and got dressed.  As your hands glided over your soapy body, your palms lingered on your breasts. You imagined Joel showering and realized you couldn’t picture him shirtless.  While you were picking out something to wear, you got to thinking again about the closet full of clothes. They were mostly dresses.  You put on one of several soft, casual floral ones about knee length.  

Before you closed the closet door, you stopped yourself.  You had to face it – the dress you saw in the dark the night before.  The one that kept you up.  Heart racing, you reached into the far right corner and fumbled with a big, satin hanger.  You squinted your eyes almost shut as you carefully brought the dress out where you could see it.  You looked at it blurry through your lashes.  It was more cream than white.  

When you finally opened your eyes all the way, an unexpected sense of relief soothed your chest as if the dress were made of love and meant for you. It was simple, but breathtaking. Not the rigid, intimidating garment your anxiety had envisioned.  It had a simple A-line silhouette. The high collar and long sleeves were a lace outer dress laid over a solid one with a sweetheart neckline. The skirt was flowy and came down around mid-calf.  

It gave you butterflies and you couldn’t help but imagine Joel went out of his way to get this.  It felt like a wishful conclusion, like a romantic story you wanted to believe.  You tried to talk yourself away from it, not wanting to assume.  But at the same time, you still couldn’t figure who would have left it behind.  Your heart sank for a moment when you wondered if it could have been intended for Tess, but Ellie always said they were platonic and even slept in separate rooms.  Not only were the clothes not anything Ellie or Tess would wear, but Ellie nor Tess ever lived in this house.  They were gone before Joel moved down the street.  You put the dress way back in the corner of the closet where it came from. 

—------------------

When Joel first settled into the community, he moved into a house near Abe’s, clear on the other side of the neighborhood.  You met Ellie first.  You were in your backyard gardening when she appeared out of nowhere and asked what you were doing. She was a little younger than you, but much more experienced in life, having been out in the world.  You were shy to ask her about the horrors of the infected, not wanting to upset her.  But she told you all about it anyway – the different kinds, the way they connected underground.  You were grateful for your life and recognized the privilege in growing up like you did.  Growing up at all.  

Bill used to remind you how lucky you were, especially as a teenager when you would have fits about wanting to go out into the world.  Somehow, learning from Ellie in more graphic detail about the state of the world didn’t squash your desire to get out there one day.  You asked her all about the quarantine zones and FEDRA school, and those sounded fun, even though she didn’t depict them that way.  She asked you a million questions about your little community, too. 

You never saw much of Joel until after Ellie left.  Frank worried about Joel being all alone, having experienced so much loss, so they invited him over for dinner.  The first time, Joel was surprised when you answered the door.  He apologized and looked around as though he had made some kind of mistake.  Then it occurred to you he might have forgotten your name.  You couldn’t even remember a time you had formally met, so you introduced yourself.  

He took a few seconds.   “Right, sorry,” he mumbled.  “I thought—well, Ellie, uh—I guess I thought you were younger.” 

Joel was polite and didn’t talk much.  Bill liked that about him, so they started having him over for dinner regularly.  The two of you didn’t share much conversation, but when you did, Joel seemed in awe of how protected you grew up.  It made you self-conscious.  It wasn’t something you liked about yourself.  When Joel noticed this, he clarified it was a really good thing.  Rare.  The terror of the world affected most people for the worse. 

—

Joel didn’t move into his current house until after the Adlers died and someone needed to take care of the peach and apple orchards.  He had already been helping them tend the orchards and also helped fix things up around the property as the Adlers’ age caught up with them.  

When Joel moved, Frank had the idea to bake something to welcome him to your family’s end of the community.  You made a blueberry cobbler. Frank combed his hair and tucked in a plain, button-up shirt.  He didn’t ask you to put on a dress, but you did because Frank always had fun getting spruced.  He liked to have a reason, even if the occasion was completely manufactured, like the nights he made dinner and claimed his restaurant had a dress code. You couldn’t deny it made for a nice change of pace, and Bill’s eyes brightened, too despite his obligatory grumbling. 

When you were ready to take the cobbler to Joel, Bill said the two of you looked like you were going to a wake. 

“It’s nice to dress up,” Frank protested.  “It shows we care.” 

When you and Frank were about to walk over there, Frank started tearing up thinking about the Adlers.  They were your neighbors for as long as you could remember. “I can’t, I can’t do it,” Frank said.  Bill didn’t want to do it either.  He wasn’t planning on it to begin with.  

“I’ll take it,” you offered.  So they sent you.  

—

You walked up to Joel’s (new) house, stopping to admire the gambrel roof.  The front door was newly black and smelled like paint, so you weren’t sure where to knock.  You rang the bell and it buzzed sadly in a low, broken tone, as though barely hanging on.  When you were just about to walk around back and knock, Joel opened the door holding a dish towel and a salty look that softened as saw you.  He let go of the door and looked down as he cleaned his hands.  

His voice was deep as always, but it struck you more when you were one-on-one without anyone else’s chatter.  “Need somethin’?”

“Uh, no.  I don’t.”  You smiled just enough to not look scared and countered, “Do you need anything?”  His presence was intimidating. Handsome and muscular, with a quiet, powerful energy.  

He didn’t say anything. Kept cleaning his fingers.  Once he looked at you again, he didn’t look away. He stopped messing with his fingers.  It was your only private conversation since the first time he came over for dinner.  It was more eye contact than he had ever given you.  You waited out the silence, then smiled and held out the cobbler for him. “This is for you.” 

He put his hands around the dish, careful not to let his dirty fingers touch yours.  “You made this?”

“Yeah,” you nodded and took your hands away. His eyes gave the hint of a smile, but his mouth didn’t budge.  

“Welcome to the street,” you told him. 

He nodded but didn’t offer any more words.  He stood there and looked at you until you said, “Well, you know where we are if you need anything.  Bye, Joel.”  He nodded and watched you walk away.  

—---------

Joel and the Adlers.  Those were the only people you were aware of who ever lived in that house.  You put on another dress.  It was a lightweight, black fabric. Low-cut, flowy, came down to your knees with elbow length sleeves that were kind of see through and flared out. 

You were too curious not to bring up the clothes.  Over lunch, you asked, “The Adlers didn’t have a daughter when they lived here, did they?”

He seemed to be thinking it over as he finished chewing.  “Not that I know of.  Why?” 

“Whose clothes are these?”

“Ah,” he said.  “Well they’re yours now, peaches.”  

You smiled. “Before, though.”

“Why?  Do you like’em? They look good on ya. Are they the right size?”

“I like’em a lot. They’re nice, they fit well.” 

He raised his eyebrows and proudly revealed, “Picked’em up at the boutique.”  His cheeks turned pink as he looked at you for approval. “Wasn’t much left. Wasn’t sure you’d like’em.”  He took a bite of his salad.

“Wow,”  you nodded. You were nearly speechless that he stocked that room for you.  If there wasn’t much left at the boutique, he must’ve grabbed anything in  your general size. Maybe that’s how he ended up with The Dress.  

“Wanted to have what ya needed here, just in case.” He nodded as he chewed.  “S’why it took me a few days to come by after Bill and Frank left.”

“That’s nice, Joel.” It was a little awkward.  You didn’t know what to say.

He continued to explain himself.  “Men like me and Bill, we’re protectors.”  He put down his fork to gesticulate.  “So when your papa asked me to make sure you’d be okay, I took it real serious.  Did everything I could to be ready for any scenario.” 

You slowly nodded and he looked at you in anticipation of further response. You said, “Well, you went above and beyond.” 

Your face must have given away your shock.  Joel sighed.  “Might’ve gotten carried away.”  He looked down and lowered his voice. “Been a while since I had someone to care for.  I guess the idea of someone even possibly needin’ me. . . ”  Your heart hurt for him.  “Hell, maybe I wanted to remember what it felt like. Look at me playin’ dress-up, right?” He laughed at himself, but his eyes were somber. 

You took his hand into yours and looked him in the eyes.  “Thank you, Joel.” 

“I’m glad they fit,” he said.  “Glad ya can use’em.”  He took a sip of water, then quickly swallowed it to clarify,  “I mean, I’m not glad ya had to leave home.  Just glad I could be here.” 

“Yeah.”  You squeezed his hand. He kissed yours and let it go.   “This is really good, by the way.  Love the dressing.”  

“It’s basil. Grew it outside.  I’ve got some herb seedlings in pots down in the basement. We can try to plant’em if ya want.” 

Your face lit up at the possibility of going outside.  “Yeah!”

“We’ll do the arugula, too.  I dunno about the ‘berries, darlin’, but we’ll try.” 

—----

It was a cloudy day, but still nice out.  Joel seemed to think it might rain later.  After lunch, he loaded up a wagon full of plants and supplies from the basement, and the two of you walked through the orchard.  The fresh air was invigorating after being  stuck in the house.  

“‘Member which tree is ours?” Joel asked.  

When you correctly pointed it out, he stopped the wagon and let the handle sit.  You looked at him shyly as he looked you up and down.  “C’mere.”  He gently turned you to face him.  “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He cradled your head with both hands.  You tilted your chin, then he planted a long, affectionate kiss on your lips.

When you got to the garden beds at the back of the orchard, Joel said, “we should plant’em together so they cross-pollinate. Where do you wanna put’em?”  Joel watched your face as you walked around them and evaluated the options.  

The garden bed to the right already had a pumpkin vine with beautiful flowers. That bed looked more settled, darker, and fertile.  “I didn’t know you had pumpkins,” you marveled. “Maybe by those?”

Joel looked down at the garden bed.  “Yeah, hopefully they’ll fruit.”  He smiled up at you without raising his head again.  

Joel used a spade to dig shallow holes, then you nestled the roots in the holes and both of you patted the soil down.  First the arugula, then the basil, then the longshot–the strawberries, 

“Pat it down, but not too tight,” he said. 

When you were finished, you knelt by the vine and traced a flower with your fingers. Its warm colors were cheerful. “When the pumpkins grow, can we eat’em?”

“Sure, darlin’.”  Joel looked down at the vine, squatting right beside you.  “Y’know, the flower’s edible, too.”  

“It is?” Your stomach rumbled at the thought of eating something new. 

Half of Joel’s mouth curled into a small smile. “I reckon you’ve never had a flor de calabaza taco, then. Granted, not sure how ya would’ve.”

“Flor de calabaza?”

“Pumpkin flower. Haven’t had one in a while myself. Go on, pick a couple. Let’s try it.” 

You plucked one. “Good choice,” he said, giving you a flashback to when he caught you with one of his peaches. The embarrassment flooded you all over again as you picked two more.  Joel saw your face change, and he smiled, hopefully not thinking about the origin of your nickname. You wondered how often he thought about it.  He picked a flower of his own, leaving a bit of vine on it, then stroked your cheek and said “c’mere.”  He looked in your eyes and put his flower behind your ear.  He kissed you on the lips, then wrapped an arm around you and began to stand, bringing you up with him.  

Joel looked up at the sky, squinting. “Ah, hell.  Gimme that cloth.” He knelt down and finished patting the soil as you retrieved the cloth from the wagon.  You helped him cover the newly planted arugula, basil, and strawberries to protect them from washout.

—--

You hung out in the kitchen, helping Joel make dinner.  The apple blossom in the jar still looked beautiful.  He knew how to take care of things.  You washed the pumpkin flowers, then twirled one against your nostrils as Joel cooked wild turkey.  You inhaled the petals and tried to imagine what they’d taste like.  Joel cooked the flowers with the turkey. They were delicious. Granted, anything new to eat was appealing in principle.  Novelty was its own seasoning. 

After dinner that night, Joel needed to do some work outside before the rain.  He showed you a shelf of books and games near the fireplace, then watched your face as you browsed them.   You picked up one that you liked as a girl but hadn’t read in years.  Joel went out through the basement.  You heard him dragging a tarp out. 

There were a lot of thoughts distracting you from your book.  Your feelings for Joel overwhelmed you.  At certain moments, it felt too good to be true.  You also reflected on your intimacy and felt like things were moving fast. You understood why: you felt safe and protected, and your body’s physical need for his was totally natural. But the speed also made it feel fragile somehow.  Like if you looked down, you might be falling through the air, not realizing you ran off a cliff.  

There was also the question: If a connection this special formed so quickly, could it come undone just as fast?  You couldn’t rid your head of his wounded face when you said you were lonely.  You hurt his feelings and panicked, as if you needed to give him everything you could at that moment to prove that you loved him. As much as you enjoyed having him in your mouth like that, it felt impulsive in hindsight. Desperate, and you hoped he didn’t see it that way. Pathetic, even. But the memory of it turned you on all the same. 

You replayed other encounters in your mind and felt like you were largely the one driving things.  Burying your fear and grief in his lap.  It embarrassed you to think about, but you also felt relieved that there wasn’t really any pressure.  It was like Joel said, whatever you want and that’s all.  You said you wanted it in your mouth, and of course he wouldn’t discourage it. Then he wouldn't be giving you everything.

The sound of metal banging then scraping on concrete stirred you from your thoughts. Then the basement door opened and shut twice.  

—------

When Joel came back inside, it was nearly your typical bedtime and you were cozy on the sofa.  You were curled up on your side with the book on your thigh and your eyes closed.  You were only half asleep, but you let him take the book. He also spread a blanket over you.  When his bedroom door closed, you sat up and opened the book again.  There was a black thumbprint on the open page, and it smelled like ash. It gave you butterflies to see his thumbprint.  You liked the idea of having part of him in the book as you read it.  You knew how irrational these feelings were, but it didn’t stop them.  

Joel’s shower turned on.  The walls were so thin that you could hear everything.  A cabinet opening, the shower door, changes in the rhythm of the water flow.  You could hear that he brushed his teeth in the shower. Maybe not just in the shower.  He always seemed to taste fresh.   A few minutes after the water turned off, Joel came out of his room in jeans and a white t-shirt that wasn’t tucked in.  The shirt hugged his pecs and arms and gave you an even deeper, needier appreciation for his physique.  The casual look was really attractive on him.  You needed him so bad it hurt.  If you couldn’t have him forever, you weren’t sure what you would do.  If he ended up with anyone else—there was no reason for this thought to even cross your mind, but the fleeting idea of it made your temples weak.  He was too perfect. 

You were sitting on the couch hugging your knees when he sat down next to you.  He put his hand on your knee and dipped his head to look at you. You took a deep breath through your nose.  Mint and pine. His post-shower fragrance made your chest tingle. 

“You okay, peaches?”

“Yeah.” You mustered a smile.  “Just tired.  Guess I should go to sleep.”

“Sure, darlin’. Want me to tuck you in?”

Your heart sank at the lack of an invitation.  “Yeah.” 

Joel took your hand and led you upstairs. While you were in the bathroom getting ready to sleep,  Joel made the bed for you before turning the covers down for you to get in. 

“There ya go.” 

“Thanks.” You got under the covers, tempted to make room for him but not wanting to come on too strong or look desperate.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress and leaned over you like he had in the morning.  “Need anything at all, I’m right downstairs.” 

“Thank you.”

Joel kissed you goodnight. You were a little sad when he didn't try anything, but you had already said you were tired. In your heart, you felt like he'd always be patient with you. If you wanted to slow things down, it was yourself you had to worry about.  But in your heart, that wasn’t what you wanted anyway.  You just hoped Joel didn’t think less of you for needing him so much. 

—-----------

You woke up in the middle of the night to a deafening clap of thunder.  You sat up and your hand went to your chest.  You could feel your heart pounding. The wash of your blood through your valves echoed in your ears.  Outside, branches rustled loudly and snapped in the wind. 

You were unsettled lying there awake and alone. You wondered why Joel didn't just have you sleep in his bed. Maybe he was trying to be respectful, but these were the things that made you second guess the pace on your end.  You lay there alone, and began to hear creaking and clattering indoors that made your heart race. Joel was right downstairs, but he never felt so far away.  The thunder was okay, but the other noises made your mind race with thoughts of whatever happened the other night at your house.  Whatever Joel saved you from.  The distorted version of Call Me echoed in your mind. 

You worked up the courage to get out of bed.  You crept downstairs like you did the night before.  A flash of lightning startled you.  When a louder, longer crack of thunder followed, you quickened your steps, hanging onto the bannister for dear life so you wouldn’t slip in the dark. 

Joel’s bedroom door was cracked open, so you let yourself in. It was almost pitch black dark. He was on his back in the middle of the bed with the covers pulled half down.  You couldn’t make out his face, but his breathing told you he was fast asleep.  You went around to the side farthest from the bedroom door and smoothed your nightgown under you as you lifted up the comforter and gently sat down.  You brought up your feet and slipped under the covers.  Joel’s breathing changed, but he didn’t move until there was a louder clap of thunder.  You scooted closer and whispered his name. 

His head jolted up and he gasped. “You okay?”

“Yeah.  But I got scared of the storm.”

“‘C’mere, darlin’.” He turned onto his side to face you and stretched his arm out.  You scooted over and laid your head on it. He draped his other arm over you.  “You’re okay, I got ya.” He pulled you closer and planted a kiss on your forehead. 

You lay there with your arm nestled between you and your hand on his chest.  He touched your hair and kissed you on the head a few more times, then dipped his head to kiss your lips, nudging your head up to face him.  The kiss was languid and both your lips came to a rest without pulling away.  You stayed like that, both of you breathing through your noses with your lips nestled between each other’s. His breathing slowed again, and your breath began to match his. Your lips finally fell away as you drifted off in his arms to the sound of the storm.  

-

In the middle of the night, you woke up on your back with Joel half on top of you, one of his legs between yours.  You stirred and he put more weight on you.  He sighed your name without waking up, and the sound of it in his mouth gave you butterflies. Then he fisted your nightgown over your breast and slurred, “‘m sorry.”  His body jerked and he gasped, then relaxed again. A few seconds later, he mumbled, “had to.”  His breath deepened.  “For us.” 

Your mind became an empty pit, and your heart raced. “Had to what,” you whispered. 

“Please." He became unintelligible. "Please," he repeated in distress. 

“Had to what, Joel?”

He jolted awake at the sound of his name. He jerked his head up then relaxed as he felt you beneath him.  “You ok, baby?” 

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He took some of his weight off you, rolling back onto his side and resting a massive hand on your chest. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”  

He sighed and rested his forehead on your shoulder for a few seconds.  Then you asked, “What were you dreaming about?”

“Hmm. . . didn’t know I was dreamin’,” he said.  “But I reckon I’d dream about you, darlin’.” 

“What about me?”

“Ohh, you and me. . .”  He kissed your nose, then your lips, then whispered, “and the rest of our lives.”  His words bypassed your mind and wrapped your heart in the tightest little hug.  It was already getting difficult to imagine a future without him.  You could hardly picture it at this point. What would you even be doing? The same things you’d done your whole life, at the same house, with no hope of meeting someone to share it with. Even if you met someone, you couldn’t possibly imagine anyone else making you feel this way. 

—-----------

The storm had died down.  By then, it was just the loud patter of rain, darkened with a steady rumble.  Joel pulled you close and planted light kisses on your mouth. Then he slid his tongue between your lips and the kisses became deeper.  He shifted to hover over you, and you reached out to trace his form, starting with a hand on each pec, sliding them over his shoulders and down to where his triceps stretched his sleeves.  You could imagine nothing hotter than Joel with his hair out of place, shoulders and biceps bulging through his white t-shirt.  He leaned down to kiss you like he hadn’t seen you in days.

He lowered himself to lay half on top of you again, and you felt the warm shape of his cock hardening against your hip.  You and me, and the rest of our lives. . . Between his words, his weight, and his passion, you melted under him.  He rested his forearms on either side of your torso.  He planted a kiss on your cheek, then your chin, then your throat.  His lips opened and closed, opened and closed, crawling wetly up and around your throat without ever breaking contact.  His hips pushed his hardness against you and you sighed.  He sealed his lips in the crook of your neck and sucked, moaning quietly into your skin.  He tore his mouth from your neck with a low sigh to say, “You’re gorgeous, baby.”  His voice was hoarse from sleep or want. 

He sealed his lips around yours and you could feel his affection with every brush of his tongue.  You could taste all the words he wanted to say–that he was desperate for you, would do anything for you, could never lose you.  You kissed him back, slowly but hungrily, your hips lifting into him, telling  him without words that he could have all of you, you were truly his.  You kissed harder, your mouth hanging onto his for dear life, and he moaned into your mouth.  A groan was building in your chest but you just wanted to hear him.

—

He sighed as his hardness dug into you, then his hand reached down between your legs, under your nightgown.  He lightly dragged his middle finger up and down the crotch of your panties, still kissing you deeply. Then he traced the same line with several fingers flattened together. He broke the kiss to try to read your eyes in the dark.  Then he said, “God, I love you so much.”  Before you could say it back, he covered your mouth with his.   His hips slowly rolled into you as he sucked and tasted your mouth.  The rhythm of his stiff cock against your hip made you physically weak with desire.  

You tried to shift your hips under him.  He got the message and put himself between your legs, resting both his forearms on the bed again.  With his cock laying heavily against your mound, you ached with need, dying to be filled, at least by his fingers.  But you were also a little shy about how needy you felt. He kissed you with so much love, and you felt just as much for him, but your brain took over for a moment and your lips stopped moving.  

The moment you started overthinking it, Joel noticed and pulled back.   He experimentally grinded his cock against your front. He leaned his temple against yours and whispered, “Just ‘cause it's there don’t mean ya gotta do anything with it.” 

You breathed an internal sigh of appreciation, even though you were salivating to have it in your mouth again. To have it anywhere, everywhere.  

—

He cupped your cheek and stroked it with his thumb.  “I just wanna make ya feel good.  Can I do that?” You nodded “mm-hm,” and his hand returned between your legs, ghosting your clit through the fabric.  “Cause I don’t have to,” he went on.  “Won’t hurt my feelings if ya go back to your bed, okay?”  You nodded.  “We’ll just do what you want,” he said. Except for what I want most, you thought to yourself.   

Joel reached down to adjust his boxers, then he backed up and kissed his way down your body.  Every press of his lips through the satin gown made you throb more.  The faint silhouette of his hair made you imagine he was looking up at your face after every kiss, making sure you were still with him.  Of course you were.  The nightgown had already ridden up. He pushed it further, planted his head between your legs, and kissed you through the cotton of your underwear—softly, then harder.  His mouth drew a long sigh out of you as the tension inside you swelled.  

His fingers hooked into the hem of your panties and he slowly dragged them down.  He covered your warmth with his mouth before you could feel the cool air.  The underside of his tongue licked down your dripping seam as his fingers on your thighs continued pulling your panties down. 

His head broke away to finish taking them off, and he breathed, “you’re my favorite taste in the world, baby.”  

His mouth returned between your legs, and he devoured you just like before.  Licking, sucking, flicking his tongue, moaning into you.  When he began to fuck you with his tongue, your need to be filled by his cock only strengthened and demanded attention.  You said, “Get me ready.”

“Hmm?” 

“Ready for you. . .You said my body has to be ready, too.”  

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his wrist, and you could almost see his smile in the dark.   “That what ya want?”  His hair was out of place already, which made you want him even more.

“Yeah,” you whispered.  

“That’s what we’ll do.”  

—-

He started while he was still between your legs.  He inserted a finger and kept kissing your clit while you sighed.  He pulled his head away and  flattened his fingers.  He gently rubbed you as he crawled back up the bed and stopped with his face near yours.  His face hovered an inch from yours as he rubbed your desperate, slippery, beautiful mess.  He stroked you just right, then pushed his finger back into you, his lungs audibly sucking in a long, deep breath. 

Your head tilted up and your mouth fell open.  He pushed the finger to the hilt and an obscene moan fell out of your mouth.  

“Oh baby, you sound so beautiful.”  He began to move his hips against your thigh.  “This okay? Or you want me to take it away.” 

“No, no, don’t take it away.” 

He exhaled half a laugh and slowly pumped his thick finger, staying mostly inside you, curling against your front wall.  “How’s it feel?” 

“Really good,” you whispered.  “Gimme another like last time.”  

His cock twitched against you and he kissed you as he slowly pushed another finger in. He moved them in and out and his hand hugged your mound as he did it. Your hips lifted into his hand and you broke the kiss with a sigh that became a whimper.  He groaned softly at your desperation and kept rutting against your thigh, fucking you slowly with his fingers. After following a steady rhythm for a while, he clamped his palm down on your mound, adding friction to your clit as he worked his hand. He began to bring his fingers out a little more to slicken your clit again.  You throbbed and moaned and could hardly stand it.  

“Joel,” you sighed, and struggled to find words.  You sputtered out, “I —Joel, I just — I want–ugh–want you, so bad.” 

His voice was low and soothing. “Ohhhh, I know it darlin’,” he commiserated.  He planted a kiss on your neck as he continued the push of his fingers inside you and his cock against you.  “You’ll have me, baby,” he murmured huskily.  “We’ll have each other.”  He worked his fingers and grinded his cock against you in opposite beats of the same rhythm.  

“Another one,” you whispered. 

“It’s too much, baby.” 

“It’s not,” you whined.  

“Let’s add one of yours.”  He removed his fingers almost entirely and lifted his palm up to make room for your hand under his.  “C’mon.”  You nestled your hand under his and carefully added your middle finger.  You slid your finger in against your front wall, nestled in a triangle with his two fingers as he pushed inside again.  You couldn’t reach very far, but it was enough to feel the stretch. His hand engulfed yours and controlled the rhythm. It was a different feeling, touching yourself with your finger nestled under his.  You enjoyed the stretch and his hand engulfing yours, but you could only imagine how much better the smooth tip of his cock would feel.  

Moving your finger with his, Joel asked, “Feel good?”

“Yours feel better.”  

He lifted his palm and you removed your hand.  He kissed you as he began pistoning his fingers deeper and harder.  He swirled and scissored them as though making room inside you.  

“Joel,” you sighed and your spine curved, jutting your breasts into the air. Your nipple fell out of your nightgown and his mouth was on it right away.  

He kissed your breast, moaning into your nipple.  Then he kissed your chest, then your neck. “God damn, baby,” he murmured hoarsely.  

“Just one more,” you begged. 

He grunted with a strong thrust against your hip.  “Ahh—Might be too much.” 

He paused his rhythm and slowly added his ring finger.  So slow it was torture.  

“No, don’t stop,” you whined.  “Just give it to me.” 

He gave it to you, grouping his fingers as close as he could together.  The stretch burned by the time he was half in, but you asked for more.  You winced at the burn and he took the finger back out.  

“I’m okay, it felt good,” you reassured him, but he went back to fucking you harder with two fingers instead, and that felt even better since he didn’t hold back. The burn quickly faded, drowned out by a throbbing tingle that consumed your whole torso, and spread to your thighs, down your legs, making your knees weak.  

Before long, you were writhing under him.  He sucked your breast again and you moaned his name.  He sucked your neck, then whispered into it, “You’ll be a beautiful bride.”  Your breath hitched and your eyes widened at his words, but you didn’t want him to stop.  He continued, “You want that, right?” 

You nodded and heard yourself whisper, “yes.”  

Joel sighed and brought his lips back to yours.  He pressed his hand into your clit as he worked his fingers to bring you over the edge.  “Yeah,” he breathed. Your body jerked and you moaned.  His hand hugged your cunt as you came.  “Ohhh, gooood giirrrl.”   He kissed one half of your mouth as your climax continued.  His breath was hot against your cheek.  “Love feelin’ ya like this.” 

—------

The rain had slowed even more, and the thunder was fading. Joel used his wet hand to pull his stiff manhood out of his boxers with a quiet groan.  You reached down to feel it and he shivered at your touch..  The tip was shiny with precum, smeared from rutting against you through his boxers. He must have been aching as bad as you were.  You took your hand away, opting to wait and see what he had in mind.  

“I don’t have to do this here,” Joel said, his voice weak with need.  Then he added in good humor,  “But it does need doin’,” and those words landed between your legs.  

Your lips parted and you took a deep breath, your eyelids heavy from your orgasm. “Do it here.”

Joel gathered more slick from between your thighs, and the contact gave you an aftershock. He stroked himself and breathed heavily.  He rested with his hip and forearm on the bed, and you turned onto your side to face him.  

He got closer, right up against you with just enough room to stroke himself.  You listened to the wet slide of his hand around his shaft, his breathing, his soft grunts.  It occurred to you this was something he did regularly, and now you could imagine it so vividly.  The idea of Joel thinking about you and getting himself off was almost too hot to bear. You draped your top leg over him. 

He fisted himself and kissed your shoulder.  He nosed your nipple, then dragged it up until his face lifted off your chest. He grunted softly as he pumped himself and pressed his nose, then his mouth, into your neck. He was farther down than you on the bed, and the head of his cock was so close to where you ached for it, you could feel the heat radiating as he stroked himself. Then it grazed you, sending a zap of energy through your loins. 

“I swear I'm ready,” you whispered. 

His voice became shaky. “God damn, I wanna pack you full of this.”  He grunted with hastening strokes.  “That’s what it’s for, baby.”  He bowed his head, and his disheveled hair grazed your cheek.  He brought his face up again and kissed you on the lips. “Gonna be all yours,” he murmured hoarsely into your cheek, then added, “and you’re all mine." 

"I'm all yours."

"Oh, God," he shuddered as he rolled onto his back. "Baby, I—Ohhh," He exhaled loudly and his body jerked as he came onto himself, sighing "ohhh God, baby."  He caught his breath and laid there in silence with you. You rolled onto your back again. He sat up and took the soiled t-shirt off, then laid on his side facing you and rested a heavy hand on your chest.  

–

With your blood finally flowing back to your brain, you considered what Joel asked and what you said.  Yes, you wanted to be his beautiful bride.  On some level, it occurred to you that yes was perhaps the only answer, but did that matter if it was your heart’s desire, too?

You asked, “You think we’re meant to be together?”

“Oh, peaches,” he sighed.  “I’m sure of it.” He kissed you and stroked your cheek, then held you tighter.  “You’re my world, and there is nothin’ I wouldn’t do to be with you.” He rolled you toward him, nestling your head under his chin, and held you until you fell back asleep.  

—------------------

When you woke up in the morning, Joel was freshly showered and standing next to the bed, buttoning a flannel shirt as he watched you sleep.  When you yawned, his eyes brightened.

“Why don’t I always sleep here?” you asked sleepily. 

He laughed silently to himself with a side-eye at the floor.  “Don’t trust myself, darlin’.”  

Your face burned at the implication and you shyly hid half your face.  His smile faded as he looked at you, then he added hoarsely, “God, if you knew how many times I’d thought about you.” There wasn’t so much as a hint of shame in his voice. It had the warmth in your cheeks traveling down, down, down. . . “We’re almost there, baby, but we gotta do it right.  We’re almost there, I promise.” He reached into his pants to tuck in his shirt and adjusted himself while he was there. Your eyes fixated on the bulge in his jeans. “God damn,” he exhaled.  “Turns me on thinkin’ about it.”  

He lightly rubbed his bulge in just one stroke and adjusted himself again from outside the jeans.  It didn’t seem like he was trying to start anything, but he got on the bed and hunger spread across his face as he reached you.  He kissed you needily and tore the sheets off you.  You let him in between your legs and wrapped them loosely around his thighs, your feet resting near his knees. He pulled down your nightgown and sucked your nipple, inhaling deeply through his nose.  Then he sucked his neck, and your clit throbbed against the friction of his jeans.  He hardened against you and kept on for a minute, not escalating things further.  Then he tore himself away with a groan. 

—-

“Wish I could stay here all day and just do this,” he lamented as he got off you to sit on the edge of the bed.  “But I gotta go to the QZ.”  

You protested, “What for?” 

“Somethin’ I gotta do every month, as long as the radio says so.” 

“Can I come?”

He shook his head.  “Too dangerous.” You expected as much. 

“You really have to go?”

He sighed.  “Yeah, darlin’.” 

“You’re leaving me alone?”

“Your parents left you here for a reason, ‘member? Cause it ain’t safe out there. You think they want me takin’ you there anyway?” 

“I know.  But you said it isn’t safe here either.” 

“It’s safe-er here.” 

“Just don’t go,” you whined. 

“If I don't, they're gonna know somethin's wrong, baby.” 

“I don’t-.”

“--nothin’s wrong, but they're gonna think somethin's wrong.” 

“Something is wrong,” you reminded him.  “Abe’s missing.” 

“He–Abe–darlin’.”  Joel sighed, shook his head, and abandoned the topic.  He looked down and rubbed his temples with his middle finger and thumb. “I’m sorry, peaches. I gotta go, and I can’t take ya with me.”

“Will you check on Frank at the Army hospital?”

Joel hesitated, then said,  “Sure, baby.” 

“Are you going to Tommy’s? Bill’s staying there, right?”

“I’m gonna try, darlin’.  Don’t wanna leave ya for too long, though.”

—----

While Joel made you breakfast, you went upstairs to change.  You also sat down at the vanity and used the stationary to write a short note to Bill and Frank. 

Love you and miss you so much, but Joel is taking good care of me. 

Joel read it.  “This is real sweet, peaches.  But do you want’em thinkin’ I’m takin’ care of ya? Thought you wanted to show you could do it.”  He made a good point.  You went upstairs, started over. 

I love and miss you both so much. Frank, Please get well soon.

When you gave it to Joel, he folded it up and put it in his pocket.  He told you to stay inside, and reminded you not to open the door for anyone but him.  He would be back in a few hours.  

—----------------------

After Joel left, you lay around for a while thinking about him and your life together. You went to the kitchen and were about to idly open the pantry, when the counter beside it seemed to move, catching your eye.  There was a trail of ants leading to the apple blossom in the jar. You stepped back. The blossom that had looked so nice the night before was yellowed and crawling with them.  It was like time was moving in slow motion.  You left the scene as it was.  You grabbed a shiny apple from the basket on the opposite counter and went to the sofa to read.  You couldn’t wait for Joel to get home and tell you how Frank was doing.  The minutes crawled by, and you tried to immerse yourself in the story to pass the time.

Only a few pages into your book, you were about to bite into your apple when you heard squawking outside.  You set down the book and went to look out the kitchen window.  You couldn’t see where the noise was coming from.  As you looked out into the orchard, you were startled by a tickle on your arm and flicked off an ant with a gasp.  You hadn’t so much as touched the counter–it felt unfair.  The squawking continued, and you were going stir crazy wanting to go out and see what all the fuss was about.  

Less than an hour after Joel left, you decided to break his rule.  You knew he was protecting you, but it also didn’t seem fair to expect you to stay cooped up inside all on your own.  He could have taken you with him. You knew he could have protected you from any harm that found you.  You looked around and couldn’t find your shoes.  Not in your room, not by the front or back door, not in the living room.  You wouldn’t let that stop you. 

You went outside barefoot, careful to look in front of your feet so you wouldn’t step on anything dangerous.  The sky was gray and dim and the cool air was refreshing even with its humidity.  Branches were scattered everywhere from the wind of the storm. The ground beneath the peach trees was carpeted with yellow leaves sticking wetly to each other.  One third of a peach tree was hanging by a thread off its trunk, the tips of the branches scraping the ground with every breeze.  It could have snapped off at any moment, while the rest of the tree stood proud like it didn’t know.  

You followed the squawking and found an apple tree full of crows.  When you approached, they swarmed into the sky, forming a cloud before settling together on another tree.  With nothing better to do, you followed them.  The second tree was near yours and Joel’s.  They flew toward the back of the orchard and you didn’t follow.  You shuffled around your tree, looking on every branch for a fresh apple blossom.  On the ground, there were layers of leaves and lots of fallen apples.  You were moving your feet slowly and carefully, and your toes caught on something inorganic.  Something rigid, fabric.  You lifted your foot and when the bill of a hat emerged, you reflexively kicked it away as if it were alive or worse. As if you could simply kick away the pit in your gut.  Your stomach turned as you looked at your Red Sox cap on the ground. 

The crows squawked and squawked, and your heart pounded.  You looked around the orchard as if something might be closing in on you.  The trees seemed to get closer, the sky seemed to darken.  Your thoughts kept repeating, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to be with you. Nothing. Nothing in the world, peaches.  You refused to articulate the gut feeling into a thought.  You wouldn’t dignify it. You took a deep breath and grounded yourself, focusing on the feeling of the wet leaves stuck to your ankles.  

You covered the baseball cap with leaves again, burying the feeling as best you could, and rushed back toward the house. On your way back, you stepped on a broken twig.  When you got inside, you saw it was bleeding. 

You cleaned up your foot, then it occurred to you to check the living room closet. You opened the closet door, and the other cap—Jesse’s cap—was still there, exactly where you saw it. To your relief, you also found your shoes neatly laid on the closet floor alongside some loafers and boots.  You left them untouched.  

You settled in with your book again, hoping to distract yourself.  You bit into the apple.  Your teeth sliced right through the skin and sank into soft, mealy flesh that almost making you gag.  You tossed it outside into the leaves because you didn’t want any more ants, then you locked the door behind you.  You sat back down on the sofa and didn’t even try to pick up the book again.  You resigned yourself to facing your thoughts. 

You explored the worst case scenario of what Joel might have done to be with you.  You concluded it was silly to think you had been that important to a man you hardly knew.  It was narcissistic, you told yourself, to think he loved you that much.  That he would really do anything, just to hold you in his arms.  It was the fabric of fairy tales, and it was grotesque.  Especially because it didn’t disgust you.  It gave you butterflies, and not just the nervous kind.

—-------

As soon as you heard Joel’s truck pull into the driveway, your mind returned to Frank.  You had a few seconds before Joel came in, and in that time you realized you should greet Joel before asking about anyone else.  You didn’t want to be rude.  When the door opened, you got up and kissed Joel and told him you missed him.  On your way back to the sofa, you noticed a spot of blood from your foot on the flooring and hoped Joel wouldn’t see it.  

You sat down on the couch and asked him how Frank was.  Joel’s face was solemn as he took a seat next to you and put his hand on your knee.  Your chest tightened at this gesture and the next few seconds felt like an hour until Joel spoke. 

"He's doin' better, baby." 

You broke down in tears of relief.  You would have cried no matter what.  Whether Frank was better, worse, or even if Joel didn’t see him, there would’ve been tears of happiness, sadness, or fear.  Joel took you in his arms and you buried your tears in his neck. 

“So they think he’s gonna recover?” you asked. 

“Think so.” Joel looked at you, concerned.  

“What do they think it is?”

“They’re not sure, darlin’.  S’pose it could be an allergy, or environmental.  So it’s a good thing you’re here with me.”

“Did you give’em my letter?”

“Yeah.”  Joel leaned forward, lifted himself for a moment, and reached into his back pocket.  He handed you your letter and you unfolded it so quickly it almost ripped. Joel slowly rubbed your back as you looked at the piece of paper and tried to steady your hands. 

There was a note in Frank’s handwriting:

We love you so much.  Protect yourself.

----------------------

----------------------

Thank you all so much for reading and engaging with my unhinged story. Y'all are truly the best. 💙

I challenged myself to do the smut scene with little if any visual description, hope it worked out okay.

I do not expect the next chapter to be nearly as long.

There are more virgins on my joel master list, and you can follow @toxicfics and turn on notifications for fic alerts.

All Joel:@ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore  @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy  @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk  @filthfairy  @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles  @harriedandharassed  @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy  @cutesyscreenname  @weddingfairy  @pedropascal-whore  @spideysimpossiblegirl  @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @milla-frenchy @switchbladedreamz @within-the-depths @am-3-thyst @may-machin @pedromania91 @sloanexx @paleidiot

The Lincoln tag list will be on the toxicfics reblog 💙

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Ow... My Foot...

Summary: Dream does something stupid that makes you jealous and you only have one thing to say to him—I mean do to him.

Notes: ~550 words, take this as an appetizer for the absolute BBL chapter that's the next installment of DDOL

Warnings/Tags: Jealous reader, established relationship, not beta read once I post this these grammar mistakes are between you and yourself.

Main Masterlist | One Shot Masterlist

"Why do you run?" Dream asks as he follows you down the tremendous amount of stairs out of the Dreaming Palace.

You only huff, the vexation in your body turning to deep annoyance and anger as you hear his footsteps behind you. Your dress was heavy in your hands as you hoist them to run away better in.

What a stupid question he asks you. "Why are you running?"

As if you didn't doll yourself up for him and his stupid event. As if you weren't brimming to the edge with excitement when you came into the ballroom. As if you weren't searching for his face almost the hundreds of other dreamers there that night.

He was your, what? What would you even call him? Your boyfriend? Lover, perhaps? Of course, he would say something along the lines that the Endless "do not believe in labels like that". That "his soul was bound to yours since the first atoms spawned in the universe."

So why was he smiling and laughing and talking and resting his hand on some other woman?

"Will you please stop, you're going to hurt yourself," Morpheus calls out as you quicken your pace. How many goddamn stairs are there?!

"Go away, Morpheus," You shout back at him and huff once again.

You see the courtyard just up ahead and your carriage ready to take you away when your slipper falls off your heel. It takes a few more steps before you realize that the shoe fell off and with a deep groan you turn around to fetch it.

Morpheus is on it before you could even blink and his deft fingers were gently holding onto it. He watches you carefully as your chest rises and falls with your pants and carefully stalks closer to you.

With your shoe in hand, he awkwardly knees on the steps and slides the shoe back over your foot, his eyes never leaving yours. Your traitorous heart beats faster as you feel the warmth of his fingers ghost over your ankle and shin.

"There," He whispers as he stands to his full height again.

"There," You repeat in a whisper.

Dream comes down the one step that separates the two of you and the two of you share a moment of silence between the two of you. He is always able to calm you down in your moments of panic and now was no different.

"Why are you running?" He asks again and it's like everything that calms you down threw itself off the highest mountain in The Dreaming.

Your eyebrows pinch and your lips turn into a frown again. Your foot rises on its own, honestly! And without much thought, other than jealousy and annoyance, do you slam down your heel onto his toes.

"Humph!" You grunt turning your head away from his with your nose upturned. You don't stay for his reaction before you make the last few steps to your carriage.

Dream watches, still confused, as your carriage rides away from him.

"Wow. You are, ehhh how should I say this? Not good with women," Matthew's voice mocks him as he makes himself comfortable on Morpheus' shoulder.

"Ow. My foot." Dream grumbles lowly so that only Matthew hears. "That was... painful."

Yay! Dream gets his toes curb stomped!!

♡ Yours, Layla

Main Masterlist | One Shot Masterlist

[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[childotkw]

In dark side of the moon, can we hear a little more about Riddle's take on things? Particularly regarding Harry?

Tom was, admittedly, a little embarrassed that it took him so long to really notice Evans.

Dumbledore’s son - and wasn’t that a disturbing notion, that someone somewhere had looked at the man who regularly wore outrageously coloured robes decorated with bumblebees and snitches and fluffy clouds and thought him desirable enough to sleep with - had initially flown beneath Tom’s radar. Oh, his arrival at Hogwarts had sparked much conversation, but his actual presence?

Tom hadn’t given the young man much thought. He had had him categorised and labelled in a neat little box from the very first mention of his existence.

Any son of Dumbledore was surely a steadfast believer in his father’s doctrine after all, and therefore not worth Tom’s time.

That impression has lasted only a few weeks.

Word had spread about Evans’ mentorship of the Shame of Slytherin, Nathan Ciro, but Tom had never seen the two together. It had been a point of discussion amongst the school and their House in particular - Dumbledore’s offspring taking a Slytherin under his wing, yet another sign he had dismissed - but for all that people were baffled by the choice, no one seemed to know much of anything about the relationship. How or even why it had come to be.

It seemed like fate that Tom was the one to stumble across the pair. Without even trying he had accomplished what so many others had not.

As it should be.

He had only seen Evans from a distant before, and the man had never struck him as someone particularly intimidating or imposing. He was short, slender, dressed plainly, and the frankly hideous glasses he wore were the only thing Tom could make out of his face - another point, everything about the man was so carefully constructed to be forgettable, Tom really was a fool - but his voice was distinct.

Tom slowed momentarily when he heard the muffled sound of a conversation, then crept closer. It was late in the afternoon, still an hour before dinner would be served, but the dungeons were normally quite empty at this point. Classes had let out ages ago, and most Slytherins enjoyed basking in the sun before they had to return to the cold hallways that bracketed their common room.

He peeked around the corner, and immediately felt his interest pique.

Evans was squatting before a curled up Ciro, staring at the younger wizard with a painfully kind expression.

“- it didn’t work.” Ciro was mumbling, hiding his face in his knees.

“It was your first try, you can’t have expected to get it right straight away.” Evans’ voice was low and patient, not dissimilar to how he spoke in classes, but with a heavy kind of intensity in it that caught Tom off-guard. “Most wizards and witches never master it.”

And that intrigued Tom more. Just what was Evans teaching Ciro?

The other boy said something else, inaudible from how his mouth pressed into his knobbly knee. Evans huffed a laugh, poking Ciro with his wand. “What’s the rule, kid?”

Ciro shifted, unfurling a little. “Head up,” he grumbled, clearly reciting this so called ‘rule’. “I said, you mastered it, and you were younger than me when you did it.”

“I was,” Evans agreed easily, his smile sliding into place with an ease Tom was briefly envious of, “but I also had a hell of a motivator to get it done.”

“What, were you being harassed by dementors?” Ciro asked, his tone far more snide than Tom was used to. He could count on one hand the amount of times he had heard that level of life in Ciro’s voice. Certainly not in the last year had he shown that much fire.

But that knowledge felt secondary to the implication behind his words.

Dementors. A difficult spell. Surely they weren’t talking about the patronus? And Evans had supposedly mastered it before he was fourteen?

“Well, maybe not ‘harassed’, but I had a few run ins,” Evans said blandly, as if most wizards would survive one encounter with such a creature. Ciro goggled at his mentor, mirroring Tom’s own incredulousness. “The point is, I learned the patronus under a lot of pressure. I needed it to protect myself, so I pushed myself. You don’t have that driving you - and you should be bloody glad for it,” Evans added when he saw whatever expression crossed Ciro’s face.

“Then why are you trying to teach it to me?” Ciro’s voice was small. “If not everyone can master it…why bother at all?”

Evans sighed, his face creasing fondly as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Because I know you can do it,” he said simply, as if the very idea that Ciro would not be able to produce a fucking patronus had never crossed his mind. “Kid, Nathan, you managed to produce mist on your first try. That alone is incredible. It took me weeks to get that far, and I had a far better teacher showing me the ropes. You’ll get there, but you have to be patient with yourself. I’ll be right behind you every step of the way, okay?”

Tom stood there, feeling oddly breathless as he watched the scene play out. He couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation, his ears flooded by the rush of blood.

He felt, strangely, as if something fundamental had just shifted inside him, and that was -

Exhilarating.

[filmofhybe]

taking care of you from afar

🫶 pairing : Nishimura Riki x oc 💌 GENRE : Angst 907 wc

Warning : break up , cold Christmas

; AUTHORS NOTE : mixed up mixed up up up

Masterlist to my other works

"Y/n, I can't just stop caring for you," he insisted, his eyes reflecting the conflict within.

I sighed, realizing the complexity of our emotions. "Niki, it's going to be harder for both of us if we keep holding on. We need to move forward separately." We know we both don’t want this. But if only you knew why..

Two months before Christmas, Niki and I decided to part ways. We knew it was for the best, but the pain lingered in our hearts. I told him he should let me go, that holding on would only hurt him more with each passing day. Yet, Niki, stubborn and caring as ever, couldn't bring himself to release his grip on our relationship. It has very much affected my way on moving on from him because of his kind and caring gesture till this day. But nothing would ever change him or even stop him caring for me.

Christmas approached, and the bitter chill in the air mirrored the frostiness between us. I knew he couldn't stand seeing me suffer during the cold holiday season, especially knowing how much my seasonal depression intensified without him.

One day, as I sat alone in my room, I received an unexpected package. Inside were heat pads to keep me warm, some havd cream and lipbalm. With accompanied by a note that simply read, "Stay cozy and warm." Confused, I wondered who could have sent such a thoughtful gift.

Days passed, and the surprises continued. Warm, comforting meals arrived at my doorstep, sometimes even health care products and medicines, bringing a strange mix of gratitude and confusion - Niki, despite our breakup, was orchestrating these gestures from afar. He understood my struggles, even when I tried to convince him otherwise.

“I’m not struggling from my little seasonal depression..”

“Y/n i know you long enough to know you are.”

“Just stop sending stuff over.”

“Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.”

Then came the day when I opened the door to find a box labeled "Snakes." My heart raced with anxiety until I noticed it was a typo – the intended word was "snacks." I chuckled at the mix-up, realizing Niki's efforts were not without their share of mishaps. Remember how he somehow can’t seem to spill snacks correctly makes my heart swell.

It became a routine. Each day of December, a new surprise arrived, is like a little advent calendar, ranging from handwritten notes to carefully chosen gifts that catered to my needs. I was touched by his unspoken care, yet torn by the knowledge that we had chosen separate paths. Was it really worth it?

One evening, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I sent him a text. "Why are you doing this, Niki? We're not together anymore." His response was simple, yet it carried the weight of sincerity. "I care about you, Y/n. I can't stop that, even if we're not together anymore. I’ll never break the promise I made with your mother.”

I pondered his words, conflicted between appreciating his gestures and urging him to let go. I replied, "You need to move on, Niki. We both do.", “fine. I’ll stop soon.” His messages became more sporadic, but the surprises persisted. I found solace in his warmth, even if it was delivered from a distance. It was as if he aimed to heal the wounds he couldn't see.

As Christmas neared, I felt a mixture of gratitude and guilt. Gratitude for the kindness he continued to show, as he continues to deliver gifts to my front door despite telling him not to, and guilt for allowing him to hold on to a love that no longer had a place in our lives. I knew I had to confront him, for both our sakes.

One evening, I called him, the familiar sound of his voice stirring a whirlwind of emotions. "Niki, we can't keep going on like this. It's not healthy for either of us." He sighed on the other end of the line. "I know, Y/n. But I can't help it. I still believe in us, and I can't bear to see you suffer. Especially during this time. I know and we both know your struggling and I can’t stand that.. To me your still my precious Angel that i care for everyday..”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I whispered, "You have to let me go, Niki. It's the only way we can truly heal." He fell silent for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. "I'll try, Y/n. But promise me you'll take care of yourself."

As Christmas Eve arrived, I braced myself for the solitude that awaited. To my surprise, a final package arrived, adorned with a ribbon and a note that read, "Merry Christmas, Y/n. Take care of yourself, that’s all I ask for.”

Inside was a beautifully pink crafted blanket, a symbol of warmth and comfort. Despite the pain, I couldn't help but appreciate the bittersweet beauty of his gesture. As I wrapped myself in the blanket, I whispered a silent thank you to the universe for the love that had once been, and the strength to move forward into a new year, alone but not entirely lonely.

“thank you for the gift. Take care.”

“Your welcome, and I’ll always take care of you from afar.”

© filmofhybe on tumblr — do not copy , translate or share.

[janaknandini-singh999]

After Krishna left for Dwarka, Radha used to keep herself a lot busier than usual; doing her chores back in Vrindavan, talking to the trees finding Krishna in everything, taking care of the people and animals. At night she would go to her room and sit in front of the mirror, sigh and take out her shringaar. Tonight, as soon as she looked into her reflection, it was her Kanha smiling at her.

"How's Dwarka dheesh doing?" she carefully kept her tone as teasing, afraid that if he suspects even a little bit of sadness then he will come running to her right away, leaving everything behind

"Oh please, Radhe. You should come sometime, you used to before but you barely do now."

Radha cupped Kanha's cheek in the mirror

"My sweet mohana, you know I can't. It's my duty to give you and your ashtabharya all the space and love," laughing, she added a little wistfully "As it is I don't really have a good reputation out here. Krishna's lover. But why? Krishna has millions of lovers. The whole brahmaand is his lover. Why worship one exclusively with him? If he loves all his lovers equally then why just worship this Radha with him? She isn't even his wife. Unlike Mahadev and Parvati, they aren't even legitima-"

"Radhe." Krishna stopped her with tears in his eyes

Radha, hurting as much as him, apologized and continued "but it is true, my love. People only view love as black or white. They think marriage is sanctity when it is the bond that is. Not the label."

Nodding, Krishna whispered "do you miss me?"

She laughed till there were tears in her eyes too "Oh Kanha, you are everywhere I look. Every time I breathe."

"Then why talk to me like this? Why summon me here?"

"Because you are everywhere. Everywhere but right here."

Kanha's eyes softened "I am within you, sakhi. Always."

Nodding and smiling, she looked away to wipe her tears "yes yes, I know that." she looked back in Kanha's eyes "only if I could somehow tell that to Yashoda maiya, Nand baba and all the gopiyan and people here. Maiya is inconsolable, kanha. She cries and says 'that boy always tricks me. I saw the universe in his mouth when he was a child. Now wherever I look, I see him. But I just want him to come steal my makhan. Kanha, where are you? I promise I'll never scold you.'

Krishna touches the mirror ever so gently

"Kanha, they think you are not real when you are everywhere. They think it's an illusion and all they do is weep."

"But they forgot that Maya is Krishna and Mohana is Krishna. Everything that involves krishna is as real as the morpankh falling from the sky quietly into their palms when they think of Him." Radha and krishna whisper at the same time

"Tomorrow the Pandavas and Kauravas fight and I'm Arjuna's saarthi. After killing Kansa mama, the trajectory of my life has changed completely. But I miss Vrindavan, Kishori. I honestly don't even know what to do. They call me God but forget I'm a human in this avatar too. All I can feel is Gandhari's pain. Even if she hates me with everything she has and cursed me for my existence but I just can't help but feel for her so deeply. What can I do?" he sobs

"What Kauravas did was wrong but Gandhari is a mother, kanha. Her pain can't be measured. It is unbearable but justified. But so is your karma and dharma. Whatever you do will be remembered forever. They all need you. So go, sakha. Do what needs to be done. I believe in you. I love you. We all do."

Krishna smiled through the tears

Radha whispered "we parted physically to fulfill our dharma in this lifetime but you know? I.. I'm just so tired, Kanha. It's been so long. I just want to go home. To Goloka. Our home. I feel my purpose here is coming to an end..."

"So is mine, Radhe.. so is mine. We are One." Kanha clutched the mirror closer to his chest and Radha did too - both of them in an eternal embrace.

"We will go home very soon. To everyone we love, finally. It's my vachan, sakhi."