#camera angle and distance

[topaz-carbuncle]

[anantaru]

EX HUSBAND SYLUS

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — ex! husband sylus headcanons

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — fem! reader, oral (fem! receiving), possessive ex husband trope, stalking, voyeurism, pervert sylus, he misses you, hitting it raw, masturbation, fantasizing about you

ex husband sylus who never took his ring off— what he will do instead was pretend he did. to save face in public? for sure. in reality it's tucked away in a drawer— your drawer, the one you used to keep your lip balms and perfumes in as his wedding band lays beside your jewelry. sometimes, when sylus was feeling especially sad, he takes it out and sleeps with it in his palm, mostly when he's feeling lost or conflicted.

ex husband sylus who still uses your name as his passwords and changes them every cycle, frankly, they always consist of things related to you, for example your birthday or favorite pet, most beloved color or nickname he used to call you— one in particular consisted of the coordinates of the place you honeymooned in.

ex husband sylus calls it "muscle memory" when his fingers twitch in that same obsessive rhythm when he dreams about you and the way they used to press against your hips too, fuck, his dream was slowly turning into a particular kind again, eagerly fantasizing on how he used to grip your thighs when he cummed inside you.

ex husband sylus who still watches you, wether it was through mephisto, luke and kieran or when he's got some time to spare himself. he still watches from a distance, not stalkerish in his own eyes— protective if he had to explain it— and well, of course he tracks your location silly, of course he still has access to your security cameras so he always knows when you could be in possible danger. (or when you could be bringing someone else home)

ex husband sylus watches you in agony each night, especially when you're alone— most dearly when you're touching yourself and sylus filthily mouths along with the whimpers you tend to make while bullying your fingers past your hole— fuck, he can practically taste you on his tongue, his teeth sinking into his fist just to stop himself from calling you, just to hold himself back from watching you in such intimate way.

ex husband sylus who wasn't dating, instead, he's trying to feel you again through proxies, through ghosts, yet it's never enough, nothing ever was. and every time he fucked someone else— and well despite it being rare, he's always thinking of you within it, pretending it's your soft cunt he's feeling, fingering someone and saying your name, or getting head while his brain replays the exact angle of your throat and how you adored taking him when lastly, finishing into someone's mouth, then plastering it back onto their face because it just wasn't you.

ex husband sylus who runs into you in public— by chance or "chance" when he immediately plays it cool with his signature crooked smirk and head being slightly tilt, that's how you knew him, casual as ever. regardless, what you do not see was that his hands were shaking and afterwards, he goes home hard, ever so frustrated and fists his cock until he's feeling dizzy, saying your name over and over like a prayer and a curse at the same time. this is when sylus realizes that he will never get over you and you could so much as brush past him, his dick will twitch like it remembers, and obviously it does, it always does.

ex husband sylus who dreams about the filthiest version of you, no matter how many times it's always the same— he fantasizes about you apologizing and sobbing, begging him to touch you again after the divorce was settled and in his dream, sylus doesn't speak, he just pins you down with that glacial calmness inside of him and fucks you deep and rough, until you scream his name the same way you did the night he proposed to you.

following this, when he wakes up at last, there's cum all over his hand and funnily enough, he hasn't even touched himself, in fact, his body doesn't need to anymore, at this point you're carved into his nervous system.

ex husband sylus who sends you encrypted messages, believing that you do not know that it's him. okay, at first you really thought you had gained a new stalker besides your ex husband, considering they came through systems you no longer used— apps you've forgotten, channels buried in layers of old code.

honestly, you think you're dreaming when you hear your old ringtone late at night— but he's there, typing while watching you, bleeding through the digital static like a ghost in the machine.

"you wore the red silk dress last night." "you touched yourself at 2:17 a.m. i almost came just hearing you." "i will never stop being yours."

yes, it's a bit creepy, so you delete them, but they always come back.

ex husband sylus who believes that, well, perhaps you two weren't a good fit on paper, but in bed? fuck, he's never felt peace like that again. on the outside, you were sweet, yes, but filthy, so fucking sexy that you used to ride him with both hands flat on his chest, whispering the nastiest shit into his ears— telling him how thick he felt in your tight cunt or how impossibly big he was, how much you needed his cum or how your cunt ached when he didn't fuck you hard enough, not to mention how full you liked to be of his warm, sticky cum over and over.

sometimes you'd even edge him just to watch him break apart right underneath you, letting him whimper and beg you to be able to spill himself inside your soft pussy. and what happened when you finally let him have it you ask? obviously you'd kiss him slow and open mouthed, your tongue tenderly dancing around his own, "i love you sylus," you whine as he cums untouched from that alone.

after all this time, he's never forgotten that night.

ex husband sylus who still uses your shampoo as your scent lives in his hair whenever he showers. sylus still uses your old bottle— down to the last dribble as his entire bathroom looks like a shrine of things you love— one of your old towels still folded on the rack like you're coming back, like it belongs there, because to him, it does.

ex husband sylus who, when he jerks off— daily, violently, he uses your lotion, the one that smells like your favorite scent, the one his nostrils would pick up on when he was deep into your guts. now, when he fists his cock and heaves out your name, nose buried in the sleeve of your old dress you forgot at his place, he's moaning like he's losing his mind, his cum dribbling all over his knuckles and making a mess only you, in his mind, were capable to clean up with your tongue.

ex husband sylus who's furious that you're letting anyone else fuck you— and listen now, even if you didn't, even if it was just a rumor, sylus seethes just imagining you spreading your legs for someone else's hands, not to mention someone else's mouth. when he comes across the rumor of you finding another partner, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat either— yet when you see him again by chance, there's something unhinged in his gaze, not angry of course, but hollow, like the version of him that once smiled has been overwritten with cold calculation.

but all it took was your voice, one tremble, one "sylus…" and he cracks again, immediately grabbing your face and saying, "don't ever make me think you've moved on again," as he suffocates the space between your lips to finally kiss you after all this time, with tears beading his lashes at being one with you again.

this wasn't supposed to happen, originally you just wanted to nod politely and pass him like strangers in a city that once belonged to the both of you, pick up the things you've left in his house and be gone for good this time. yet he said your name— your name, not the ghost of it, not the public version people used, but the one he whispered against your bare skin and suddenly you were trembling like a violin string plucked too hard.

fuck, he kissed you like nothing had changed, like it hadn't been months, like you hadn't signed papers with hands that wouldn't stop shaking now, like your lawyer hadn't had to slide the pen back into your grip, the same grip that was now entangled in his hair. after all, you could still remember when sylus stood across the room and refused to look at you, his jaw clenched so tight you could hear the bones grind.

his mouth still felt the same— dangerously soft and wickedly sure, feeling like memory, yet tasting like sin, as if his regret was set on fire. yet your body responded before your mind could even catch up and process on what was happening— your hands messily in his hair, your nails digging and dragging him into you, your lips parting because he needed to be let in.

you hated him, no, you loved him, fuck, you hated that you still loved him.

he drops to his knees and eats your pussy like he's starving— no prep, no teasing, just tongue fucking you with brutal, obsessive precision. you're gasping his name, thighs shaking around his head and cunt clenching on nothing, yet he doesn't stop even when your knees buckle and your hands fist through his silver hair.

you cum on his face that night, multiple times in fact, because he won't stop until he feels you sobbing, "you taste the same," he drawls hoarsely, wiping his mouth on your thigh, "fuck— you taste like you're still mine," as you're soaking him, messing up his chin with your slick when you're riding his face. sylus pins you open like it's a crime to let you close, eating you out like the only thing that could ever satisfy him was the sound of your wrecked little pussy and the way your slick stained his tongue so fucking nicely.

ex husband sylus who hates condoms now, you barely used them when you were married yet tried to be responsible, although now? he rips them from your hand, "we were married, do you think i care about this?" as he pushes his cock through you in one raw, thick, unrelenting stroke. he fucks you like it's the last time— because perhaps afterwards you might remember that you're still divorced and shouldn't be doing this.

everything that crossed sylus's mind right now was that if he doesn't fill you up, he'll lose you again. fuck, he's angry, but he doesn't know why, or maybe he just wanted to be mad at something— wanted to pretend it's not desperation that guided him, no aching grief that was wrapped in jealousy and lust as he could never forgive himself for letting you go.

in this moment in time, he's inside of you again and it feels like heaven— fucking you like the resentment's burning through his spine, and even though he was still mad, it's lost somewhere within the brutal rhythm of each thrust shattering your body. his hips crash into yours with punishing force as his nails bite deep into your soft hips like he's holding onto something that just kept slipping away.

and the sounds you're making, fuck, you must be joking, the slap of his balls against your ass repeatedly echoing the wet squelch of your cunt receiving his blows again and again— it made it impossible to think, let alone say his feeling out loud. and when he cums? he watches it leak out of you with a look of silent lust before greedily shoving it back in with his fingers, "i want it to stay," he whispers, "i want you so full that you have no other choice but to dream about me."

ex husband sylus who knows you were the only thing that ever calmed him down, the only one who could ever talk him off the ledge when his voice cracks with static and fury and guilt, you were the one that got under his skin and stayed there. but with you leaving? it wasn't just heartbreak, it was a full system collapse and now he's running on fumes as he just wanted to grab you forever, drag you back into his bed and his world, his hell, you could say, and ruin you all over again.

and ex husband sylus didn't want to lie to you, really, didn't want to pretend you had left something inside his house because he hated you, no, he wasn't selfish either, it's not your body he wanted, you have to believe him on that one— but because he still loves you with the sickness of a man who has never known how to live outside of your orbit. the way a dying star didn't simply fall into gravity— it clung to it the same way sylus clasped his arms around you this very second.

ex husband sylus's love was just like that, you see? like something terminal, like your absence alone was a wound he himself repeatedly presses into, over and over, just to remember what your warmth used to feel like.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[noisilyscreechingsong]

Dp x Dc short idea

Jason is Danny’s dad

Warning: Language

Jason had just returned to the family publicly about two weeks ago. It hadn’t even been that long for him to settle before something happened. The press weren’t even off his ass and he has Alfred requesting he return home for an urgent matter immediately, which is butler speak for get your ass here right now!

The family was happy but adjusting to everything. They had mandatory family dinners at least twice a month and voluntarily got together more frequently, mostly just the siblings, but every once in a while Bruce would sneak in for a movie in the family room.

Alfred was pleased with the progress the family has made over the course of many years. It finally felt like everything was coming together and maybe settling down. He knew he thought that too soon when he answered the buzzer at the front gate. They weren’t expecting any visitors and looking at the video feed it was a young woman with hands on her hips glaring back at the camera. There were two large bags with her and surprisingly enough a young child playing in the grass just a short distance behind her.

“Wayne Residence, Alfred Pennyworth speaking, how may I assist you, ma’am?”

“Lettin’ me in for starters,” she says back with venom on her tongue.

“My apologies, but you do not have an appointment.”

She snorts, “Nah, but ya see, I saw that bastard on the news and thought I’d drop off what he gave me.”

To get her point across, she turns and looks back at the little boy not paying her any attention.

“Danny!” She snaps and he jerks his head to look at, who Alfred is assuming is, his mother. “Come here.”

He hops up at his own pace and dusts off the grass on his knees before trotting over. She leans down to angle the young boy away from the camera and pushing back his hair.

He couldn’t see it well before by the way the boy was positioned before, but Alfred could clearly see a prominent patch of white hair on the left lower section by his neck. Just like the white batch on Jason.

“You gonna let us in now?” She asks rudely.

Alfred has already determined he did not like this woman. He still buzzes them in. He contacts Jason immediately followed closely with Bruce.

Alfred then helps the two carry in the bags, while subtly checking for any weapons or explosives. Instead he finds things meant for a child.

He really didn’t like this woman.

Bruce is the first one to arrive down the stairs, pausing towards the bottom. He glances at Alfred and can see the displeasure in the butler’s eyes.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Bruce Wayne, nice to meet you.”

“Fuckin’ everyone knows who you are, Brucie Wayne,” she huffs with a roll of her eyes.

Bruce glances down at the very young child who is hearing the foul language. He couldn’t be more than five, and completely oblivious as the little boy runs a hand along the wall and looks around at everything. He particularly keeps going back to the shiny chandelier above their heads.

“Who might you be?” He asks the woman, coming back to her as she almost touches the vase on the entry table. She draws her hand back to fold her arms across her chest.

“Grace.”

The name seems ironic compared to her behavior.

“And how can I help you, Miss Grace?”

“Your thought-to-be-dead son left something of his. I’m here to return it.”

It took no detective to determine she was talking about the boy currently using the door frame to the sitting room as leverage to rock back and forth, holding on with his tiny hands. Bruce could see the splash of white among the dark hair from this angle.

Bruce hums.

“Is that so?”

“I’ve already contacted Master Jason. He should be arriving soon. Shall I prepare some refreshments in the drawing room?” Alfred informs.

“Thank you, Alfred. Right this way,” he says to Grace, directing her toward the left while pulling out his phone to ask Tim to prepare the proper equipment downstairs.

“Danny!” The woman calls with impatience. She glares at the little boy who calmly turns to look at her, then skips behind them.

Grace huffs but doesn’t say anything else as they enter the room. She sits herself in the middle of the love seat and Bruce takes one of the chairs across from her. The boy, Danny, explores the room thoroughly, walking around without pattern and investigating every nook and cabinet to keep himself entertained. Very curious little child.

Bruce tries to engage her in conversation to dig up more information, but she firmly wanted to wait for Jason before divulging anything. He did however find out that Danny is four and needs to be enrolled in kindergarten next turn. Grace works night shift but wouldn’t say where.

Alfred came with three waters, one in a smaller plastic cup for Danny, and a plate of crackers and cut up fruit.

Grace eyes the butler with a raised brow. However, the first words Danny has spoken in their presence is a cute, “Thank you, mister,” before munching on a cracker and sipping from his cup. His curious eyes flick over the fruit and wanders over to his mother who picks at a rip in her jeans. He taps her knee and she sighs.

“What is it?”

“What’s that?”

Danny points to the fruit.

“What’s what?”

He creeps forward to point directly at the blackberries mixed in with the blueberries and strawberries.

“Blackberry,” she answers shortly.

“What’s it taste like?”

“Why don’t you try it and find out?”

He must have approved of that suggestion and reaches in to clumsily wrap a tiny hand around one of the dark berries. He flips it over in his hand for a minute, observing it at all angles, feeling the texture of the little bumps, before shoving it in his mouth. Danny leans his body over the coffee table to drag the bowl closer and rummage through it for more goodies.

Really looking at him, Bruce could see Jason’s freckles and the few other similarities like his square jaw and lip shape. He hasn’t seen it yet but Bruce bets Danny has the same crooked grin as his son.

He has the woman’s pale complexion and nose shape. His hair was straight like hers instead of Jason’s curls, but Danny took his dark coloring compared to her light brunette.

The boy was an adorable mix of both his son and this woman. He almost felt the test was unnecessary, but he didn’t stop Alfred from replacing the plastic cup and take it back to the kitchen where he knew it would be handed off to Tim.

Thankfully it was a day where there weren’t any meetings for either of them to attend.

Surprisingly, it isn’t Jason that enters the room first, it’s Damian coming home from school. The fourteen year old, almost fifteen, holds a leash in one hand with Titus standing patiently next to him, ready for his after school walk.

“Father, I heard we have guests.”

The teen stops in the doorway and Danny turns with interest until he spots the animal, then his eyes bug with excitement.

“Mommy, doggie,” he whisper shouts.

She just hums in affirmative, looking the new arrival up and down.

Danny grabs a blackberry from the bowl and trots over to Damian. He holds out the piece of fruit.

“This is a blackberry,” he states proudly.

Damian blinks down at the small child. Titus tilts his head, his nose working hard.

“I’m aware.”

“You can have it, if you let me pet your doggie,” he negotiates like he needed to give something in order to receive permission.

Damian looks up to his father for answers.

“Jason will be here soon,” is what he gets instead, his father’s lips twitch.

Damian looks back down in sudden realization when he sees the similarities between the man and this boy. He sighs tiredly.

“Pennyworth. A wet washcloth if you please.”

“Right away, Master Damian.”

“Next time, you only need to ask to pet Titus, you do not need to give me anything in return,” he tells the child.

Danny looks down at the berry sitting in his stained hands.

“So you don’t want it?”

“…Maybe later.”

“Okay!”

Danny skips back to carefully set the berry off the side on the tray, as if to save it for Damian for later like he said. He jogs the short distance back to them.

“Can I pet your doggie now, please?”

Damian takes the washcloth Alfred hands him with a nod and crouches down to get level with the boy.

“We must wipe our hands first. We don’t want anything sticky in his fur,” he explains as he holds out the washcloth for Danny’s hands.

The four year old looks down at the stains to see what he means and then places his hands on the washcloth for Damian to get the juices off.

The teen then calmly explains how to properly approach a dog he does not know by letting Titus smell the back of his hand first and then to always stay calm and confident.

Titus, the gentle giant that he is, had no problems letting the tiny child pat him and run small fingers through his short fur. It was endearing to hear the giggles when Titus used his big nose to sniff at the child’s face and neck. Sitting down, Titus was taller than the child standing up, which would have been scary to some kids, but Danny seemed to love Titus instantly. The little boy easily telling the dog what a good boy he is even with the dog sitting there doing nothing.

“Titus needs his afternoon walk now,” Damian informs.

Titus stands at the word walk, clearly ready to go.

“Oh, okay.” Danny turns to the big dog to reach up and pat his head twice. “Bye-bye, Titus. Have a good walk.”

The two leave and Danny skips back over to hang over the arm of the love seat his mother sits in, typing on her phone.

“Mommy, did you see the doggie? His name is Titus. He’s a good dog.”

“Uh-huh,” she comments without really listening.

“Do you like dogs, Danny?” Bruce asks with a smile.

Danny looks at him like he forgot the man was there, tilts his head as he studies him for a moment. Bruce waits patiently until Danny deems him okay and perks back up with bright eyes.

“Uh-huh! I love dogs! Mommy says we can’t get one ‘cuz our ‘partment is too small and they’re dirty. You’s guys are lucky,” the boy rambles as he wanders around the coffee table to get closer to Bruce and away from his distracted mother.

“How do you feel about cats? Damian has a black and white one around here somewhere.”

Danny shrugs and they continue to have a rather pleasant conversation about different animals and foods and each of their houses. It takes up the amount of time for Jason to walk through the door, seemingly already informed of the situation from Alfred.

Jason was… flabbergasted. Bewildered. Caught unprepared. He was a lot of words. Mostly he was scared.

Did he really have a child? A son? If that was true then he missed so much. He missed all of his firsts. First words, first steps, first laugh, first everything.

Would the boy even like him? What if he saw all his scars and was scared of him? What if he didn’t want anything to do with Jason after not being in his life this whole time?

But the boy might not be his. There’s that. That could be… Jason didn’t like the disappointment that thought brought.

Grace was the first one he noticed. Her ripped jeans and low cut top being out of place among the antique furniture and Persian rug. She scowls at him, putting her phone down.

“Finally decided to show up?”

He bites back a comment. He broke several traffic laws to get here, it wasn’t his fault he was fourty minutes away at the time he got the call.

He glances over at Bruce and instead his eyes zero in on the child standing by the armchair Bruce was sitting in.

Just one look and he knew the boy was his.

He looks to Bruce anyway for confirmation, since he has no doubt he sent off a sample to Tim hiding like the troll he is in the basement. The man nods. Jason sucks in a deep breath and suddenly needs to sit down.

He sinks heavily in the matching armchair next to Bruce’s, separated only by a round end table. Jason can’t stop staring at those big, blue eyes that are filled with such curiosity and innocence he almost breaks down right then. But he can’t. He has to be strong. He can’t just walk away to get a handle on his emotions. He’s a dad now.

“You’re a hard man to find,” Grace folds her arms over her chest.

“I’ve been busy,” he answers lamely.

She humphs and looks away with a shake of her head.

The boy, Danny Alfred said his name was, creeps around Bruce’s legs to get closer, obviously seeing something in Jason enough to investigate. The room is quiet as they wait to see how Danny will react.

Coming to a stop right before his knees, Danny stares up at the large man with lots of scars and muscles from what he can see. He wasn’t scared. There was just something familiar that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He looks… he looks like… and he also feels almost like…

Furrowing his brows in a pout, he knows his Mommy doesn’t like it when he does it, but he still makes his eyes burn with green.

The man gasps and his eyes also swirl into an angry green.

“Daddy?” Danny asks with hope and joy.

Daddy swallows and then nods.

“Yea, buddy, I’m your dad.”

“Daddy!” The boy cheers, jumping in place with a wide smile. “Daddy! Mommy, look! It’s Daddy!”

Danny wastes no time climbing into the man’s lap and wrapping his arms around him as far as they’ll go (not very far) to press his ear to Jason’s chest over his heart. He’s practically vibrating with excitement and Jason makes sure to set a large hand on his back to hold him close.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” Grace hisses, her eyes wide at the display earlier. Both of their eyes had returned to their calmer blue and teal color, but everyone in the room saw it. “I knew he got it from you.”

His eyes narrow in warning, pulling the boy closer to his chest. He sets a hand over Danny’s exposed ear to protect him from the harsh words he’s probably already heard before.

“Do you have any idea how creepy it is to deal with a tantrum when your kid has fucking glowing green eyes?”

“Did you hit him?” Jason growls, the vibrations seeming to settle Danny even more.

“Please, I’m not my mother,” she dismisses with a sneer.

Could have fooled him.

“Everything was fine until he started doing freaky shit. I don’t know how to raise a meta kid, alright?”

“What are you talking about?”

Now he was just confused. What stuff was Danny doing that Grace thought he was a meta?

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t have powers too,” she points viciously.

“I’m not pretending. I don’t have powers. I don’t have the meta gene. What can he do?” He demands while being transparently clear.

She just glares back at him, obviously not believing him. That didn’t exactly matter at the moment.

“What can he do?” He repeats with emphasis.

She puckers her lips like she’s tasted something sour and then lifts her chin.

“Why doesn’t he just show you, huh? Danny- Would you stop babying him? Danny, show him the things you can do.”

After Jason takes the hand off the boy’s head, Danny turns to his mother warily.

“But you don’t like it,” he reminds, like she forgot.

“He wants to see it, so show him,” she waves a hand at Jason like he just asked for something he would regret.

Danny leans back to look up at his dad.

“You won’t get mad? Or scared?”

He sounds so unsure and scared. As if Jason could ever hate him. Jason really wants to punch something. Preferably something with her face on it.

“I promise I won’t.”

Another parent might have something more profound to say to reassure their child, but Jason was just starting out and honestly, it was more than Bruce would ever say.

Danny thinks for a second before wiggling to get down. He looks back once more at his mother who gives him a ‘get on with it’ motion.

The boy fidgets a little before covering his face with two hands like he’s playing hide and seek, then- disappears. Jason jerks at watching his son blink out of sight like a Martian.

“Boo!” Danny pops back into view, exactly where he was standing before with his hands out like any child on Halloween.

Jason blinks and then starts laughing. This was karma. Danny could literally become invisible, something the Bats train to do for years.

“That was good, buddy,” Jason chuckles, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Danny hesitantly smiles back, a bit of hope and pride in those eyes.

“There’s more,” Grace interrupts, seemingly uneasy with how well Jason reacted.

“Yea?” Jason directs to Danny, his focus on his son.

Danny gives a shaky nod, glancing over worriedly at Bruce who is just silently watching. Jason could see the tension in his shoulders but also the intrigue.

The boy places a hand on the coffee table and focuses on his hand. It took a few minutes of concentration before Danny’s hand went through the table like he was just dunking his hand in a pool instead of through a solid object.

He pulls his hand out and they could see it be slightly translucent.

“That one’s harder to do when I want to,” Danny mumbles.

“You mean it mostly happens on accident?”

Danny nods.

“I drop a lot. And get stuck sometimes.”

Yea, Jason can see how that could be a problem. He can’t imagine how terrified Danny was the first time a body part got stuck in an immovable object. He really wishes he could have been there for him in his panic.

“The last thing is hard too. But I’ve been practicing. Watch!”

Danny jumps once, twice, and on the third time he lingers in the air, coming down slowly like someone in water or astronauts on the moon. Danny pushes off the ground a fourth time, this time floating steadily higher like gravity meant nothing to him.

Despite the kid obviously have done this before and enjoying it with his giggles, Jason stands under him in case he falls. And falls he does. Suddenly, like the strings being cut and gravity taking hold of him again, Danny plummets into Jason waiting arms. The boy grunts on impact and then smiled sheepishly up at his dad.

“Sorry, Daddy. I promise I’m doing better.”

“That’s okay, squirt. I’m glad I was here to catch you.”

Jason plops back into the chair with his child in his lap.

“Anything else up that sleeve of yours?” He teases but is equally as serious.

Danny shakes his head enough to make his hair fluff. Jason looks to Grace for confirmation and sees she is still recovering from Danny’s fall out of the air. How many times has she had to catch him? Or wasn’t able to catch him?

She clears her throat.

“I don’t know if it’s part of it, but he never gets sick. Never even had a cough.”

Children always get sick, that’s how they build immune systems. For Danny to have never gotten even a cold, Jason doesn’t know if it’s worrying or a good thing.

“Any allergies?” Is the first thing on his mind, thinking of what Alfred will need to know.

She shakes her head with a negative hum.

“In one of the bags is a folder with all of his documents. Birth certificate, immunizations, doctor visits. I also made a list of some favorite things and things he hates. It has foods on there too.”

That was… honestly more than he was expecting from her. But it also cements the fact that she intended to drop him off with him and then never see them again. She raised him for four years and she doesn’t even want visitation? Does she not understand there are legal documents she needs to sign to transfer custody properly?

“There are some things you need to sign, but it will take some time to get it sorted,” Bruce chimes in all business.

Long nails swipe through the air like signing her rights away was trivial.

“My phone number and address are on one of the documents. Just tell me when and where.”

She stands to leave and Jason can feel Danny tense up.

“Are we leaving?” He asks worriedly, climbing down from his seat on his dad’s lap. He didn’t want to go.

“You’re staying here. With your dad,” Grace says shortly, not once looking at the boy.

“Are you going home to get the rest of our stuff?”

“No. I’m going home. You’re staying here. End of story.”

Danny visibly thinks on that for a second then scampers after his mother as she leaves the room.

“Is it like Robbie where his mom lives in one ‘partment and his dad lives in a different one?”

Grace sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She’s clearly flustered and is showing it as irritation, but Jason can’t help but trail behind in case she says something that she shouldn’t.

“No, Danny, it’s not like Robbie. I- I am leaving you here and I’m not coming back, okay?”

Jason takes a step forward to draw her attention and send her a look that says ‘choose your words carefully, this is a conversation he will remember for a long time’.

“But- but why? Is it ‘cuz of my things? I’m sorry I scared you, Mommy. I didn’t mean to. I won’t do them again, promise.”

Jason grits his teeth at how desperate his son sounds, trying to keep his mother with him. Even making a promise he can’t keep.

Grace finally looks at her baby. Sees the turmoil and tears in his baby blue eyes. She gets down on her knees to get level and places her hands on his tiny shoulders.

“You will do them again and that’s not a bad thing. Your things are part of you. That’s okay. You’re not in any trouble. I just- I’m in over my head here, Danny. I can’t take care of you the way you should be taken care of, okay? But your dad can, I hope. So I’m leaving you here. With him.”

Danny’s lip wobbles and she has to restrain herself from not hugging him like she always does when he’s upset.

“Then- then you’ll visit, right? Like Chase’s grandma visits him?”

Why is this so hard?

“I don’t think so, baby. I don’t think you’re gonna see me again. I’m sorry.”

Danny is silent for a while. He wipes his eyes and sniffs.

“Are you goin’ ‘way like Jamal’s dad?”

The ten year old in the same building as them lost his dad in a wrong place wrong time type situation. Jamal had told Danny his dad went away forever so he couldn’t see him again. Grace had told him that when people go away forever, they get put among the stars he loves so much to be remembered.

Grace wears such a pained expression Jason half thought she was about to burst into tears.

“Kinda,” she nods. “So give me a big hug, okay?”

Danny was in her arms before she finished speaking. Jason didn’t exactly know why she wanted to stop all contact, but he had a theory that if Danny really was a meta (and with his powers he was leaning toward believing it) then Grace would want to distance herself as much as possible to protect them both. He met her in Crime Alley, he knew they didn’t live in a good spot. If any one of those crooks saw Danny use any of his powers, they could steal him easily from his single mother. She didn’t want to give those kind of people leverage to get Danny and sell him off. She wasn’t trying to be cruel, she was just trying to do what was best for her kid, even if that meant cutting her out of his life.

He had a strange new respect for her he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Grace takes a heavy breath and pulls away showing Danny’s tear stained cheeks. She wipes them like it would do anything.

“I gotta go now, Danny.”

“No,” he cries and Jason’s heart breaks a little more.

“We gotta say goodbye now. Please.”

Grace is just barely hanging on. Jason knows as soon as she walks out that door she’ll break down.

“I don’t want to. Don’t want you to leave,” Danny whines, trying to keep a strong grip on his mother.

She holds his hands in hers and gives him a serious look.

“You’re going to be fine. You’re gonna be just fine with your dad.” She leans in and whispers, “You’re not alone, Danny. You are never alone. Just look up. Look at the stars, baby, and you’ll be okay.”

Danny pouts, but thinks about those words.

“I like the stars,” he mumbles.

She smiles, probably the first one in a while.

“I know you do.”

She kisses his forehead one last time and stands. Danny whines. She steps away.

“Bye-bye, Danny. I- I love you.”

“Mommy,” he cries, tears and snot coming full force now.

Jason can’t take anymore and picks up his son to hold on his hip.

“It’s okay, buddy. I got you,” he assures. He turns to Grace who is having the internal battle of her life in the foyer. “I got him.”

It’s an assurance to her too, that he will take care of Danny, that he would be there for him. It was a promise.

Grace sees it for what it is and leaves out the front door without another word.

Danny screams and cries and struggles, but Jason holds on tight, scared he’ll fall or use his powers to get away and disappear. The man walks back to the drawing room so his son wasn’t staring at the door longingly.

As soon as Jason sits down, Danny struggles harder since they stopped moving. So Jason stands again, adjusting the boy in his arms and starts pacing a path around the room.

Bruce has already disappeared, not knowing what to do with a heartbroken child crying his eyes out. Alfred has cleared away the tray of snacks, leaving two waters on the table, one in a small, plastic cup. Jason spies Damian poke his head in for a second to see what the matter was, and upon seeing no immediate threat went off wherever. Other than that, father and son were alone to figure themselves out.

Danny was going through a lot for a toddler and Jason didn’t exactly know how to handle what happened either. He tried his best with speaking reassurances into the boy’s hair, but he didn’t know if Danny even heard him over his own crying.

It was a rough first meeting to be frank, but after a while (what felt like ages) Danny cried himself to sleep and Jason felt it safe to finally sprawl out on the loveseat with the boy laying on his chest. Compared to a grueling patrol, that was definitely worse. He never wanted to have to go through that again, but knew as a dad it was part of the job description.

[sugarwarachan]

random horny thoughts about bllk men - pt 1

(･ω･)つ andy's notes: still trapped in horny writer block jail!! every single one of them is a menace - mdni

characters: itoshi sae, michael kaiser, isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, barou shoei

cws: nsfw, smut, all characters 18+, f reader, s/d undertones to some of these but nothing specifically outlined, can sae be his own warning, masturbation, predator/prey kink, dirty talk, consensual filming, breeding kink, creampie, edging, oral m receiving, lingerie kink

when he catches you pleasuring yourself, sae enacts a very specific form of punishment. he pulls you to the edge of the bed, crouches down, and inspects your pussy up close, humming under his breath with stern disappointment that sends a bolt of arousal through your belly. “you couldn’t even wait an hour for me?” he abruptly pushes you away. “go on then if you’re so desperate. let’s see if you can actually get yourself off.”

kaiser likes to chase you down the streets of his hometown. his legs quickly close the distance; he can hear your strained panting, see the flash of fear in your eyes whenever you turn your head to see how close he is to you. he maneuvers you into a corner easily, using his body to cage you in further. your heartbeat races under his palm; he squeezes tight and laughs when you gasp. "told ya I'd find you, sweetheart."

isagi has a hidden album of videos you’ve made together that he revisits whenever he’s away. he’s gotten really good at filming, angling down to his cock sliding in and out while your embarrassed little squeaks sound off camera. “yoichi, it’s too loud,” he hears you say, followed by his own reply, “I know, baby, this slutty fuckin’ pussy of yours always gets so talkative when I film her. wonder why that is?”

shidou has the nastiest breeding kink known to man. he doesn’t think of it in terms of knocking you up—although when he has your legs folded behind your head, he thinks fucking a little brat into you might not be so bad—he just loves stuffng creampie after creampie into you. the milky ring that forms around his cock when he’s plugged inside your cunt makes this man go fucking feral.

he won’t admit to it, but rin loves it when you edge him. it’s the fourth time you’ve brought him close to orgasm with your tongue and fingers alone and he’s panting and whining on the bed. his hands tangle in your hair, mouth open in a mixture of pleasure and pain. he can’t stop his hips from snapping forward, searching out release along the warm column of your throat. every whimper and moan sounds like it's being dragged from his lips until finally, finally, you hear him say, "please let me cum."

barou loves to see you in lingerie, but has a terrible habit of shredding every piece you own the second he sees it on your body. he's a big guy and he's usually considerate with his size and strength around you (until he isn't swoon), but with those tiny little scraps of lace barely covering your nipples, what else do you expect from him? always makes up for it by taking you shopping for new sets, but inevitably ruins each piece.

2025 © all works belong to @sugarwarachan. do not repost, translate, or steal any of my works. reblogs and comments always appreciated my lil bbs <3

[suppermariobroth]

Super Mario Galaxy utilizes three levels of detail for models of NPCs that are loaded depending on their distance from the camera (but not for Mario himself or for enemies, which are always high-quality, in contrast to e.g. Super Mario 64 where Mario himself was replaced with a low-quality model when far away).

Since both Mario and Luigi are playable characters, but only Luigi appears as an NPC, only Luigi has a low-quality model. While it can be seen in the distance especially in the high-definition Super Mario 3D All-Stars version of the game, it cannot be seen up-close in-game.

Here is a view of low-quality Luigi from multiple angles.

Main Blog | Patreon | Twitter | Bluesky | Small Findings | Source

[rosegolden13]

Pictures TF-141 have of you on their phones!!

cw: stalking (but not malicious I promise)

Gaz is definitely a professional photographer. He’s just artsy like that. He’ll take the most perfect photos of you and you don’t even have to train him. He just knows how to do it. Honestly, it kind of makes you jealous how talented he is and he’s so nonchalant about it, too. Maybe it was an ex-girlfriend that taught him all this? (It wasn’t, he just has sisters, he’s a sisters kind of guy for sure). The lighting is always perfect and he’ll even help you pose, guide you into position with his hands. Is it mostly an excuse to touch you? Yes. Do the pictures always come out good? Also yes. His favorites are the more domestic ones: you wearing his shirt in the kitchen with the morning sunlight filtering through the window, you cuddled up on the couch with two blankets and a hoodie with a goofy smile on your face. These are the ones that are printed out, folded into his pocket and accidentally put through the wash, or tucked into his wallet.

Simon only has pictures of you that are as unnerving as they are sweet because you have never seen him take *any* of these but he has almost a thousand all in its own album dedicated to you. Yes, some of them are your regular selfies or posed pictures of you next to a pretty fountain or across the table on a date. His favorites are of you and him together- he likes the reminder that you’re really his. But the large bulk of the pictures are taken from strange distances… You at the bar laughing with your friends at girls night when you’re absolutely positive Simon was supposed to be at home waiting for you… and then there’s the one where you’re on your morning jog… The only explanation he gives you is a casual shrug and a gruff "It's for your protection, love." Just be glad you didn’t scroll to the very top of the album because there’s some from before you two were dating. Ahem… enough of that creep…anyways…

Price has the most terrible pictures of you. I’m talking god awful. Like most of them are of you in your pajamas, unshowered, messy hair, no makeup, and to make matters worse, it’s taken at the worst angle known to man. Of course, a few of them are decent because they’re ones you have sent him but if he’s taking the picture? He’s bound to zoom in way too much and get the strangest angle THEN he’ll even coo at the picture, proud of himself. In half of them, you’re trying to smack the camera away- he always chuckles at those ones when you look through them together. When you try to insist that he delete these, he genuinely frowns, entirely confused like they’re not the most heinous pictures. “What do ya mean, love? Look at that, that’s my girl. I’m keepin’ ‘em all.” Lovesick man tsk, tsk. Don’t ever tell him that he can change his lockscreen from the default or it’ll absolutely be the most embarrassing picture of you imaginable.

Soap is also artsy and can take good pictures of you but half the time, he chooses not to. He likes to capture the chaos and there is some beauty to that, too. So, yes, he’s got some cinematic pictures of you on hikes overlooking a view or on the beach where you're lounging in the sun. But mostly his camera roll is filled with blurry selfies from when you two were drunk at the bar or videos from when you two got scolded at the grocery store for pushing each other down aisles in grocery carts. His personal favorite and lockscreen is a picture of you with your face all scrunched as he squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. There's also a scattering of sketches he's drawn of you on classified documents and then secretly snapped a picture of. He'd be in deep shit if Price found out about those... "Keep 'em a secret, lass, will ya?"

Okay just one more of these cuz they're so fun hehe. Yes, ik Price is probs great at tech from being in the military but I like to imagine he's sucky at an iphone- it's so endearing.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Christmas Morning | LN4

🎄 summary ━━━━━━━ Morning sex with Lando on Christmas morning

🎄 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎄 word count ━━━━━━━ 3.9k

🎄 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

The first thing Y/N noticed was the warmth. It seeped through her skin, wrapping around her like a cocoon, and for a moment, she forgot where she was. The faint aroma of pine needles and cinnamon lingered in the air, intertwined with a scent unmistakably his—a blend of cedarwood cologne and the subtle musk she now instinctively linked to Lando. Her eyelids fluttered open, and there he was, still asleep beside her, his dark curls tousled against the white pillowcase.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered softly, though she knew he couldn’t hear her yet. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, one arm draped lazily across her waist, pulling her closer even in sleep. She smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips, marveling at how peaceful he looked. There were no cameras here, no fans or flashing lights—just them, wrapped up in each other.

Lando stirred, his nose scrunching adorably before his eyes blinked open. For a moment, he seemed disoriented, but then his gaze found hers, and a slow, sleepy smile spread across his face. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep but impossibly warm. He shifted slightly, his hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. “Did Santa come?”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound muffled as she buried her face in his chest. “I think so,” she teased, pressing a light kiss to his collarbone. “But I don’t need presents. Not when I have you.”

He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through her as he tightened his hold on her. “Cheesy,” he accused, but there was no bite to his words. Instead, his fingers began to trace idle patterns along her spine, sending shivers down her body. “But I like it.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside their little bubble fading into insignificance. The sun crept higher, casting golden streaks across the room, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear the faint jingle of bells—probably someone walking their dog in the snow. But neither of them paid it any mind. Right now, there was only this: the softness of his touch, the way his breath tickled her ear, the lazy, contented smiles they exchanged without needing to say a word.

Eventually, Lando’s hand stilled against her back, and he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker now, more intense, and Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Especially like this, all sleepy and soft.”

She blushed, her cheeks heating under his scrutiny, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached up to brush a curl from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his temple. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He grinned, that mischievous spark she loved so much lighting up his eyes. “Not so bad, huh? Damn, I must be losing my touch.” Before she could respond, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that started off sweet but quickly deepened. His tongue brushed against hers, coaxing a soft moan from her as she melted into him.

Their bodies pressed together, every curve and angle perfectly aligned, and Y/N could feel the heat building between them. His hands roamed her body, leaving trails of fire in their wake, and she arched into his touch, craving more. “Lando,” she breathed against his lips, her voice trembling with need.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down her spine. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, brushing against the sensitive skin of her stomach, and she gasped.

“You,” she answered without hesitation, her hands gripping his shoulders as if to anchor herself. “Just you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one swift motion, he rolled them over so that she was beneath him, his weight pressing her into the mattress in the most delicious way. His lips found hers again, hungry and demanding, and Y/N surrendered completely, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer.

His hands slid up her sides, pushing her shirt up until it pooled around her shoulders, and then he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. His eyes darkened as they roamed over her, taking in every inch of exposed skin, and Y/N shivered under his gaze. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. He bent his head, his lips trailing hot kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and lower still, until he reached the lace edge of her bra.

Y/N gasped as he unhooked it with practiced ease, his mouth immediately seeking out her breast. His tongue flicked over her nipple, teasing it into a hardened peak, and she cried out, her hips arching off the bed. “Lando,” she moaned, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

He hummed in response, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure rippling through her, before switching his attention to her other breast. His hands weren’t idle either; one slid down her side, skimming over her hipbone, while the other cupped her breast, kneading it gently as he lavished it with attention.

By the time he finally lifted his head, Y/N was trembling, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. “Please,” she begged, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.

“Please what, love?” he asked, his lips curving into a wicked smile as he watched her squirm beneath him.

“Touch me,” she pleaded, her hand reaching for his, guiding it downward until it rested between her legs. Even through the thin fabric of her panties, she could feel his warmth, and she whimpered, desperate for more.

Lando groaned, his forehead dropping to rest against hers as he cupped her through the lace, his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles that had her gasping. “You’re so wet already,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “God, I love how much you want me.”

She didn’t have the breath to respond, her entire body thrumming with anticipation as he tugged her panties down her legs and tossed them aside. And then his hand was on her again, his fingers sliding through her slick folds before slipping inside her, curling in just the right way to make her cry out.

“Lando! Oh, God,” she moaned, her hips bucking against his hand as he added another finger, stretching her, filling her. His thumb found her clit, circling it in time with the thrust of his fingers, and Y/N felt the coil in her belly tighten, threatening to snap.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, his voice rough with desire. “Let go.”

And she did. With a strangled cry, her body convulsed around his fingers, waves of pleasure crashing over her until she thought she might drown in them. Her vision blurred, her limbs turned to jelly, and it took everything she had just to keep breathing.

When she finally came back to herself, Lando was watching her with a satisfied smirk, his fingers slowly withdrawing from her body. “You’re incredible,” he said, his voice filled with awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, her heart swelling with love and a hint of mischief as she met Lando’s gaze. Before he could react, she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders, shoving him back. He landed on the bed with a startled laugh, his hair falling messily across his forehead as he looked up at her with wide, amused eyes.

“Your turn,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with a daring edge. Her fingers found the waistband of his boxers, curling around the fabric with deliberate intent.

Lando’s breath hitched, the playful glint in his eyes quickly replaced by something deeper, more intense. His hips lifted instinctively, a silent invitation, as her touch sent a spark coursing through him. The air between them was charged, her steady gaze trailing over him like a flame, leaving him utterly captivated.

She didn’t hesitate, her lips parting slightly as she took him into her hand, feeling the weight and heat of him. Lando groaned softly, his head falling back against the pillow as she began to stroke him slowly, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip. His hands fisted in the sheets, the muscles in his arms tensing as he tried to keep himself still.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she murmured, her voice low and husky, filled with a mixture of admiration and desire. She leaned down, her breath ghosting over him before she pressed a soft kiss to the base of his length. His whole body shuddered, a choked sound escaping his throat.

Y/N wasn’t teasing now. She wanted to give him everything—every ounce of pleasure she could. Her tongue flicked out, licking a slow path up the underside of his shaft, savoring the way he twitched beneath her touch. When she reached the top, she circled the tip with her tongue, tasting the salty precum that had gathered there. Lando’s hips bucked involuntarily, and a deep growl rumbled in his chest.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, his voice raw and desperate. “Just like that.”

Encouraged by his reaction, she took him into her mouth, sinking down inch by inch until she felt him nudging the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper, her hand moving in tandem with her mouth. His moans grew louder, filling the room, and she could feel the tension building in his body, his thighs trembling beneath her.

Her free hand trailed up his stomach, feeling the tight muscles contract under her fingertips. She loved how responsive he was, how every touch, every lick, every suck brought him closer to the edge. And she intended to push him right to that brink before pulling him back, wanting to draw out his pleasure as long as possible.

Lando’s hand tangled in her hair, not forcing or guiding, just holding on for dear life as she worked him over. He was close—so close—and she could feel it in the way his breathing became erratic, the way his grip tightened ever so slightly. His hips jerked again, and he let out a strangled cry, his entire body tightening like a coiled spring.

But just as he was about to tip over the edge, Y/N pulled back, releasing him with a wet pop. Lando’s eyes flew open, wild and disoriented, and he stared at her in disbelief. “Y/N… what are you—?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she straddled him, positioning herself above him. His hands instinctively gripped her hips, steadying her as she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her in one smooth motion. They both groaned in unison, the sensation overwhelming.

“Christ…” Lando hissed through clenched teeth, his head falling back against the pillow again. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away, too consumed by the feeling of him filling her completely. She moved slowly at first, rolling her hips in a lazy rhythm, savoring the friction and the way his hands dug into her skin. His eyes never left hers, their connection deepening with every thrust.

As she picked up the pace, her movements became more urgent, more desperate. She braced herself on his chest, her nails lightly scraping his skin as she rode him harder. Lando’s groans turned into low, guttural sounds, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. The dual sensations made her whimper, her own pleasure building rapidly.

“You feel so good,” she breathed, her voice trembling with need. “I love being with you like this.”

Lando’s response was a rough, almost primal growl as he sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling as he thrust into her from below, meeting her every movement with equal intensity. The shift in angle sent sparks shooting through her, and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “I love you. So much.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his words and the way he was looking at her. “I love you too,” she managed to choke out, her voice thick with emotion.

Their kisses were frantic now, messy and uncoordinated, but filled with passion. Every touch, every thrust, every word was an affirmation of their love for each other. Y/N could feel herself teetering on the edge, her body begging for release, but she held on, wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible.

Lando, however, seemed to have other plans. One hand slid down between them, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing tight circles around it. The added stimulation was too much, and she cried out, her body convulsing around him as she came hard.

Watching her fall apart pushed him over the edge, and with a low, guttural groan, he spilled himself inside her, his hips stuttering as he followed her into oblivion. They clung to each other, their bodies trembling as wave after wave of pleasure washed over them.

When they finally came down, they collapsed back onto the bed, tangled together in a sweaty, sated heap. Lando pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his arms tightening around her. “That was… incredible,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with contentment.

Y/N nuzzled into his chest, her heart swelling with love. “It always is with you,” she replied softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.

For a while, they just lay there, basking in the afterglow and the warmth of each other’s embrace. But soon, Y/N felt a familiar ache building again, a quiet yearning that refused to be ignored. She shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone before whispering, “Do you think we can go again?”

Lando chuckled, his fingers threading through her hair. “You’re insatiable,” he teased, but there was no mistaking the desire in his voice.

Lando’s chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Y/N’s cheek as she nestled closer. His fingers still tangled in her hair, he tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “Maybe we should open presents first,” he suggested, his voice low and teasing. “I think I got you something special.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh? And what makes you so sure I can wait that long?” she countered, her hand trailing down his chest, skimming over the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin.

He caught her wrist gently, bringing her fingers to his lips for a soft kiss. “Because I know how much you love surprises,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And trust me, this one’s worth it.”

She sighed dramatically, though her heart fluttered at the look in his eyes. “Fine,” she relented, sitting up and stretching lazily. “But if this present isn’t as good as you’re making it out to be, I expect compensation.”

Lando’s laughter filled the room, a warm, infectious sound that made Y/N smile. Before she could process what was happening, he leaned down and swept her into his arms effortlessly. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as he grinned down at her, his boyish charm on full display.

“Lando!” she protested through a laugh, though she didn’t resist.

“Patience, love,” he teased, carrying her out of the bedroom and into the living room, where the soft glow of the Christmas tree bathed everything in a golden light. He gently lowered her onto the sofa, his touch lingering as he made sure she was comfortable.

“Wait here,” he murmured, winking before turning to kneel by the tree. His shoulders flexed as he reached beneath the branches, rummaging through the pile of gifts with practiced ease. Y/N couldn’t help but admire the way his muscles moved, her heart fluttering at the effortless strength he exuded.

After a moment, he straightened up, a neatly wrapped box in his hands. Turning back to her with a triumphant grin, he walked over and held out the package, his eyes alight with affection.

“For you, my love,” he said softly, his voice warm and brimming with excitement, as though he couldn’t wait to see her reaction.

She took the box, her fingers brushing against his as she did. The wrapping paper was delicate, adorned with tiny snowflakes, and she felt a pang of guilt for wanting to tear into it immediately. But Lando’s expectant gaze urged her on, and she carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a velvet jewelry box underneath.

Her breath hitched as she opened it, revealing a stunning silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a snowflake. It sparkled even in the soft morning light, and Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Lando… it’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he replied softly, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Here, let me put it on you.”

She turned around, presenting her back to him, and felt the cool metal press against her skin as he fastened the clasp. His fingers lingered on her neck, tracing slow, deliberate patterns that sent shivers down her spine. When he finally leaned in to press a kiss to the space between her shoulder blades, Y/N couldn’t suppress a soft gasp.

Y/N pushed herself up from the sofa, her movements deliberate as she made her way to the Christmas tree. She crouched down, carefully retrieving a small, rectangular box tucked away beneath the glowing branches. Her fingers lingered on the neatly wrapped present for a moment before she straightened up and returned to the sofa.

Settling back into her spot, she turned to Lando, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Your turn,” she murmured, holding the gift out to him with a soft smile. Her heart raced as his curious gaze flicked between her and the box, his hands brushing against hers as he took it.

Lando’s brow furrowed slightly with intrigue, and he began to unwrap the gift, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring the moment. Y/N’s pulse quickened as she watched him, her anticipation growing with every tear of the paper.

Inside was a custom-made photo book, filled with pictures of their time together—moments captured in candid laughter, stolen kisses, and quiet mornings just like this one. Lando flipped through the pages, his expression softening more with each photograph. “Y/N… this is incredible,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over a picture of the two of them at sunset, silhouetted against the sky.

“I wanted you to have something to remind you of us,” she explained, her voice trembling slightly. “Of everything we’ve been through, and everything we’ll still do together.”

Lando set the book aside, his eyes locking onto hers. “You don’t need to give me anything to remember us,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re all I think about, every day. You’re my everything.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she leaned in to kiss him, pouring all the love she felt into the gesture. His hands came up to cradle her face, deepening the kiss until they were both breathless. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

“I love you,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” Lando replied, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from her cheek. “More than anything.”

The atmosphere around them shifted, a charged intimacy settling between them that made Y/N’s breath hitch. Lando’s gaze locked onto hers, his eyes dark and filled with intent. Slowly, his hands slid down her arms, leaving a trail of warmth that sent shivers coursing through her. His touch lingered at her wrists for a moment before he grasped her waist, firm yet gentle.

Without breaking eye contact, he guided her onto his lap, her legs straddling him as their bodies pressed flush against each other. The closeness was overwhelming, every point of contact sparking with heat. Y/N could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms, mirroring the rapid thud of her own.

“Do you want…” he began, his voice low and husky, but Y/N cut him off with another kiss, her hands tangling in his hair as she pressed herself against him. There was no need for words; the way she arched into him, the way her breath hitched when his fingers traced the curve of her waist, said everything.

Lando laid her back against the pillows, his lips never leaving hers as he covered her body with his own. His touch was tender but insistent, exploring every inch of her as though he was memorizing her all over again. When his mouth found her neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, Y/N couldn’t hold back a moan.

“Lando…” she breathed, her hands clutching at his shoulders. “Please…”

He didn’t need further encouragement. His hand slipped between her thighs, parting her folds with practiced ease, and she gasped as his fingers found her already slick and aching. He teased her slowly, circling her clit with just enough pressure to make her squirm, but not enough to push her over the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured against her ear, his voice sending shivers down her spine. “Is this what you wanted earlier?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her hips bucking against his hand. “Lando, please…”

He chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing her earlobe. “So impatient,” he teased, but finally gave her what she craved, sliding two fingers inside her and curling them just right. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

“That’s it, love,” he encouraged, his pace steady and unrelenting. “Let go for me.”

She obeyed, her climax hitting her hard and fast, her body trembling as she clung to him. Lando held her through it, whispering sweet nothings in her ear until she finally came down, her breathing ragged and her limbs heavy.

Before she could catch her breath, Lando shifted, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, maintaining eye contact as he slid them down and kicked them aside. The tension between them crackled like static electricity, every movement charged with anticipation. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, his hands gripping her hips as he entered her in one smooth thrust. They both groaned, the sensation overwhelming after the intensity of her orgasm.

He started slow, savoring every second, every movement. Each thrust was deliberate, drawing out every ounce of pleasure until Y/N was writhing beneath him once more. “You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice strained with effort. “I’ll never get tired of this.”

“Neither will I,” she gasped, her nails digging into his back as she lifted her hips to meet his. Their rhythm grew faster, more urgent, until neither could hold back any longer. Lando’s name fell from Y/N’s lips like a prayer as she came undone again, her body tightening around him. He followed close behind, burying his face in her neck as he spilled himself inside her.

[mead-iocre]

Chase Me | Leah Williamson x Reader

synopsis: you ask you very atheletic, footballer girlfriend to chase you-- for a tiktok video

wc: 1k words

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The sky is still tinged with a hint of pink, and the road is mostly empty, save for a few scattered sounds—a bird, the distant hum of a car.

You stretch, lunging from side to side. You stand at the edge of the sidewalk, one foot up on the pavement, leaning into the stretch until you feel that familiar pull along the back of your leg.

Then you switch sides, easing into the stretch onto the other leg, just as your girlfriend comes up from beside you.

"baby, this is silly"

You turn to her, a small smile already plastered on your face upon seeing the unamused expression on hers. Despite her words, there was no hint of malice in her voice.

She's stood just outside the camera's view, boots scuffed from the last practice session, hands on her hips like she owned the whole bloody pitch.

“I’ll catch you easily,” Your girlfriend said, her voice almost lazy in tone. It wasn’t just a bit of banter—it was a warning, delivered with the calm of someone who knew exactly how the game would go.

You breeze past her. "that's what makes it fun, lee"

She clicks her tongue. "I can't believe I let you convince me to do another one of your tiktok videos"

Reaching up to tighten your ponytail, you eye her as she begins to do her own stretches. Despite your girlfriend's initial reluctance, you knew it would only be a matter of time until she agreed. Leah was competitive, and she would never turn down a challenge.

She's dressed in her nike training top, and her training shorts. Her legs were still tan from cannes, and she was wearing her favourite pair of trainers-- the same trainers she wore during training for her professional football job.

Glancing at the nike trainers on her feet, you were starting to have second thoughts. The whole point of the trend was to challenge your partner to a foot chase-- for no particular reason really. Most of the people who participated had partners who were police officers, in the military, firefighters etc.

Having an athlete girlfriend who ran and chased balls for a living-- yeah this video was going to be 5 seconds long, 6 seconds if you're lucky.

But you weren't about to admit that to her.

You take a deep breath, finishing your last couple of stretches, before standing up to your full height. Jogging over to your phone that was perched on a tripod, you press the red record button before you move over to the side.

"okay so im gonna run--"

"and i have to count to 10 before I chase after you-- i got it, baby"

Glancing at her, Leah had that familiar look on her face. She was clearly in no rush-- like she could already see how it would play out, the timing, the run, the moment she'd close the distance. It was all there, lined up in her head like a match she’d already won.

All that was left was the wait.

Making sure the record button on your phone was on, you flash her a quick smile, before you launched forward.

No build-up—just that sharp push off the ground, your legs pump fast, harder than ever before. The air claws at your face, whipping past your ears. You don't even dare to look behind you because you know it will only slow you down.

Your feet slap at the pavement, you can already feel your lungs get tighter but you don't stop. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, barely keeping up.

You hear the sound of another set of feet pounding faintly behind you.

Leah was already running.

She wasn't chasing you for this silly little tiktok challenge-- she's chasing you like she's going to win whatever this was. She’d probably already read your run, knew the angles, and she probably had that smug glint in her eye like she’d already headed the ball past the keeper.

You steal a glance over your shoulder and there she is—focused, fast, her blonde ponytail snapping behind her. She’s not laughing. Her eyes are locked on you, sharp and blue, and you know that look. You’ve seen it on the pitch. During matches. At the gym.

It’s game over.

“Oh, bloody-- fuck-- come on,” you gasp out, trying to hold your lead, but she’s already closing the distance like she’s barely trying.

“Shouldn’t have started this,” she calls out, voice steady despite the speed. She’s barely winded. Of course she’s not.

You push harder, legs screaming now, but she’s too fast. She doesn’t really thud against the pavement like you do. She glides. Like on water. And within seconds, she’s right there, then—

“gotcha!”

She ends your fun as she barrels into you from behind, her laugh loud and husky as she throws her arms around your shoulders. You try to gasp out a protest, but she’s already trapping you in her arms, locking you against her body with no room to escape.

She's grinning now, cheeks flushed rosy, breath coming in sharp but still controlled breathes.

You double over, laughing between gasps. “Fuck-- I really thought I had that”

"You did good, baby" Leah nuzzles into the side of your neck, breath coming in soft pants against your skin. "But you can't outrun a footballer"

You shake your head, still catching your breath. But you let yourself sink into her and she gladly steadies you, welcoming your weight in her arms.

Leaning back, you throw your head back to rest it against her shoulder, smiling when you feel her kiss the side of your head.

“I thought maybe you would slow you down for me” You admit, taking her hand that was wrapped around your waist to bring it to your lips, giving the back of her hand a kiss. "s'not fair"

She leans in close, voice low and cocky. “fuck no”

Leah grabs your chin, turning it towards her. "Now give me a kiss for having to endure your stupid tiktok trends"

Your heart was still pounding erratically and you were still trying to catch your breath, but all you could focus on was her.

You smile, leaning in closer. "what if i don't want to?"

There came that familiar smirk. The same one she flashed just before the chase began; like she knew exactly how this was going to play out. Like the ending was already etched in her mind.

"i know ya do."

the moment ends exactly like how Leah predicted.

With your lips on hers.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

another leah fic WHO ELSE CHEERED (i reallyyyy hope yall did otherwise i will be sad)

I also really hope you guys enjoyed this fic because this one is probably one of my favourite short blurbs that I’ve ever written lol

any plans this summer? for me, i'll be here writing fics lol

hope you're all taking care of yourselves x

-- butter

[bwskj]

NSFW MDNI | jjk x reader

- jjk characters reacting to u asking them on call for a moaning audio -

chars: gojo, nanami, megumi, sukuna, yuuji, inumaki

notes: (text) are you; bulleted + written

tags: honestly just a lot of nsfw stuff, pls x away if ur a minor or uncomfy

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

gojo

— “baby what?”, he laughs amused, “did you just say you want me to send a moaning audio?”

— you can practically hear the smirk in his voice, “ah baby, well i could do that… just not for free. give me something to look at and i’ll make it, how about that?”

output: bro sends a hand held video of him jacking off while sitting on the living room couch. a part of his laptop sitting on the coffee table with your photo/video on it is shown in the upper half of the video, behind the main character that is his thick hard cock. satoru likes talking as if you’re there kneeling in front of him, pretending he’s got your face to tap his dick on before he fully wraps his hand around the girth and starts pumping. he often groans low with the occasional sharp inhales through gritted teeth. eventually, he gets to the point wherein he’s leaking so much pre-cum it’s enough to help him make big smooth strokes over his length. his camera angle ends up wonky sometimes because he’s too zoned in jerking off to you. “fuckkk baby, god you’re so—hot” and “shit… that’s mine, that fucking pussy belongs to me.” he sure loves his dirty talk, “bet you wanna ride this huh, baby? want your tight pussy walls sucking up my cock.” when he finally cums, you can tell he’s trying his best to not hold in his moans (cause ofc that’s what you’re looking for). his thighs tense, spreading apart as his cum shoots up high, loud groans with every shot that spatters all over his bare stomach. he aims the camera down at his messy torso, laying his dick on it as he swipes it across the mess around and on his happy trail. “i wanna see you lick this clean off, baby.”

nanami

—“excuse me? a what?” (you repeat yourself)

—hunched over his desk at work, he says, “honey i… don’t do that,” he sounds concerned that you would ask for such thing, “do you need it for… something?” you can imagine the stitch in his brow when he asks this.

— (you reply with a vague and teasing “maybe”) kento lightly huffs, seeming slightly bothered (?)“well, i’m busy right now… just… wait until i get home.”

output: no audio but what did you expect he was at work! not like he would do it though if he wasn’t. instead, on the way home, he’s got one thing on his mind. the thought keeps bubbling up in excitement, making him tap his foot in impatience as he rides the elevator up to your shared apartment. when you hear the jangle of his keys in the doorknob, you spring up from where you’ve been rotting. a smile immediately appears on your face when you see your boyfriend looking even more dashing with the appearance of a man who’s worked hard all day at work. “you’re home, i—“ you’re about to tell him you’ve missed him but he cuts you off when he closes the distance, leaning in and catching your lips with his. he drops his work bag on the floor as the big palm of his hand slides onto your back. he pulls you close, not giving you the chance to speak anymore as his deep hungry kiss keeps your mouth busy. you manage to make at least the sound of, “mphh.. Kento!” when his lips pull back a bit. you can tell he’s trying to hold himself back, his jaw and shoulders feeling rigid when your hands feel over them. “couldn’t wait to get home,” he mumbles when his mouth detaches for a second — basically, yea, he fucks you pretty much the whole night or until you can’t take any more. everything he does is meant to please you; he thrives on giving you, his pretty princess, what you want, feeling fulfilled when he knows he can keep you more than satisfied.

sukuna

— “the fuck? a moaning audio? why would i do that?

— he stretches his jaw, the eyes on his cheeks fluttering a little eye roll. he speaks into the mic at a low volume, “baby if you miss being dicked down just say so…”

— “uhuh yea, keep pretending you don’t want it til you’ve got this cock in your mouth, right? stay put. i’m coming over”

output: no moaning audio. he gets to your place in 10 minutes (how the fuck he got there that quick you’ll never know). when you greet him at the door, mouth ajar in surprise, you can’t stop yourself from cheekily saying, “well, isn’t somebody excited?”

“i wanna know what the bitch who’s asking for an audio sounds like when she gets what she actually wants,” he cockily spits out as he looms over you by the still open door frame.

your eyes widen at his response but you can only stutter before his hand is suddenly holding you by your throat. he welcomes himself in, shutting the door behind him while you almost stumble back into your hallway. your hands instinctively reach to grab at the back of his hand around your neck. not even a second later and his other hand grabs one of yours, tugging it and placing it over the tent in his pants. his fingers sandwiched around your neck begins to squeeze and you accidentally sound out a moan. you can feel his sharp nails pricking your nape. his hand holding yours guides you into palming him. a dark smirk is on his face. “i’m fucking hard. do something about it.”

long story short: he rails you (on your bed, in front of the mirror, doggy style or just backshots in general— he loves pinning your wrists behind you and watching your tits bounce everytime he pounds into you. when you’re on top, he doesn’t even give you the chance to ride him on your own). “how you liking this, huh? sweet little slut. you like this fat cock fucking your stomach? isn’t this better than some shit tease through the phone?”

megumi

— his cheeks warm when he hears the words through the phone, “what’s that?” He asks though he knows full well what you mean (i think megumi would be a secret tumblr user).

— you carefully explain it to him. there’s hesitation in his voice when he says, “oh, i see…”

— alarmed by the way his voice trailed off, you reassure him that he doesn’t have to do it if he doesn’t want to.

— he replies with a slightly stammered okay and the call eventually awkwardly ends with exchanged ‘i love you’s and ‘talk to you later’s

— you feel slightly embarrassed for voicing your request but it’s not long before you forget about it. it was worth a shot.

— that night, while you’re snuggled up in your cozy blanket, you receive a single voice note from megumi with no message attached

— megumi blushes as he stares at the file he just sent, wondering if he did it okay. you don’t know that he jack offed and recorded not even five minutes after your call ended.

output: when you press play you’re immediately met with the semi-distant sounds of megumi’s shaky gasps and breathy low moans. it looks like he sent you a recording of the most interesting part of his session wherein wet stroking sounds are being picked up by his phone. there’s oftentimes soft whimpers that slip through, the noise of his bed covers shifting on his skin almost overpowering it when he gets more and more into fucking his hand (or whatever he’s slotting his dick through). you have to replay it a couple times to make sure you heard right—pride blooming within you when you’re certain he’s whimpering and mumbling out your name. his moans rise in pitch and grow more rugged the closer he gets to his climax. “a-ah… mm—hah.. gonna c-cum,” you can hear the strokes getting faster and the sheets being gripped tight. when he cums, he gets even louder, noisy staggering moans falling out his mouth. you just know his throbbing dick is thrusting up while chasing his high. when it dies down, you can hear soft panting and then the sound of his phone being picked up. there’s a silent pause before his voice comes through low and crisp, “i… hope you liked that.”

yuuji

— “a what audio??”, he laughs, “you’re kidding!” His laugh fades when he realises you aren’t.

— “wait seriously, you’re into that? like those audios on reddit or something?”

— (“… you know those?” you ask curiously.)

— yuuji gets flustered, he stutters, “i-i don’t—I accidentally came across them once. kinda freaked me out, ngl…”

— (“freaked you out?”)

— “yea, i dunno, never imagined guys to be doing that for a living. and i didn’t know there were girls who especially liked that.”

— (“really… well a lot of girls actually like that. but yea, i guess you wouldn’t really know, cuz you know,” you lightly tease.)

— yuuji rubs a hand over his blushing cheek, “you don’t have to keep reminding me that you’re my first…”

— (he always reacts like this and so you remind him again [you love reminding him], “sorry my yuuji, but you know, i love being your first, especially knowing that my competition is literally THE jennifer lawrence.”)

— you can hear the smile yuuji is trying to keep down, “and your 100x better than her,” (honestly, you just tease him to hear him say this again)

— (“so what about that audio?”)

— “hm?” yuuji didn’t even realize it until now that he’s got a hand over the boner jutting through his boxers

— you quickly reassure him that he can say no if he doesn’t want to. there’s a silence that hangs for a moment in the call, and when you’re about to say something again to dismiss the topic, he starts, “could you… maybe, talk me through it?”

output: you piece together that yuuji’s turned on. “are you… hard rn?” your voice comes gentle through the phone and yuuji grabs his dick stronger through the cloth, pushing his palm against it. he shudders, “m-maybe.” your voice sounds so good.

“are you…” you trail off, but yuuji knows what you mean. he quickly replies, “is this okay? you can tell me if it’s not, i-i’ll stop.” yuuji doesn’t want to stop but he’s stiffened his hand on his dick to try to stop himself from touching further without your consent.

there’s another short pause before you say, “mm, it’s okay, yuuji… you need help?”

“mhm,” he hums, instantly resuming his hand movement. there’s slight guilt when he clears his throat and says, “s-sorry our call kind of—went in another direction, it’s okay if you don’t want to. I can—“

your laugh cuts him off, “sweetie it’s okay. i’d like to help. we’ll hit two birds with one stone since i wanted an audio anyway.”

yuuji blushes even harder. “I… I’ll try to not… hold it in.”

you grin, biting at your lip as you lay in your bed with your phone planted on your ear. “Good… you’ll give me what i want hm?”

Yuuji’s breaths are beginning to tremble as he continues to rub himself to the sound of your voice. “y-yea, for you… i’ll do what you want.”

it gets more serious when yuuji finally takes his dick out his boxers and starts pumping it up and down; it’s almost fully hard. he loves it when you ask him what he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. his moans start off quiet but when you tell him you wanna hear him, his voice breaks and he lets a louder sound come out his throat. “can you imagine your hand as my hand, or my mouth?” you ask him. at this point your thighs are squeezed together and you can feel the wetness pool in your panties. this makes yuuji moan even louder.

after a couple minutes of this teasing dirty talk, yuuji can’t take it anymore and the needy words, “fuh… i… i want to see you. c-can i?” slip out of his mouth.

it turns into a video call after the both of you move to transfer to your laptops. you can see yuuji’s tip peeking from the bottom edge of the screen. his shirt is on and it’s lightly sticking to his skin, likely because he’s starting to sweat. when you turn on your camera, your pretty face comes into view and you’re in the usual clothes you wear at home: loose shirt, no bra, panties. you can instantly tell yuuji’s back to jerking himself, though you can’t see his whole hand or his face at all.

“let me see you, sweetie,” you say, hand digging between your sticking thighs and going over your clothed crotch.

his movement slows, “shit, you wanna see me?” he sounds embarrassed. you nod. yuuji is obviously reluctant, but he listens, repositioning his laptop further so it captures his face and dick in hand. you feel yourself throb at the sight.

it isn’t long before you’re touching your bare pussy in front of the camera, tits out on display. you’re lewd and so is yuuji, now more confidently moaning as he pleases himself to you. between your own sounds, you softly say, “gosh my pretty baby. you’re doing so well,” knowing how your boyfriend is secretly a sucker for praise. yuuji groans, body jerking as his face flushes even redder. “will you come for me?” you say. you’ve got him in the palm of your hand.

yuuji’s a moaning needy mess, the hand not on his dick pinning the hem of his shirt high up. “fuugh… y-yes… yes for you. I’ll come… i’m about to—about… agh—“

yuuji’s hand pumps the tip fast and he cums strongly, head bowing as his hips thrust up and he shoots white. “Ah~ oh~,” he’s shaky and noisy all the way through his high. when he finally lifts his head up to look at you, you’re sweetly smiling (you came watching him cum but he missed it ://). you stare at one another for a moment before the both of you let out (somewhat nervous) laughter.

yuuji pats sweat off his forehead with the back of his clean hand, careful not to have the other covered in his own cum go near his bed sheets. “gosh, you’re good. i’m so lucky to have you.”

you beam. “and i’m so lucky to have such a pretty, handsome boyfriend. you did great.”

he shyly looks away, biting on his lip to suppress a smile, “thank you.”

inumaki

— you text him asking for a moaning audio (unless u want inumaki to go tuna tuna at u on call lmao)

— “?”

— “how do i make that?”

— you send him a voice note explaining what kind of audio it is, making sure to tell him he doesnt have to do it if he doesnt want to

— “…”

— “okay…”

— “i totally thought you wanted to hear me in pain and i was… concerned.”

— (“??? baby pls no?!)

— “thank god”

— there’s a pause in the chat

— “i would send if i could.”

— (“wdym? if you don’t feel comfortable about it it’s okay maki”)

— “no… um”

—(“?”)

— “i don’t really get hard unless ur here.”

— (you stare at his message before sending an “oh !”)

— “yea… nothing else does it for me. sorry.”

— (you’re both blushing and stricken by his response. “no baby don’t be sorry TT you don’t need to do this. i can always hear you in person.”)

— “sure?”

— (“yes for sure TT”)

— “:p i’ll make those sounds for you next time if you really like them.”

output: next time you see each other, it starts off as usual. a casual date outside before going back to his place for nightly cuddles and eventually… that. it’s clear inumaki remembers you’re conversation without you having to bring it up. he’s nervous at first (he’s always been pretty quiet mostly because he’s mindful of using his voice), and you see it in his eyes. “just let it out okay? it’s just me here,” you whisper when you softly kiss under his neck, a little shy as well. soon, when you’re kissing, touching, and sucking him all over, his moans are tiny sharp inhales and whimpers rising up his throat; they come out somewhat muffled because of his closed mouth. since he can’t really risk saying anything, he’ll tell you that he feels good with a hand combing through your hair or a thumb caressing your skin. he’ll buck up into your throat when he cums, his mouth accidentally opening to sound out a breathier vocal moan. when you pull up, wiping your mouth after swallowing, he doesn’t hesitate to pull your face close, kissing you sweetly. you know it’s his way of saying ‘thank you. i love you.”

—— <3

a/n: wrote smth diff today (context: i usually write leon kennedy stuff) these are just my headcanons so i’d love to hear what u guys think! xoxo i had sm fun writing this hehe

also, can u guess who my fav char is? (it’s not the one with the longest part— mb that some are longer than others, idk how to stop smtms)

[gutsby]

Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch. 

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C’mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol’ pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which this is the before of how the rest of our lives came to be

The job offer came in the middle of a thunderstorm.

You were sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, your camera bag half-zipped and a box of leftover takeout balanced on your lap. The email lit up your phone like a beacon:

“Official Photographer – UConn Women’s Basketball”

You stared at it, reread it three times, then blinked slowly as realization hit. It was a season-long contract. Full-time. Steady.

And a complete godsend.

By the end of the week, you were on campus, badge clipped to your jacket, nervous and clutching your DSLR like a lifeline.

You weren’t a stranger to sports photography, but UConn was different. Bigger. Brighter. More intense. More… watched.

Especially with a superstar like Paige Bueckers on the team.

You’d seen her in highlight reels, on magazine covers. She had a presence, even from a distance. But meeting her in person?

That was something else.

The gym buzzed with activity as the team stretched across the hardwood, sneakers squeaking and basketballs thudding against polished floors. You weaved between benches and chairs, raising your camera, finding angles.

And then she ran through your frame — tall, blonde, a wide grin on her face as she crashed into a layup line and completely ruined your perfect shot.

“Seriously?” you muttered, dropping your camera with an exasperated huff.

The blonde jogged over with a sheepish smile. “My bad! Totally didn’t see you there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m wearing a neon orange vest.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, not even pretending to be innocent. “Definitely saw you and still ran through anyway.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “So you’re just causing chaos on purpose?”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” She extended her hand. “Paige.”

You shook it. “I know.”

Something passed between you — something warm, unspoken.

“I’m Y/N,” you added.

She grinned. “Welcome to the team.”

You decided to go out with your friends one night to celebrate your new job and one thing led to another, you wake up in a random dorm, naked under the sheets.

The nausea started subtly. A twist in your gut here, a weird aversion to coffee there. You thought it was stress. Or nerves. Maybe both.

Until one night, after a long day of shooting edits, you came home, sat down on your couch… and couldn’t stop crying.

No reason. Just waves of emotion crashing over you like a flood.

You chalked it up to burnout.

Until you missed your period.

Twice.

Panic settled into your bones like a chill. A drugstore pregnancy test confirmed what you already feared — two pink lines, bright and clear.

You were pregnant.

And completely, utterly alone.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.

You threw yourself into work instead. Shooting every practice, every media day. Keeping your head down. Ignoring the fatigue, the nausea, the way your jeans started fitting just a little tighter.

But it caught up to you.

It was during a particularly brutal practice. You crouched near the sideline, camera in hand, already feeling queasy. The sound of sneakers and whistles surrounded you in a haze.

Then everything tilted. Your stomach churned.

You barely made it to a trash can before vomiting.

Everything stopped. Voices faded. And then a gentle hand settled on your back.

“Hey. Hey, you okay?”

You looked up, flushed and humiliated, only to see Paige crouched beside you, concern etched into every line of her face.

“I—yeah. I’m fine. Probably just something I ate.”

She didn’t move. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You were. You hated that she could see that.

“Come on,” she murmured, slipping an arm under yours. “Let’s get you to the bench.”

You let her help you sit, and she knelt in front of you, bottle of water in hand.

“Want me to call someone?” she asked.

You shook your head quickly. “No. Please, don’t. I’m okay.”

She watched you for a long moment before sighing. “Alright. But I’m staying here. Just in case.”

She sat beside you for the rest of practice. Quiet. Steady. A warm presence.

You didn’t realize how much you needed that.

A few weeks later, you’re sitting on your bed, unable to fall asleep. You called the hospital two days ago to schedule an ultrasound and now you’re nervous, scared and alone.

Well… not really alone. Paige has somewhat been a constant in your life since you got sick that one time during practice.

So, you called her in the middle of the night, knowing she was most likely asleep, but two rings later, the phone picks up.

“Hello?” A sleepy voice answers.

You hesitate. “Hey, Paige.”

“Y/N?” Paige its up from her bed, a bit more awake now. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Uh, well, remember when you told me that I could call you up for anything?”

“Yeah, of course. You good ma?”

“Can you come over?”

“Already on my way.”

Ten minutes later, you hear a knock on your door. Opening it to reveal a tired looking Paige in pajama pants, hoodie, and glasses.

“You doing okay?” she asks, stepping into your apartment and settling herself on your couch.

“Not really.” 

She could tell you were nervous so she gestures for you to sit next to her.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t bring yourself to say it, so you take the stick out of your jacket pocket and silently hand it to her. 

“Is this…” you mindlessly nod, tears forming in your eyes.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

She instantly brings you into her arms, making your break down.

“It’s alright mama. I got you. I always got you.”

The day of your appointment, Paige picked you up bright and early. The car was filled with comfortable silence from the two of you, music playing low in the background.

“You nervous?” she asked as you sat in the waiting room.

“Terrified,” you admitted.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached over and took your hand.

When the screen lit up in the dark exam room, and the faint flicker of a heartbeat appeared, something inside you cracked wide open.

You looked over to find Paige staring at the monitor with wide eyes, her lips parted, something reverent on her face.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered.

You didn’t let go of her hand the rest of the day.

After that, she barely left your side.

Weeks turned into months.

Paige started walking you home when you were too tired to drive. She kept saltines in her bag just in case. If you were working late in the photo lab, she’d show up with food..

Pregnancy cravings were no joke.

One night at 11:46 PM, you texted her. You: “I NEED pickles and a Frosty. If I don’t have them, I might cry.”

Fourteen minutes later, your door buzzed.

She stood there in pajama pants and a hoodie, holding a Wendy’s bag in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other.

“You’re insane,” you told her, laughing through your tears.

She winked. “No, I’m just really invested in this whole co-pilot role.”

You ate together on the couch, TV playing some old rom-com neither of you paid attention to.

As you entered your second trimester, your body grew heavier, slower. Everything ached.

Paige never complained.

She adjusted her class schedule to walk you home. Slept over more often. Always on the couch, though… until the night you fell asleep with your head on her shoulder, and neither of you moved.

That was the night it shifted.

It wasn’t said. Just… understood.

The space between you? It was gone.

She became your person — quietly, without fanfare.

One evening, you found her sitting in the nursery, folding onesies and humming.

She looked up. “You’re not scared, are you?”

You sat beside her. “Terrified.”

She reached for your hand. “Me too. But we’re doing this together.”

The UConn team threw you the most wonderfully chaotic baby shower imaginable.

There were balloons in every corner, streamers tangled in door frames, and a massive cake that read “Welcome, Mini Huskie!” Nika brought five tubs of different ice creams like it was a taste-test competition. Azzi cried during her speech, her voice cracking halfway through as she tried to talk about how loved this baby already was.

But the biggest moment of the day was still to come.

A week earlier, after the ultrasound appointment, you and Paige had been handed an envelope with the gender inside. Instead of opening it yourselves, Paige had smiled at you, then turned to Azzi and handed it over.

“Don’t open it yet,” Paige warned with a playful but serious look. “You get to plan something. Just make it special.”

Azzi grinned like she’d just been handed the keys to a kingdom.

And now, at the shower—turned gender reveal—everyone gathered around in the backyard as Azzi stood next to a giant balloon, a pin in her hand and a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You ready?” she asked, looking at both you and Paige.

You clutched Paige’s hand tighter, your heart racing. She gave your hand a squeeze back, her thumb gently stroking over your knuckles.

“Go for it,” you breathed.

Azzi popped the balloon—and a shower of pink confetti exploded into the air.

You froze. So did Paige.

Then you both looked at each other at the same time.

“A girl,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Paige blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold it together, but her smile was wide and trembling. She reached out and wrapped both arms around you, burying her face into the side of your neck.

“A daughter,” she whispered. “We’re having a daughter.”

Your eyes welled up, and you couldn’t even pretend to hold back the tears. Around you, the team was cheering, confetti still drifting down, but it all faded into the background. All you could feel was Paige’s arms, her breath against your skin, the quiet way she held you like everything in her world had just found its place.

And later, when the chaos had mellowed and it was time for toasts, Paige stood up and the room quieted immediately.

“I know she isn’t biologically mine,” she said gently. “And I wasn’t there at the very beginning. But I’ve been here—and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart clenched.

“She’s ours,” Paige continued, eyes finding yours. “She belongs to Y/N, but she’s mine too. I’ll be there for every sleepless night, every first step, every scraped knee and birthday candle.”

You cried.

And when Paige leaned in and kissed your cheek, you held onto her like letting go might somehow break the spell.

The next weekend, your living room was a maze of cardboard boxes, rogue screws, and one very determined Paige Bueckers sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a tiny Allen wrench like it was a weapon of war.

“This can’t be legal,” she muttered, eyeing the thick instruction manual like it had personally offended her. “There’s... forty-seven steps. Who designs a crib with forty-seven steps?”

You watched from the couch, hand resting over your bump, trying not to laugh too hard because it made your back hurt. Paige had her hair tied back in a little bun and was wearing an old UConn hoodie already stained with sweat and smudged wood glue. One of the side panels was leaning awkwardly against the wall, while the rest of the crib parts looked like they’d been laid out by someone with no grasp of logic or gravity.

“Need help?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, lifting a board and promptly dropping one of the screws under the couch. “I’ve got this. I’m not just a basketball player. I am a builder of dreams.”

You snorted. “You’re not even a builder of IKEA furniture.”

“That’s rude,” she muttered. “And also fair.”

You smiled as you watched her work. It was clumsy, awkward, and completely endearing. She squinted at the pieces, sometimes holding two up together and whispering, “Are you guys soulmates or just coworkers?” At one point she called Nika for backup, but hung up after two minutes when Nika started laughing too hard to give any actual advice.

Eventually, Paige managed to attach three pieces together in what might have been the base of the crib. She sat back with a proud little grin, wiping sweat from her forehead and breathing like she’d just played four quarters and an overtime.

“Look at that,” she said. “Our baby’s gonna sleep right here.”

She leaned forward then, pressing her palm against the growing curve of your belly. Her voice dropped to a quiet murmur.

“You hear that, little one? I’m building this with my own two hands. Well... mostly. Your mom’s laughing at me, but she knows I’m trying.”

You felt it immediately—how soft her voice had gotten, how her eyes never left your belly as she spoke again.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” Paige whispered. “You’re not even here yet, and I already love you so much. I hope you like basketball. But if not, that’s cool too. We’ll figure it out together.”

She smiled, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your belly.

Your throat tightened. Completely out of nowhere, the emotion hit you like a wave. Tears welled up as you stared at her—this girl who had stumbled her way into your life and your heart, and now, somehow, was falling just as in love with your daughter as you were.

“You okay?” she asked, noticing your face.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah. Just... you’re gonna be such a good mom.”

Paige blinked, like she was trying not to cry now. She crawled over to you, cradling your face in both hands before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“We’re gonna be good moms,” she said. “All three of us—we’re already a team.”

It was late. The moon hung low outside your apartment window. Your swollen ankles were propped on a pillow. Paige was sitting on the floor, organizing diapers by size.

She looked up suddenly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

“Wait—no. I know I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened,” she continued. “Somewhere between the first ultrasound and the Frosty at midnight. But I am. And I don’t want to pretend I’m not.”

Your breath caught.

You moved to sit up, heart racing.

“And I know it’s messy,” she added. “That this isn’t the way people usually fall in love. But I’m not people. I’m me. And you’re you. And I love you.”

You smiled softly, eyes welling.

“I love you too, Paige.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

She stood, crossed to the couch, and cupped your face gently.

And when she kissed you, everything fell into place.

You didn’t think labor would start while watching The Princess Diaries.

But, as Julie Andrews was mid-speech about Genovia, a sharp pain gripped your abdomen, and your half-eaten bowl of popcorn slipped from your lap to the floor.

“Paige…” you whispered.

She was already up from the couch, rushing to your side, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grabbed her hand. “I think… I think it’s time.”

The calm, collected version of Paige you’d grown to love completely dissolved into a whirlwind of nervous scrambling — tripping over her own shoes, grabbing the hospital bag and phone, calling the Uber and trying to put your slippers on at the same time.

But the entire ride, she held your hand. Her thumb ran over your knuckles in a rhythm as steady as her breathing — not for herself, but for you.

And even through the pain, even through the panic, you felt safe.

It had been nearly fourteen hours of labor. Pain, sweat, tears, and a depth of exhaustion you didn’t know a body could feel. But when the final push came and you heard that first cry — that sweet, powerful cry — everything else faded to silence.

Your chest heaved. Your hands shook. Your heart was somewhere between your ribs and the ceiling.

Then they laid her on your chest.

Small. Warm. Red-cheeked and crying.

You stared at her, stunned by how something so little could take up every corner of your soul at once.

And beside you, Paige was crying just as hard — her hand clutching yours, her forehead pressed to your temple as she whispered, “You did it. You did so good, baby. She’s here. She’s really here.”

You looked down at the perfect little face pressed against your skin. The tiny lashes. The way her mouth curled like she was trying to figure the world out already.

“She’s… she’s everything,” you breathed.

“She’s ours,” Paige whispered, brushing a kiss across your temple.

The nurse came by to clean and weigh her, and even for the minute she was gone from your arms, it felt like a piece of your chest went with her. Paige didn’t take her eyes off the bassinet, standing at your side, hand still wrapped around yours.

When she was swaddled and returned to you, Paige sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out with the gentlest touch.

Her finger brushed your daughter's cheek.

“I still can’t believe she’s real.”

“She feels like a dream,” you whispered.

There was a long pause, the kind that settled deep into the air around you. Paige’s eyes didn’t move from your daughter.

“So, I’ve been thinking… Emma.”

You turned your head to her.

“Emma?” you repeated.

She smiled, slow and sure. “Yeah. Emma Bueckers.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

Your gaze dropped to the baby again. Emma. It fit her. Strong, soft, quietly powerful.

“She looks like an Emma,” you murmured, then smiled. “Emma Bueckers. Yeah… I like that.”

Paige reached up to push your hair from your face, thumb gently brushing along your cheekbone. 

Her voice came even softer this time, “Hopefully… that could be your name too. One day?”

You blinked, heart skipping as you looked up at her.

She was serious.

The warmth in her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her fingers lingered just below your jaw — it was all there, raw and open.

“What are you saying, Paige?”

She exhaled, then let out the smallest laugh — nervous, but full of love. “I’m saying… I want this forever. You. Her. All of it. I want to be the one who holds you at the end of every day. The one who changes diapers with you, and buys too many matching baby socks, and brings you snacks during every late-night feeding.”

You let out a breathy laugh, heart thudding.

“I know we didn’t plan this,” she continued, eyes shining. “But this feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ve known since that night I built the crib — when you were sitting on the floor with one hand on your belly and a screwdriver in the other, trying to take over building for me — that I was already yours.”

You stared at her for a long moment. This woman who had gone from your friend to your safe place. The one who carried you through every bout of morning sickness, who whispered to your belly every night, who held you like you were something precious.

Now she was holding your baby, and asking to hold your heart, too.

Tears welled in your eyes. “I want that too. I want all of it. You, me, Emma… forever.”

Paige leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow and full of everything that words couldn’t say.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” she whispered against your lips. “I want to do it right. But I couldn’t leave that room without telling you. Without… hoping.”

“You didn’t need a ring,” you whispered. “You already gave me everything.”

Emma stirred in your arms, letting out the tiniest sigh — like she could sense the weight of the moment.

You both looked down at her, your foreheads touching.

“So… Emma Bueckers,” you said softly. “And maybe soon… we’ll all have the same name.”

Paige’s smile broke open with emotion, tears falling freely now. “God, I love you.”

You kissed her again, arms curled around your daughter, and for a moment the entire world fit into one small hospital room.

Azzi was the first to show up.

She brought a huge pink balloon bouquet and teared up the second she saw the baby in your arms.

“Okay, I didn’t think I’d cry this fast,” she sniffled, laughing through the tears. “She’s… she’s beautiful.”

“She’s perfect,” Paige whispered proudly, standing behind you with her hands on your shoulders.

Nika barged in ten minutes later with a camera and matching mother-daughter socks. “This baby’s gonna be dripped out before she even walks!”

Aubrey came with homemade muffins. Geno brought a stuffed Husky and gave you both a rare but heartfelt hug.

And in the quiet lull between visitors, Paige reached into the bassinet and gently scooped Emma into her arms. You watched her cradle her like she’d done it for years, her voice soft.

“You’ve got so many people who love you, little one,” she whispered. “But I’m your number one. Always.”

You smiled through the haze of sleep deprivation and aching muscles.

“You mean we’re her number ones.”

Paige grinned. “Right. Sorry. She’s got two MVPs.”

Then she kissed Emma’s tiny forehead, and softly murmured, “Can’t wait to marry your mom someday.”

“You’ve got a good team here,” Geno said softly, patting Paige on the back and giving your shoulder a squeeze. “And now you’ve got one more.”

But it was Azzi who lingered after the others had left. She rocked Emma slowly, humming to her in the late afternoon light filtering through the window.

You exchanged a glance with Paige, and without speaking, you both knew it was the right moment.

“Azzi,” you said gently.

She looked up.

“We want you to be her godmother,” Paige said, voice a little thick.

Azzi blinked, visibly stunned. “Wait—me?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “You’ve always been family.”

Azzi’s eyes welled up again. “I’d be honored.”

Emma cooed softly in her arms.

“Guess that’s a yes from her too,” Paige smiled.

It was a strange thing — leaving the hospital.

You expected a bigger moment, maybe. Something cinematic. But in reality, it was a flurry of paperwork, soft murmurs from nurses, and Paige fumbling with the car seat like it was made of quantum physics. She finally got Emma clicked in, though not without wiping her eyes first.

“I just… can’t believe they’re letting us take her home,” she whispered as she looked at your daughter. “Like… we’re trusted with this tiny person?”

You laughed softly from the passenger seat. “Paige, you built an entire crib from scratch and kept me upright through eight months of pregnancy. I think we’re good.”

She reached over to squeeze your hand, eyes warm. “I still don’t believe this is real.”

The apartment looked the same. It smelled faintly of the lavender candle Paige had insisted on lighting before heading to the hospital. But something had shifted. Everything felt quieter. More fragile. More sacred.

Emma’s first night home was soft and slow.

You held her against your chest as Paige fussed with the temperature of the room, checking the baby monitor for the fifth time.

“She’s not even in the crib yet,” you teased, watching her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige muttered. “I just want everything perfect.”

“You already are.”

She turned and gave you the softest look. “You’re tired. You sleep. I’ll stay up with her.”

And she did.

You woke up hours later and found Paige asleep in the rocking chair, Emma on her chest, both of them out cold. The moonlight spilling through the window made the whole scene glow.

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the doorframe and let the image burn into your memory.

The first bath happened days later, and it was… chaotic.

Paige read the instructions on the baby bath three times. You were in charge of the temperature, towel, and Emma’s post-bath outfit, which Paige insisted be the “bunny one with the ears.”

Emma screamed the whole time.

“She hates this,” Paige said in a mild panic, cradling your slippery, red-faced daughter like she was made of glass.

“She doesn’t hate it,” you laughed. “She just doesn’t know what’s happening.”

“But her face—!”

“She’s fine. You’re doing great.”

Paige looked up at you, wet curls falling into her eyes. “I’ve played in front of thousands of people. Won important games. But nothing has ever been this stressful.”

“Welcome to parenthood,” you said, grinning.

Later, Emma finally calmed down in Paige’s arms, wrapped in her bunny towel, little fists curled against her chest. You both sat on the couch in silence, breathing her in.

“I never thought this would be my life,” Paige whispered, brushing her thumb along Emma’s cheek. “And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Nights became a rhythm.

2 a.m. was Emma’s favorite time to wake.

You’d hear the soft cries before your eyes were even open, and somehow Paige was always up before you, already halfway to the bassinet.

She’d come back with the baby cradled against her chest, humming under her breath. Sometimes she’d hand her to you, sometimes she’d just sit on the bed, legs crossed, whispering sweet nothings to Emma’s tiny face.

“You don’t even flinch anymore,” you said one night as she handed Emma over for her feeding.

“I think I just listen for her even in my dreams,” Paige replied, settling beside you. “She’s in my bones now.”

You looked at her over your daughter’s head, completely and utterly in awe.

“God, I love you,” you whispered.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I’m gonna marry you, you know.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

Two weeks in, Paige started making notes.

They were small things — scribbled phrases in a notebook she kept beside the couch. You caught glimpses sometimes when you walked by: ring ideas, favorite moments, speech draft?

You never asked. She never said. But you knew.

She was planning.

One afternoon, as Emma napped in the bassinet and sunlight pooled across the living room rug, Paige curled up beside you on the couch. You had your head on her shoulder, her arm around your waist, her other hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“I think she’s going to have your smile,” you whispered.

Paige hummed. “I think she already has your attitude.”

You chuckled softly. “We’re doomed.”

“She’s perfect.”

A pause.

“You both are.”

You turned your head, brushing your nose against her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I just… I’ve never had something so good before. So real. It’s terrifying.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“I know.” She paused, then leaned in and pressed her lips to your temple. “And I’m not wasting any time pretending I don’t want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

The day that everything was going to change for the better started with a video call.

Paige was bouncing Emma in one arm, pacing the living room in worn sweats and a messy bun, while your soft humming filtered in from the kitchen. She had that look in her eyes — distant, thoughtful — like her brain was running miles faster than her feet.

She’d been thinking about it for days.

Then she opened her contacts and hit Azzi’s name.

It rang once. Twice.

“Yo,” Azzi’s voice came through, grinning immediately when she saw Emma. “There’s my goddaughter! Look at her chubby cheeks — hey, mama!”

Emma blinked sleepily at the screen, half-interested, half-dozing.

Paige smiled, kissed the top of her head, and shifted to cradle her against her chest. “She just ate. She’s in a milk coma.”

Azzi laughed. “What’s up? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“I haven’t,” Paige admitted. “But that’s not why I called.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

Paige hesitated. Then exhaled and moved to sit on the edge of the couch. Emma stayed snuggled to her chest, her tiny hand gripping Paige’s shirt.

“I need your help with something.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Basketball-related?”

“No. Bigger.”

Azzi sat up straighter. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m gonna propose.”

Azzi blinked. “To—wait, to—to her?”

Paige just smiled.

A slow, soft grin spread across Azzi’s face, full of warmth and surprise. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Paige whispered. “I’m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her. She gave me this family. I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with her. When I’m with them.”

Azzi let out a breath, visibly moved. “Paige, that’s… God. That’s everything.”

“I want it to be perfect,” Paige said, her voice quiet. “I want her to know — without a doubt — that this isn’t just something I fell into. That I chose her. I chose Emma. And I’ll choose them both for the rest of my life.”

Azzi was quiet for a beat.

“Okay, well now I’m crying at eight a.m., thanks.”

Paige laughed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Azzi said, swiping under her eyes. “She’s gonna say yes. You know that, right?”

“I think so.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Paige.”

“I hope so.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Paige smiled down at Emma. “I think Emma’s got her wrapped around her finger more than I do.”

“Both of you do.”

There was a long pause. Azzi leaned forward on her screen.

“Alright. So what’s the vibe? Big romantic gesture? Quiet and intimate? Flash mob with the team dressed as roses?”

Paige snorted. “Absolutely not that last one.”

“Fine, party pooper.”

“I want something that feels like us.” Paige looked up again. “You’ve known me longer than anyone. Help me think.”

Azzi grinned. “Okay. What’s your shortlist?”

“I’ve got… a few ideas.”

She pulled out her phone and opened a note she’d been working on secretly. Azzi watched as Paige scrolled.

Recreate the night we built the crib — but actually finish it this time, then propose in the nursery.

Take her back to UConn, rent the gym, propose where we first met.

Picnic at the lake by our place. Emma in a little onesie. Paige gives her the ring to hand over.

Quiet night at home. Candlelight. Just us. Nothing else needed.

Azzi read the list quietly.

“They’re all good,” she said. “But number three? That one’s got me.”

Paige looked up. “You think so?”

“You’ve always been your softest when you’re with her and Emma outside. When it’s just you two in your bubble. I’ve seen it.” Azzi smiled. “And can you imagine the look on her face when Emma toddles over with the ring box? She’ll melt.”

Paige sighed, smiling like she could already see it.

“She’s gonna lose it.”

“She’s gonna sob, and then say yes, and then probably tackle you,” Azzi said. “And I’m gonna cry again, even if it’s on FaceTime.”

“You'll be the first to know,” Paige promised.

Azzi laughed. “Damn right I will.”

Later that night, Paige lay beside you in bed, watching as you fed Emma under the soft glow of the nightlight. Your robe was slipping off one shoulder, your hair a little messy, and your smile was so full of love it made her heart ache.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

Paige reached over, brushing a thumb against your wrist.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You tilted your head. “What brought that on?”

She leaned in, kissed your shoulder, and whispered, “You’ll see.”

It took Paige weeks to find the right ring.

Azzi had come through with the jeweler recommendation — a Black-owned custom shop in Dallas that specialized in timeless, understated pieces. Paige didn’t want flash. She didn’t want anything over-the-top. She wanted you.

Simple. Elegant. Something that would glint under sunlight when you held Emma. Something that would feel like her heart had been shaped into metal and slipped onto your finger.

It was a gold band, warm and soft, with a single diamond in the center and two tiny emeralds on either side — one for you, one for Emma.

When she picked it up, she couldn’t stop staring at it. The box sat in her hoodie pocket every day after that. Just… waiting.

At the time of the big day, Paige woke up early.

The light in the bedroom was pale, barely brushing the sheets. You were still asleep, hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted softly. Emma was in the bassinet nearby, snuggled up with her favorite plush bunny.

Paige slipped out of bed like it was a sacred act, careful not to wake either of you. She kissed both foreheads on her way out of the room and tiptoed to the nursery.

That’s where the onesie was hidden.

It was custom, of course. She’d had it made after talking to Azzi. Cream-colored cotton, soft as clouds, with little gold script across the front.

Paige changed Emma into it slowly, whispering to her the whole time. “You ready to help me do something big, baby girl? You’re gonna be part of something so special today.”

Emma giggled, like she understood. Paige pressed her forehead to her daughter’s and exhaled.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

It was the same lake you’d picnicked at when Emma was just a few weeks old — the one where you’d laid in Paige’s lap, watching the ripples move across the water while she fed you strawberries and rubbed your back.

This time, Paige set up early.

A soft checkered blanket. A woven basket full of your favorites — pastries from your favorite coffee spot, the baby’s bottles, little pink tulips tucked into a mason jar. A speaker sat tucked into the grass, set to a playlist Paige had made for this exact moment.

It was perfect.

Then Paige sent you a text.

hey baby. bring emma and come meet me by the lake? we’re having breakfast together. dress comfy <3

You read it in the kitchen, sipping your tea, and smiled. “She’s up to something,” you mumbled.

Emma blinked up at you from her stroller.

You didn’t realize until you pushed her toward the lake, walking down the grassy hill and saw Paige standing near the edge of the blanket, heart in her throat — that something was different.

Paige took Emma from the stroller, holding her in a way so she’s facing you. That’s when you saw the onesie.

“Marry Mama?”

You stopped mid-step.

And then your eyes lifted to Paige.

She was smiling, but her lips were trembling. Her hands were already reaching for the small velvet box in her pocket. “Surprise,” she said softly.

You stared at Emma. Then back at Paige. “Oh my God.”

Paige stepped forward slowly. “I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to remember this moment for the rest of your life. Because I will.”

You blinked fast, tears rushing up before you could stop them.

“I know this hasn’t been a typical love story. I know we weren’t expecting any of this — but you,” she said, voice catching, “you gave me everything I never knew I needed.”

You covered your mouth, breath shaky.

“You let me love you through all of it — through the fear and the unknown, through swollen feet and late-night cravings and sleep-deprived chaos — and every single day I’ve spent with you, I’ve only wanted one thing... more.”

She dropped to one knee, Em laying against her chest, holding the ring box open in her shaking hands.

“I want to be your wife. I want to be Emma’s mom forever. I want to spend every boring Tuesday and messy Sunday morning beside you. I want all of it. You. Her. Us.”

You sobbed, stepping forward, completely overwhelmed.

“Will you marry me?”

You nodded before you could even speak.

Then you dropped to your knees in front of her and cupped her face between your hands, laughing through the tears.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, yes. God, Paige, of course I’ll marry you.”

She kissed you before she even got the ring on.

It was messy and salty and perfect. Emma babbled at you both, kicking her feet in her little onesie like she’d planned it herself.

When Paige finally slipped the ring onto your finger, your hands were still trembling. “It’s so beautiful,” you whispered, staring at it.

“So are you,” she said, voice full of awe.

That night, back home, you lay on the couch with your head in Paige’s lap, Emma asleep on your chest, and the ring glinting in the soft golden light of the TV.

“You know,” you whispered, “I think Emma might be magic.”

Paige smiled. “She made a lot of things possible.”

You turned your hand, admiring the ring again. “Did Azzi help you plan this?”

“She’s the one who made me realize how sure I was.”

“I’m glad she did.”

Paige leaned down and kissed your temple.

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“You already feel like home.”

[taro-bae]

Twisted Wonderland - Third Years

Summary: reacting to you falling asleep in their room

Characters: Third Years

CW/Notes: gn!reader, fluff, Slight Book 7 Spoilers! (Malleus's part), mostly written as platonic but its up to the reader

Trey Clover

Trey makes it to his dorm room after a hustling day of classes and vice-warden duties. He's ready to just sit down and relax his muscles for the afternoon. As soon as he steps inside his room, he recognises a familiar figure lying in his spacious bed on his clover plush. Trey smirks a little amused by your choice of sleeping space. He makes sure the lights are off making his way towards you. He shifts your body to put the blanket covers over you.

Trey is like the older brother of Heartslabyul. He has younger siblings and knows how to take responsibility for others. Taking off his dorm Uniform hat and jacket, he settles at a respectful distance away from you, just resting his eyes with a hand behind his head. He watches you as you stir awake. "Sleep well, sleepyhead?" Trey says with a teasing smirk looking at your slightly dishevelled appearance.

Cater Diamond

After the unbirthday party, Cater returns, eyes locked on his phone as he edits and goes through all the photos he has taken during the day. He walks into the room, still looking down at his phone until he notices a silhouette hugging his smily plushie. Cater immediately goes to his camera, tip toeing towards the bed.

He takes multiple photos thinking just how cute you look with your cheek flushed and soft against the pillow. Cater hovers over you to snap different angles and profiles. "Aww, such a cutie~" Their cheeks look so soft, " He thinks in his head, trying not to wake you up. He reaches over to poke your cheek, snapping a picture at the same time. Minutes later, you are on Magicam for everyone to see, and Cater has no shame. There are plenty hashtags describing just how cute he thinks you like #sleepingbeauty #cutiepatootie #sweetcheeks

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is not pleased. Leona did sense you before even making it into his room by your scent. He scowls, seeing the person lying in his bed. "Stupid herbivore" His tail swishing behind him in annoyance. "Oi, wake up" Leona says bluntly, standing over you. When you refuse to get out and won't budge he lets out a frustrated sigh. "Move over. Now".

Leona slumps over on the bed, spreding his limbs out. He doesn't care at this point. He shifts over, pulling you into his body. "Since ya not gonna listen, you'll be my pillow," He says in a gruff voice. His tail is thumping against the mattress, but he likes how comfortable this is. He will never admit it, though. Leona has a sense of pride that you're not afraid to be near him, let alone dare fall asleep in his room. "Not a word or ya out. I need my nap". He's out within seconds.

Rook Hunt

Rook already knew you were in his room. Most likely, it was his works doing, a set up to get you into his room. Being a hunter, he knows exactly what's happening were and he keeps his diligent eyes on you. Rook returns to his room, where you sleep with an adoring look on his face. "Such a darling, Mon ange ♡" He's absolutely mesmerised by your beauty and peaceful, vulnerable state. He sees beauty in everything. To him, you're like a work of art in itself.

Rook watches over your sleeping face and body. The way your body rises with each breath to the small movement of your face. He takes in every detail. At some point, he takes out his phone to snap a few photos of you. He's so stealthy you'll never know he did. Just be warned you'll end up on his secret wall behind the wallpaper in his room. He's a questionable one.

Vil Schoenheit

The last thing Vil expects is to find someone in his room when he returns. Let alone finding someone in his bed, that's just unacceptable. He lets out a small cough before he speaks, "Wake up this instant." Vil makes his way across the room. "You mustn't sleep in such attire, and sevens forbid in my bed. One must always wear clean pyjamas and do a proper skin and hair routine prior. Which you clearly have not done."

Vil would scold you and point out your eyebags or tired look, warning about the consequences of overworking yourself. You have no choice but to follow through with his routine as he applies beauty products on your face and hair. If you complied well, he might just let you stay and rest up. "Very well...I'll permit you to stay. But don't make a habit out of this. " His voice is authorative, but without a bite to it. Vil actually secretly enjoys pampering you with some self-care and sharing his knowledge.

Idia Shroud

What was he doing out of his room in the first place? Who knows. When Idia comes back, it's an instant panic and internal turmoil. He nearly yelled but slapped his hands over his mouth. "What are they doing here! This can't be happening IRL! What do I do? They'll be mad if I wake them up!" He is slouched over, fiddling with his hoodie string, trying to decide what to do. His heart is pounding in his chest, the phrase "why me? Why my room?" Running through his head at a hundred miles per hour.

He can't help but stare at you, a small smile tugging at his blue lips. "No, stop! That's creepy. Cringe behaviour. They'll think you are a creep!" Idia snaps himself out of the trance but can't bring himself to wake you up. He huddles over near his desk, distracting himself with a game occasionally glancing at you sleeping with the ends of his hair pink.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is surprised to find anyone in his room. He appears looming over the sleeping form eyes slightly widened as he observes your state. Malleus is rather glad that you're here, making his room seem less lonely. He is pleased that you are not afraid of him and comfortable enough to sleep not only in his room but remain asleep in his presence.

Malleus ensures the room suits your comfort, moving the blankets over you. "You're an interesting cause, child of man. A truly endearing sight." Malleus watches over you, ensuring you only have pleasing dreams and a deserved rest. After a short passing of time, He starts humming a melody. A lullaby.

"My eyes are watching over you still, let’s be together. With no fear, even if we wake from this dream"

His low voice echoes through the room, sensing you into a deeper sleep. That guaranteed would be the best sleep of your life.

Lilia Vanrouge

His room is a mess stuffed with artefacts and the most random things. Lilia finds you tired and fast asleep in his room. He sees this as a perfect opportunity to give you a little scare. Hanging off the ceiling, he yells out a "boo!" Causing you to wake up. "Khee hee," he plays it off by acting cute. "Fu-fu~ look at you all worn out, little one." Lilia doesn't miss a chance to tease you.

His red eyes sparkle with mischief. "Oh, I'm just messing around. Go back to sleep, I'll watch over you~" Says the man who just woke you up for giggles. Once you're off to sleep again, Lilias caring side steps in. He ensures you are safe and well rested, letting you sleep in his room, even on him, as he pats your head affectionately. Lilia is very parental and will guard your sleep from any nightmares.

[girlrotterr]

— "𝘚𝛨𝛦'𝘚 𝐺𐒆𝑇 𝛭𝑌 𝛢𝑇𝑇𝛦𝛮𝑇𝐼𐒆𝛮."

𝑃𝛢𝐼𝑅𝐼𝛮𝐺: photographer!ellie x model!reader

𝘚𝑌𝛮𐒆𝑃𝘚𝐼𝘚: You were hired as a model for a series of photoshoots at a local studio. At first, ellie, the photographer, seemed proffessional. But over time, things shifted. You started noticing how her eyes lingered. It wasn't supposed to be anything more than a job.

The studio lights hummed softly above you, casting a warm glow that blended with the late afternoon sun filtering through tall, industrial windows. You had just finished another set of photos, shifting your posture as you stretched your limbs and brushed the stray strands of hair from your face. Ellie, the company’s photographer, adjusted her camera, checking the lens with her usual furrowed brow, muttering something inaudible. She had been the photographer for nearly every project you’d worked on in the past few months, and though she had started off quietly professional, something about her behavior had changed lately.

“Can we do one more set?” ellie had asked, her voice casual but laced with that familiar insistence. “I think I’m getting some weird glare on the lens again. The lighting’s off.”

You nodded, as you had done so many times before. At first, it was easy to believe her. Every photographer had technical problems now and then. But lately, the excuses had piled up. She often claimed the lighting was wrong, or her camera wasn't calibrated correctly, always needing just one more shot, another angle. You weren’t naive—you had noticed how her eyes lingered, not just on your form, but on the space between you two, as if there was some unspoken tension she couldn’t quite place.

Ellie adjusted the lights once more, her fingers moving swiftly, an air of practiced skill surrounding her. But there was something else beneath her careful professionalism—a kind of nervousness you hadn’t seen in her when she first started. Now, her eyes were always on you, watching, studying. The distance between the two of you felt smaller with each session, though she never said much. It was like she was drawn to you but didn’t know how to express it—except through the lens of her camera.

“Alright,” she murmured, stepping back to her place behind the camera. “Let’s start.”

You took your position again, moving through the motions of posing—each one more natural than the last as you had grown used to the rhythm of these shoots. Ellie’s camera clicked rapidly, capturing each angle, each shift in expression. But her eyes, when she lowered the camera between shots, spoke of something more than just professionalism. There was an intensity, a quiet obsession that seemed to be growing every time she looked at you through that viewfinder.

“Ellie, is the camera still acting up?” you had asked, breaking the silence. Your tone was light, but the question carried weight.

She fumbled with the camera for a moment, her fingers awkwardly turning the settings as if distracted. “Yeah, just...it’s weird. I don’t know what’s going on with it.” But the way her voice faltered made it clear that wasn’t the truth. You could feel it in the air—the camera wasn’t the problem.

When she lowered the camera again, her gaze lingered, this time more open, less guarded. She studied you, not just through her equipment but in a way that felt personal, too personal for a professional relationship.

“You don’t have to keep pushing these extra sessions, you know. I think the shots are more than fine,” you had said, meeting her gaze directly for the first time. You weren’t accusing her, just...curious.

 At first, she had been quiet, distant even, but over time, that reserve melted away, replaced by an almost magnetic pull. You could see it in the way she always scheduled more shoots than needed, the way her presence lingered even after the sessions ended.

Ellie shifted her weight uncomfortably, biting her lower lip as she considered your words. “I—yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s just... I’m a bit of a perfectionist. Maybe I’ve been pushing it too much.”

There was a brief pause, filled with the ambient hum of the lights and the distant sound of traffic outside. You could leave it at that, but something in you wanted to dig deeper, to see what was really going on beneath the surface.

“Is that all it is?” you had asked softly, taking a step closer, breaking the professional boundary just enough to see how she reacted. Her breath hitched slightly, and her eyes flickered down for a moment before meeting yours again, this time with something like vulnerability.

“I don’t know,” Ellie admitted quietly, her voice almost a whisper now. “I guess I’ve just... I’ve really enjoyed working with you. A little too much, maybe.” She rubbed the back of her neck, her usual confident stance now awkward, almost exposed. “I didn’t want to make things weird, but...it’s hard not to look at you, you know? Not just for the job, but…”

The tension hung in the air between you two, a confession that had been building in the silence of every photoshoot, in every extra session that wasn’t really necessary. It felt heavy, yet it was something you had sensed for a while.

You took a breath, considering your words. There was a part of you that felt the weight of her attraction, her quiet, lingering fascination. But it wasn’t just a one-sided thing. You had seen the way Ellie opened up when she was around you—the subtle changes in her usually guarded demeanor, the way her humor slipped out in moments where the conversation stretched beyond work.

“I’ve noticed,” you replied, your voice more intimate. Ellie blinked, unsure how to respond.

She cleared her throat and stepped back, breaking eye contact for the briefest of moments, and then gestured to her camera again. “One more shot?” she asked, almost sheepishly. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips now, a little more open, a little less guarded.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Yeah, alright. Just one more.”

Your moans echoed through the studio, mingling with the sounds of skin slapping against skin as Ellie’s hand gripped your ass, guiding you up and down on her strap. Each movement sending jolts of pleasure through you.

The air was thick with heat, the lingering scent of sweat mixing with leather. Ellie’s eyes were dark with hunger, filled with a desperate need that matched your own.

“So fucking good for me,” she huffed, her voice thick with lust, as she pushed you deeper. The weight of her body pressed against yours, every thrust igniting a spark of ecstasy that made you moan with pleasure.

“Keep going, baby,” she urged, her fingers digging into your flesh as she guided your movements. “You’re doing so well.” Her voice was a low, sultry whisper that wrapped around you, fueling the fire burning inside. You could feel her warmth, the heat radiating from her body making you dizzy.

“Ellie…” you gasped, the sound slipping from your lips as you sank down hard onto her strap, the pressure sending shockwaves of pleasure. The way she watched you, her eyes dark with lust, made your heart race faster. You loved the way she bit her lip, the way her breath hitched when you moved just right. It was intoxicating.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her breath coming out in short pants as you began to rock your hips, the rhythm becoming more frantic. 

“You’re taking it so well,” she praised, her voice thick with need. “So good for me-” But her words were cut off by her own moans, the sound spilling from her lips. 

Ellie leaned forward, her breath hot against your neck,“You like that, huh? Taking me so well,” she murmured, the words dripping along your skin. You nodded breathlessly, the pleasure overwhelming as you surrendered. “Tell me how good it feels,” she urged, her voice low.

“It..feels s-so good, Ellie,” you gasped, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. “nghhh, soo g-good” Your voice trembled. 

She smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up in satisfaction as she increased the pace, thrusting deeper into you.

“God, you’re perfect,” Ellie breathed “So fucking good for me.”

Each thrust became more urgent, her body responding to yours with a need that took you both higher and higher. “Ellie, I’m—” you gasped, the feeling building to a breaking point, the tension in your body coiling tighter. But before you could finish, she captured your lips in a searing kiss, her mouth moving against yours with urgency.

“Let go for me, baby,” she whispered against your lips, the command mixing with the heat of her breath. “I want to feel you cum.”

With those words, the pressure within you shattered, waves of pleasure crashing over you in a violent rush. Your body seized, muscles tightening as the ecstasy enveloped you.  You cried out, the sound echoing in the studio, drowning in the sensation as you felt Ellie thrusting beneath you, her body responding to your every movement, your every gasp.

“Don’t stop,” she commanded, her voice dripping with urgency, a hint of desperation lacing her words. “I want to capture this.”

Before you could respond, she reached for her camera, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she adjusted the settings with quick, practiced movements. The sound of the shutter clicking filled the air. 

 “Just fucking look at you,” she said, positioning the camera to frame the shot perfectly.

With every snap, Ellie groaned, her breaths hitching as she focused on the way your body glistened with sweat, the remnants of pleasure coursing through you. Each shot captured the raw intimacy of the moment, the way you were sprawled against her, your skin flushed and radiating heat.

“God, I can’t get enough of this,” she panted, her voice thick with desire. “You’re perfect.” She shifted slightly, her hips still pressed against you as she adjusted the angle of the camera.

“Ellie-,” you gasped, feeling a thrill shoot through you as she continued to snap photos. 

She captured the way your body moved, the delicate curves, the flush of your cheeks, every angle showing the beauty she adored so much. “Fuuckk look at that,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Can’t you just…” you began, but the words slipped away as Ellie leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear, the teasing closeness igniting a fire within you again. “Don’t be shy. Show me how much you love it.”

You responded instinctively, arching your back as you grinded against her. Ellie let out a soft whimper, her fingers tightening around the camera. “Just like that, baby,” she urged, a grin spreading across her face. “I want to see you lose yourself in this.”

The camera clicked again, the sound punctuating your movements as you rolled your hips against her, feeling the pressure build once more. Her eyes darkened with lust, a mix of admiration and obsession as she snapped shot after shot.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Ellie groaned, her voice thick with desire as she continued to photograph you. The way her body responded to yours sent shockwaves through you, igniting a heat within that you thought had already burned out.

You could feel your heartbeat quickening, a thrilling rush coursing through you as you realized how much she loved this. The camera flashed and with each click, Ellie’s own breaths became more ragged.

“Don’t stop moving,” she commanded, her voice a low growl that sent shivers racing down your spine. “You’re driving me-, nghhh.” You responded to her words, thrusting against her with renewed urgency, letting your body take over as the rhythm grew more frantic.

“Fuck, yes!” she groaned, the sound a mixture of pleasure and desperation. Her eyes were glued to the screen, capturing the moment as you began to ride once again. “You’re so good for me, baby.”

Ellie adjusted the angle of the camera, her free hand reaching out to caress your thigh, fingers tracing your skin with a featherlight touch that ignited every nerve. “God, I love how you move for me,” she panted, the words slipping from her lips.

“Ellie,” you gasped, losing yourself in the moment, the heat in your belly roaring with every thrust, every click of the camera. “I need you…”

“Just a little longer,” she urged, her voice strained but filled with a desperate longing.

“Ellie!” you cried out, the sound bursting from your lips as you moved against her, the need overwhelming you. The way she captured you, her hands roaming over your body, her eyes filled with awe and lust, made you feel alive in a way you never knew possible.

“Keep going, baby. You’re doing so good.” she encouraged, “I want to see you cum for me all over again.”

[passingnotions]

Out of Office | Yeseo (ft. Mashiro)

smut, 2.9k words

“Who brought all that cake?” You walk up to the cubicle, mouth full and still taking another bite.

“Hm?” She continues typing a seemingly endless email.

“The one in the break room.”

“Oh, the intern.” She’s focused on the second monitor now, lost in some spreadsheet.

“You’re the intern.”

“The new intern.”

You shift your stance; raise a brow in anticipation.

“They’re in an onboarding meeting right now.” She tilts her head towards the conference rooms.

Through the blinds, though far, you can spot figures bathed in blue projector light. “Huh. alright.”

“Also, I got hired last month—come on.”

“Sure but you’re still under me—” You try, stumble through it. “You were, under me, last week.”

“That joke’s not landing.”

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

The room in the distance lights up. There’s movement, a handshake? They’re standing around and chatting.

“She’s your type.” She stops typing; looks up at you.

And you stop chewing. “Shiro, what am I supposed to make of that?”

“Just saying.” Her eyelashes bat a faux pout. “Hope I don’t get replaced?” 

“Catching feelings, are we?”

“Oh.” Tone breathy, thespian, and with a hand at her chest. “From our very first night.” 

A door opens at the end of the office space. You straighten up, finish what’s left of your pastry, and shoot a look towards Mashiro while heading over to your desk.

From where you sit, there’s not much to see. You listen to the shuffle of steps somewhere on the floor, to the casual chatter. There’s corporate laughter—measured, mechanical—and a lilt to a voice you hadn’t heard before. The sounds come and go. Close, then far, then close again: she’s getting introduced to everyone. 

Eventually: “oh, think we missed someone over on this corner?” Pretty platform heels clatter around to where you sit until finally revealing themselves. She’s a cheating five feet tall. Dark and elegant hair frames this darling, sweet look. Prettiest fucking cheeks on the planet. “Hello! I’m Kang Yeseo.” She extends a small hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” you manage, standing up and returning the gesture.

“Oh, I see you found the pastry tray I brought.” She looks at the small plate by your keyboard. Her smile is beaming. “Hope everything was to your liking!”

“Yeah—yeah.” Your best is a nonplussed nod. “It really is.”

You hear your boss call out over the divider wall. Says she’s the new intern. Starts tomorrow. Ah, I see, you reply. Your head tilts when you realize. The calendar marks Friday. “Working over the weekend?” 

“They said it’d be easier to learn because of the slower pace. Can’t say no to that!” She laughs. “I’ll be shadowing someone.” 

You work tomorrow.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then.”

“Oh, great! We’ll get to know each other fast!” She’s all verve—begins to walk away from view before finishing her own sentence. “Nice to meet you again. Gotta head back to the tour!” 

You collapse on your chair, processing. “Nice to meet you, too.”

~~

There’s a narrative step you miss, trip over. You’ll have to pick up the pieces sometime. They’re probably tangled in the locks of her hair, the glint in her eyes, or that flashing, disarming smile—

Okay, alright. It’s not romance, not by a longshot, but you do see her twirling the ends of her locks every once in a while, like she’s the one in love and, hey, sure. 

Because you fuck the girl so well that she’s consumed by the idea of you.

Mashiro strokes your ego over the week and Yeseo your cock, over the weekends. That’s your onboarding procedure, if anyone were to ask. 

Shiro says you’ll make Yeseo fall for you, that maybe you already have, that there’s no way those university boys give her anything worthwhile when it comes to attention. Salaryman, Mashiro says, has the money, the apartment, the free time, and god that cock.

You stop Mashiro—recommend she go into acting. Say it suits her. She asks, at some point, which angles you think the camera would best capture. Her face is on the mattress, ass at a complete diagonal opposite.

“This, right here.” You’re making a frame right behind her with your fingers, then catch her gaze in the full length mirror over to your right. “This is the one.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I bet.” Mashiro reaches her arms back, face still on the duvet. Her palms land flat on her ass, and with a gripping pull, she spreads open. 

Your arms fall to your sides—they settle, defeated—and you think it’s amusing that the bed frame sits so low to the ground. It makes you kneel, though Mashiro already makes you kneel without having to ask, regardless of whatever piece of furniture she’s propped up on. It’s less skill, more innate talent—like she was made for you, built, sculpted—but, yes, Mashiro has the skill, too. She’s well practiced on what makes you practically melt. You’ve run your hands over that piece of art a million times and it still has you sighing your deepest sighs when your knees finally hit the ground. 

With your palms replacing hers—ass and cunt kept spread open and waiting—Mashiro speaks through the reflection. “You look mesmerized.” 

“I am.” You can hear the smile in her voice and smile back. Your hands get busy, kneading.

Like a pup that’s excited to be played with, Mashiro wags it a little, to mess with you, because it throws your brain for a loop every single time. “Tongue, baby.” She pushes her whole body back a bit, tone sultry. “Come on.”

“When’s the last time I made you cum?” You ask.

“Every time,” she giggles out.

You give Mashiro a long, slow lick. Admire the luster. “No, as in—” she’s so close that you’re breathing her in—“when did you stay over last?” 

Before she gets a chance to inhale a response, you get to work. Sheets scrunch in her fists. “Ah,” Mashiro lets out gently. “It’s been more than a week.”

Your hands don’t let go. You’re pulling her onto your face and your tongue laps, laps, laps—lips locked. It’s, immediately, a mess. Spit, wetness. The taste is divine.

You take a second to breathe. “I missed you.” It comes out so, so low, like gravel, like the need to eat this woman out reverts you to only the most instinctual and primal. 

Your fingers are leaving impressions on her pale skin, you realize. You’re not even grabbing on that hard.

“I know you did.” She laughs. 

You go back in; she moans. It’s a whole thing. Your tongue runs flat from clit to rim and you’re unsure which one of you throbs the hardest. 

But Mashiro turns, eventually, flips herself over, and pulls a pillow under her head for support. She wants to look at you, in the reflection, face to face—loves to look at you when she cums. And you’ll make her, every time.

“Could come over more often,” she says, kittenish, and you know exactly where it’s headed. “But you’re always so busy.”

You tease a finger right over her folds. “Uh huh.” Slip it in.

Her breath hitches when you curl it at the right spot. You love messing with each other like that.

“You have a spare key, Shiro. Can come over any time.” Your lips are curled into a wicked smile, and you dive back in, lick her a couple more times, kiss her thighs, have her throw her head back in delicate bliss. 

“And walk in on you two?” She pulls your head up—stares. “I’d be devastated."

“Heartbroken, I’m sure.” You’re holding her gaze and putting another finger in; her hips buck. Fuck—you enjoy this as much as she does. 

She bites her lip and her eyes go narrow when you hit that spot again, letting your face go. It’s permission: make me, until my legs quiver, until I can’t fucking take it anymore, please.

You slide in another, because you’re allowed, and frankly, because you enjoy the obscenity of it. She’s stretched out and you simply stare. In, out, a bit of a curl again, as much as three digits permit. You’ve heard Mashiro say worse, to be fair, curse out heaven and hell. Knowing that you could take her much further feeds your ego. 

“Bet you couldn’t bear it,” you’re saying, straightening up, fingers still in her cunt. You stare at her pretty legs, folded and spread open, giving you all the damn room in the world. “Watching me fill her up with a load that you’d want for yourself.”

The little whimper when you slip your fingers out is as cute as it is profane. You’d do anything for her, for less than that. To watch her unravel every time is enough of a reward.

“Is that what you do?” Mashiro catches her breath, finally. “Pump the little thing full until she leaks?”

You settle your knees on the mattress, aligning your stiff cock, and nodding. Guilty as charged. You decide it’s best to have her cumming with your length inside her messy-wet folds. “You get so slutty when you’re jealous.”

Your cock starts back on the path that your fingers just explored as she quips, “bet you don’t even wash the bedding before it’s my turn.” Mashiro’s nodding along at your slow thrust. She’s all play, still, but your cock’s splitting her open bit by bit. Attention’s divided, to say the least. “You’re such a whore.”

“Baby,” you coo, proud because her gaze falters. You’re halfway and she’s already slipping a hand down to play with her clit—though it’s not until you sink to the base with a firm push that you take her breath away. She does this eyes-shut exhale. 

And no, it’s not romance here, either.

“Only you get the bed.” 

~~

It’s been a couple of Fridays since you last worked weekends, and any excuse is a good excuse for Yeseo. Company outing after work? Take her home. New to this part of town? Poor girl, you’ll show her around (and take her home). Ah, too tired to walk to hers tonight, and yours is only one train stop away? The pair of jeans she has on today, by the way—christ—bless casual Fridays. You do, in fact, take those home, too. 

How impossibly fortunate. A straight flush. You have the girl cockdrunk for a whole fucking month. Not to say that she doesn’t have you similarly obsessed. That much goes without saying.

And, again, there’s some fill-in-the-blanks section that has to go unfinished or we’ll never really get to—

You both wake up at midnight—yes, midnight, because you had crashed on your sectional only six hours prior. There was actual work to be done this week, on top of the fact that Mashiro went home with you three out of those five, exhausting days. She gives you weekends off; calls it the babysitting gig. You tell her to not do that.

Now, Yeseo’s in the shower. The scene is cut-to, a tad jarring and sudden. Interior apartment, Saturday, zero hundred hours. You have the noise floor where it’s all ambient sound out in the living room, your kitchen appliances buzz, the aircon kicks in. Nice and quiet, until the figurative camera sends it down the hall and past your bedroom door. Wet white noise fades in. Rhythmic… clapping? 

There aren’t that many useful euphemisms from here on out. Everyone has read this script before.

The intern’s against glass. It’s a heavenly slope, really, the way her upper torso is flat on the shower door. With hands braced at either side of her tits, her lower back arches out—legs tensed, tiptoed—and her ass angles out just so. It’s plush, it’s deadly. Your hands are settled on that striking indent where her hips and waist meet while your own hips push, thrust, and press against her round, easy cheeks. 

Fuck—

Yeseo pushes back in kind. The tempo is practiced and well known to the both of you, though there’s a key difference. The camera wouldn’t pick up on it, not from the angle it would find itself at. And you yourself can’t figure out if this right here is where you’ll end it—where the scene cuts.

A little longer, you’re telling yourself. 

See: contraceptives—left the whole pack back at the office. It’s the whole reason why you decided to fall asleep in the first place. Yeseo said something about buying some right as you both stepped through the front door but your mouths sufficed for the subsequent half hour. Some dinner, that was.

And because there’s no self-control, she didn’t have to do much to persuade you into taking a shower before heading to the closest pharmacy, or gas station, or anywhere that happened to be open at this ungodly hour and—

Again, no polite terminology here. 

You’ve been fucking her raw for the past ten minutes. Her fertile arousal gathers at the base of your cock every time you piston in, in, in—so messy, smeared, depraved—and your thumbs leave flush-red marks whenever they press onto her smooth, luxury skin.

So you cum, naturally. Flood her womb. It’s filthy, because Yeseo is at that point, too—the girl put a finger over her clit a minute ago and ran it in circles until her eyes went hazy, went dumb. Until her thus-far dulcet moans turned into half breaths and broken whimpers. There’s a ‘yes’ in there somewhere, a flash in the pan, brief and hissed, as the tension in her chest breaks into more cries of pleasure with your name intertwined.

You groan, then, slipping out only a moment after and holding your cock like it’s fucking expired. The feeling is an overstimulated frenzy—electric, and still jolting. Out of all things, however, what fucks with you is not what you did, but how it looks: her figure shivers as she plants her heels back on shower tiles; hot and sticky white lands next to her feet. 

It reeks of debauchery—hasty, impatient. Yeseo’s cunt leaks and all you think about is dipping back in for seconds.

But the scene cuts. Shower steam continues to rise and, with it, your thoughts fade into the next.

~~

She’s reading something that you’re sure is not right. Perhaps it’s not wholly accurate. It’s also noon now, for what it’s worth. the sleep’s polyphasic—a total blur—as it always tends to be over the Saturdays and the Sundays. 

“Seventy-two hours,” Yeseo says. She’s sitting on your kitchen counter, eating grapes. Girl hasn’t had a single piece of clothing on since the day before.

“You’re kidding.” 

“Says it can be effective even five days after.” Her mouth’s full. “Damn.”

You close the fridge and walk over to her. “Are you reading an AI summary?” 

“Well, it’s summarizing the links below that, so.” She turns her phone towards you. 

Levono-whatever-the-fuck’s the active ingredient—Plan B. The morning-after pill.

“Uh huh,” you say, incredulous. You’re also sweating, almost.

“We’ll get it Monday morning,” Yeseo ensures. “Grape?”

“Can’t we head out right now?”

She feeds you the one, hovers another in front of your lips. “I’m doing a round of laundry.” 

The bunch that you bought this week happens to be seed-in. 

“And that stops you—” You swallow. “How?”

“The condoms are in my duffle bag, the one that has the rest of my clothes?”

“Ah,” you discern. “The one you left at the office.”

“The one I told you,” she asserts, “to get for me before heading out.”

Open your mouth. You’re gullible by choice, you tell yourself—Yeseo feeds you the second. 

She has one set of clothes, one, and it won’t be ready for another thirty minutes. It crosses your mind that you forgot the color of her underwear, at this point. Never properly memorized it. You figure it foreshadows what’s left of the weekend; settle on that fate.

“Wanna put on the movie I mentioned the other day?” She hops off the laminate and walks towards the couch. The edge of the counter is imprinted on her upper thighs and it’s safe to say you’ll be having to replay the film some other day, at a time where there’s at least one layer of fabric to dissuade you from the inevitable. Not like that ever does anything.

You hum. “Not a bad idea.”

Yeseo stands so casually in your living room, working the remote, nothing on. The curtains are pulled back and a noontide shine contours her shape as if the heavens were on a campaign to meddle with you at every possible turn. Your eyes are glued to each and every divot on her skin, to the curves and the lines that lead to them. Her hip cocks off to the right and it has your head tilting to the left—could get you dizzy just like that.

You try to determine where to start again, though walking over to her, it’s not much of a conscious decision. Your palm lands and unabashedly grabs the heft of her ass. No hesitation. It spills through your fingers—has you hard in an instant.

“Should be fun,” she says, absentminded. With the way the selection box goes over and around and anywhere but any of the streaming apps, you know she’s not quite paying attention to the TV, either.

You, regardless, still ask: “what’s it about, again?”

The answer to the next is no.

“Does it matter?”

Superfluous, and somewhat of a spoiler, but this does snowball until the aforementioned Monday morning. Sunday will have you running the same scenes. The blocking will maybe be a bit different, though the outcomes are all the same: you suck at pulling out. 

And you’ll tell yourself it’s by choice.

[vaaaaaiolet]

Six years have gone by since 1998. Two since the death of your first (and only) love. So when the dead come knocking at your door after your life went to hell without warning, you have a tough time welcoming him back in. In Leon's defense, his hands were tied. You? You'd put your life almost unforgivably on hold after he blindsided you.

Maybe the only way to get you to listen is to tie yours.

STRICTLY MDNI!! f / m make-up sex after a reunion gone sour. ANGST GALORE. established relationship but it's Messy, plot spans pre-re2r to re4r, character study (scar tour!!), Foreplay: The Movie, good bdsm etiquette...leon doms PLS STAY WITH ME. light bondage + blindfold, The Chair™️, munch MARATHON, emotions (read: LEON) keep edging you before an extremely self-indulgent dicking down. consensual unsafe sex, PRAISE, lil bit of mean ft. leon's possessive streak + morning after <3

a/n: anon req gone wildly wrong. welcome back to ovulation week with vivi, THE MOST UNORIGINAL BITCH ON THE PLANET 😭 i read a fic about getting tied to a chair and discovered something about myself. now i’m convinced daydreaming about bondage w/ leon is how i passed finals. oops. pray i survive second sem y'all🧍

word count: 6.3k 🤡 // read on ao3

“The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.” - Blaise Pascal

Like any good breakup scene, it starts with rain. 

A torrential downpour. Poseidon’s wrath lashing down the panes of your living room windows. The terrific sound of it is only drowned out by the hum of your TV set, the one source of light in this dark room and you, a moth to flame, circle it, afraid of getting too close lest you burn. 

The President’s on tonight. His daughter’s back safe and sound, having been spirited away to Spain. The press release is overjoyed to report that one indomitable man brought her back in a matter of days. President Graham declares it with a triumphant fist: an American hero stands in front of us tonight, and the crowd erupts in cheers for the First Daughter’s savior, but honest to God, you couldn’t give a shit about his heroics.

Not when Leon’s right there. Suited and tied. 

Or as close to living, breathing Leon as you could hope to get.

You inch closer to the screen when the camera pans over a face you haven’t seen properly in six years.

Sandy hair two shades darker, baby fat bereft on now-chiseled cheeks. It’s easy to pick apart the pixels of the man’s profile when he’s staring at the audience. Heart knocking against your ribs, you can’t help reaching out and tracing the angle of his jaw, this uncelebrated member of the President’s security entourage on national television who’s unknowingly subbing in for your once-boyfriend. Long-term, long-distance lover, if you wanted to flatter yourself. 

It doesn’t matter now. It’s getting late and dreaming should be done in bed. You reach for the remote to turn the prerecorded program off, and the rain starts falling – no, knocking – exceptionally harder against your front door. Urgently, like it wants in. 

And then the rain calls out your name.

The floorboards creak under your feet when you go to investigate through the peephole. A powder blue eye stares back.

“Who is it?” you call out, voice shriller than you’d like.

“Open the door, please? I’ll explain inside. It’s freezing out here.”

“I don’t let strangers in, sorry. Who are you?”

The rain answers in a familiar timbre that sends shivers down your spine. “Trust me, just this once.”

The doorknob clatters in surprise at the twist of your wrist, and swings open to reveal the man from your TV set, now escaped and peering at you through dewy lashes the pixels had hidden. Your eyes flit across his features: it’s the very same jawline, black suit identical to the one on your screen. Exactly the man your brain had tried hushing your heart from recognizing.

Your hold on the doorknob trembles.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Leon offers you a ghost of a smile as the storm pelts down his shoulders. “May I come in?”

“You watch the news a lot?” he ventures after a few minutes.

“Huh?”

Once the initial shock of Leon’s appearance subsides, something acrid settles in your bones. The silence between you two stretches like taffy waiting to be pulled. It sticks in your throat without much coming out to abate it. What else can you do when the dead rejoin the world of the living?

Make light conversation. You can do that. 

“Leon, I thought you died.” Or not.

He shoots you a half-grin. “I wouldn’t die on you just like that, you know.”

“You practically did,” you retort, voice going thick. 

You find old habits hard to break. It’s nothing new. You’re perched on the armrest of your couch, a familiar penchant Leon had smiled at when he shut the front door behind him. His habit of shaking his hair dry like a puppy also hadn’t gone away, much to the traitorous delight of your heart. You’d almost giggled when he accidentally sprayed you with rainwater doing it. 

Now, you’re watching him fold his suit jacket over one of your kitchen chairs with his back turned to you, an odd bulge in its left pocket threatening to send the whole thing crashing to the floor at any moment. Other secrets hang in the air like ghosts. Leon’s tie sits drying on top of your radiator. You think you should tell him to peel off his soaked dress shirt, he might catch a cold otherwise, but are you allowed to say that anymore? 

Worse still, why do you want to?

“I saw you on the news. That’s why,” you reply a beat too late. “You told me in your last letter that you were going to work for the government. Something to do with the President, and ever since then I…I turn it on when something big happens.”

Leon stops fiddling with his jacket, turning to you with wide eyes. “That was-”

“Two years ago?” You swallow. “I know.”

The letters sit burning holes in a box under your bed, all stamped and postmarked with no return address since 1998. The last day you’d seen him alive and breathing. 

Leon was the boy you’d hold hands with under desks in high school, a high school sweetheart as textbook as they come. You’d ditched prom to wish on shooting stars in the back of his first car, let him be the first to slip off your spaghetti straps when kissing grew too chaste to convey the giddiness in your chest. 

Puppy love turned into something perennial. Real. He’d carried moving boxes up the stairs of your first apartment, and you right after. You’d watched him rise through the ranks of the Academy. Cheered front row at his graduation, let him spin you in your highest heels right in front of your parents. Blushed when he’d squeeze your hand tighter walking past the jeweler’s at the mall. 

And you’d soaked Leon’s chest with tears before he rushed off to Raccoon City that September night so long ago, steely resolve in his eyes and a promise on his lips to come right back after doing his sworn duty.

Leon never returned. His letters did, though. 

Envelopes from seemingly nowhere – blacked out epistolary updates you’d read on your bathroom floor that grew briefer as weeks spiraled into months. 

What you could piece together from what wasn’t censored under an increasingly watchful eye was that Leon was under a government contract, fighting tooth and nail in some kind of training program that couldn’t have been any run-of-the-mill police kind. Something he had as little agency over as the frequency of his letters, he’d promised you. He was going to come home one day. Just one more month of training, one more mission, one last test. 

Leon was furious in his final message when he found out about the deal with the White House. The censor didn’t go through as much as it should have; you’d never been more grateful for the oversight as you tilted the page to read his scribbles in the margins.

Then came a terrifying radio silence. 

You waited each month afterwards for the postman to stop by your mailbox. Waded through a snowstorm in January to make sure the post office had your new address when you moved in 2003, practically begged the lady at the counter to check if they’d mixed up your letters with anyone else’s in the meantime. Nothing. 

“Two years, Leon,” you grit out, digging your nails into the leather of your couch. The tail end of his name takes on an ugly shape in your mouth when you rise to your feet, “I waited two years not knowing if you were alive or not.”

No one had answers to his disappearance except for the one you’d endured ever since he left: move on. 

The way he holds his tongue now, too, sets sparks alight in your throat. “And you want to know what happened to me since then?”

“Tell me,” Leon says softly.

Your voice falters. 

A dead man walking would take the breath out of you in any case, but it does even more so now that Leon looks larger than life – no longer an afterimage on TV and coming over to where you stand. Even with his shirt sleeves plastered to them from the rain, Leon’s arms look used to heavy duty; there’s a broadness in his shoulders he didn’t have out of the Academy. 

His mouth pinches when he stops a tentative foot away from you. “Tell me,” he repeats, frowning at your averted gaze. 

He’s waiting for you to speak. So close you could touch him, blood pumping through his veins just like you’d once prayed for until your breath ran out.

And it pisses you off. 

He doesn’t get to have it this easy.

“No.” 

Confusion colors his exclamation. “No?”

“No.” You smile bitterly at the ground when he backs off an inch, raising your chin to look him in the eyes as your own start to sting. “You don’t get to be the good guy. You don’t get to come barrelling back into my life, how’d you know I live here anyway…”

“I found out as soon as I could, you don’t think I’ve been worried sick about you-”

“Not after you cut me off!” 

“It’s not that simple!”

Two years. 730 days. Your throat so hoarse from crying the night before that you’d called off work some mornings. 

“You know what I think, Leon? I bet you thought I’d wait on you forever.”

He blinks fast, taken aback. “I wouldn’t- I couldn’t do that to you.”

“So you’d have come back even if I didn’t?”

Didn’t. A flicker of something soft crosses his face. “Really?”

With your heart beating out of your chest, you cross your arms and spit out a haughty, “Of course not.”

Leon stares.

The resulting silence stretches half a minute.

It’s a tepid standoff at first, made worse by you searching his person up and down. You wrack your brain for his old tells: a jumping muscle in his jaw, a furrow of his brow. Angry, pink cheeks accompanied by a crestfallen pout. 

Nothing. He’s dead silent.

So you double down. 

“My friends told me to settle down, said it wasn’t safe living alone,” you sniff, rocking on the balls of your feet. “So unless you-mmf!”

Lips, crashing onto yours. Burning warm. Two seconds of affection before a tongue flicks brashly over the seam of your stunned mouth. Your brain in overdrive. Leon no longer a foot away but pressed so fiercely against you that your camisole starts going see-through from the water still saturating his shirt. 

Your hands feebly come up to his chest, not to push him off like you should, but to cling to his collar. Old habit.

Fuck. 

“You’ve gotten mean, sweetheart,” Leon grins razor sharp, whispering into the corner of your mouth. “It’s a good look on you.”

“I’m not…” God, he’s kissing the sense out of your head. Your lungs suck in his breaths like a failed attempt to go cold turkey.

“Sure you are, lying to me like that. Watching the news just in case I’m there.” 

Rough hands dig under your thighs. Hoist you up like you’re made of feathers.

“Only your shoes on the shoe rack. Heels I bought you.”

Your feet dangle in the air, your head’s not used to the drop in air pressure this high. You’re being lifted – where? 

“You think I’m that dense, baby?” 

The sound of wooden scraping scratches your ears as you register one of your kitchen chairs being dragged to the middle of the living room. You’re plopped unceremoniously down. 

And with your vision swimming, you notice Leon finally taking off his shirt. Unbuttoning it with fervor, throwing the fabric onto the floor so hard there’s a wet thwack!, and suddenly, he’s knelt at your feet, looking up at you with teeth chattering from the chill and a blizzard brewing in his eyes.

The raging storm outside nearly quiets for him to tell you, “We’re gonna do it this way.”

A cocktail of resentment and curiosity churns in your stomach. You stare daggers at the ceiling. Leon snatches his tie off the radiator and wraps it around his hand, checking if it’s dry by now. 

It is. Good. 

“Since you don’t want to look at me so badly,” he hisses, “you won’t need to look at me at all.” He unfurls the tie and lays it flat against his palm. “This is going over your eyes so I can actually get something inside your head. And you’re going to feel everything I say, okay?”

“I feel cold. You got my shirt wet,” you spit back.

“Then take it off,” Leon says smoothly.

How rude. Utterly uncouth. 

You’ve never flung off an article of clothing faster. You’ve got nothing to hide, you’re fucking better than to play meek to his games. Your bra barely hides how your nipples pebble in the frigid air, and Leon sucks in a breath at the sight. You’re wearing blue lace. His favorite.

His tone softens a fraction of a degree when he instructs, “You say ‘stop’ and it’s over. Tell me you understand.”

“I do.”

The silk wraps gentler around your eyes than you expect. The living room disappears into velvet, and your fingers twitch, itching to fly at your face and investigate the cause of this new pitch black.

“Hands down. I need them more than you do.” 

Leon’s voice ripples in the darkness. Oh God. That must be why people do this sort of thing. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks, almost in awe.

Fuckfuckfuck. He wasn’t supposed to tell this early. 

“...a little.”

Your hand gets lifted into the air, your index and middle fingers separated from the rest. Leon touches their tips to the hollow in the middle of his collarbone, and right here, you feel the flutter of life. Wingbeats matching the race of your own heart. 

So is he.

There’s movement, butterfly wings brushing against your cheek when he reaches up to press a kiss there. Your fingers fall away from the base of his throat and land on a raised patch just below his right shoulder. It’s…almost star-shaped. Rough. 

“You have a scar here,” you breathe. “How’d you-”

“Bullet wound, 1998. I want you to keep going.”

You could’ve dug your nails into it. Scratched off one more reminder of the day Leon left you in the dark. His tie leaves you blind, but you don’t need sight to feel the trust Leon still has in you as he invites your fingertips to his chest. You go gentle into the good night with his voice to guide you.

“Knife scar,” he whispers. Soft, like how you trace over the mark. 

Your fingertips shake over his ribs.

“Burns from saving a little girl. She had eyes like yours.”

The trek is arduous, nonlinear. The same injuries show up again and again, scattered across his body like fireworks. You think you’re fine, using one hand for the job and clutching the other to your heart so it won’t break, and then you slip, grab onto his shoulders for support, and your palms fall over the flat of his back.

Two symmetrical gashes spread across his shoulder blades – Icarus’ wings singed off.

“I’ve tried saving a lot over the years, sweetheart,” Leon goes quiet, a new grief clogging his flow of explanation. “Thought I could have it all at first, you and this job. I wrote you less, told myself you’d already moved on, but you’re right, I…I wanted to keep you.” You discover tears sound thick when he laughs. “I’ve lost so fucking much these six years and I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to lose you too.”

“The kids in high school,” trembles your own voice, “they said I’d run away with you, but you ended up running from me.” 

“When you’re all I have left?” Leon brings your palm to his cheek. “How could I?”

“But you did!” you sob, banging weak fists against his chest.

You remember the pity, the snide judgment. Declining invites and frustrating friends when you’d flake on blind dates set up to get you out of the house. Switching excuses every time somebody back home called and inevitably asked, So when are you and Leon going to visit? Warring against logic (of course he’s fucking dead) and the arrested development of your heart as you rolled dice on his return. Four years in a stupor of when, two of what now?

Spending all that time at odds with yourself and the world turned you into a real tough kid. A callous bitch. Eventually, you forced yourself to explore your options like a grown woman should. Tried your hand at anything legal to forget the sinking feeling in your chest. Had a phase where you’d wake up in a stranger’s bed only to go home and collapse, rereading Leon’s letters in the cardboard box under your own. If it was steel that marked his back like this, yours is streaked with flint.

And that’s exactly what you tell him. 

Immediately, his shoulders straighten. “So you’ve gone on a few dates.”

If he wanted to be polite about it, yes.

“Did they fuck you as good as I did?”

You splutter. A cold zephyr breezes over your breasts when Leon exhales. There’s a rattle of metal – his belt, you register faintly – and your eyes squeeze shut behind your blindfold when he rises from his kneel, leaving the space between your thighs empty. 

“That is one hell of a greeting after six years, sweetheart.” His chuckle is dark, delightful. “Hands behind your back.” 

“You’re not fucking arresting me right now, Leon, I don’t know what you’re playing at,” you squeak when he loops leather over your wrists. Annoyingly, they fit perfectly in his palm. “Have you lost your mind? You- I still can’t see!”

Leon’s hold goes still. “Is that a stop?”

You huff indignantly. 

He shakes your wrists. “I don’t mess with that shit. Do you want me to stop?”

“…no.”

“Good. Comfortable?”

Embarrassingly enough, the back of your kitchen chair isn’t half bad to have your arms around. Giving your newly bound hands a wriggle, you answer Leon with a quick nod, and he presses his lips to the back of your head in confirmation. He circles back between your thighs, a vulture in the dark. Your knees shove open courtesy of two calloused palms. 

“Lift your hips,” is your next instruction. And then, “These are coming off.” 

Your bottoms slide off in a fleeting caress down your legs. A cushion pushes between the surprised arch of your back and the chair’s straight one, leaving your bare, trembling- oh God. 

Oh God. He’s-

“You’re going to hold perfectly still and let me say hello to my favorite girl, sweetheart. Poor thing hasn’t gotten any attention since I’ve been spoiling you with all my talking.”

A kiss falls onto your clit. Your hips jerk up – oh shit! 

Leon seizes the opportunity to lick into your entrance before further coherent thought can form in your brain. 

He must’ve planned it, counting on your brainless reflexes to push your hips further into his scorching mouth. You get points for being brave, though: swallowing screams, pretending your thighs aren’t fighting to clamp around his head, attempting an escape to your happy place when really, this is it – this painstakingly sweet suction on your nerves.

He pops off with a wet smack! magnified by your blindfold. Slurs, “Missed this pussy so fuckin’ much,” dives back to trace figure eights around your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

You pretend the icy air is curling your toes for ego’s sake. Try and stave off morbid curiosity. “You…didn’t see anyone? All this time – hah!”

“Do you have any idea,” suck, “how many times I’ve come into my hand thinking of you?”

Your heavy head falls back with a wail.

“How many times I’ve fucked my fist to your name?”

“Leon!”

He pulls away at your keening cry, deaf to any begging to come back. “You just never know what’s good for you, baby. You don’t listen to your friends, you let me tie you up like this, fuck yourself on my face…” 

There’s rustling, and your living room bursts with color as a sharp tug untwists the knot of Leon's tie behind your head. You enter the world in tears all over again. 

“Pleasepleaseplease, I was so close-”

And when the darkness subsides, you’re free to lay eyes on the perpetrator. 

Leon.

Leon with his hair mussed to high heaven, pushed to his forehead by the greedy grind of your hips. Ocean eyes surveying you over a mouth flushed red with cheeks to match. A fallen angel at your feet, working his sinful tongue inside his mouth as he breathes.

Blood thumps through your veins. Your chest heaves. The chair is sticky, uncomfortable; entirely your fault. Your hands writhe behind your back as you struggle to sit up properly against the pillow and salvage some of your pride.

Leon’s gaze fixes on the floor. “I didn’t. Didn’t have time, didn’t want to. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat swelling with thorns, and he groans like you kicked him in the ribs.

He rises to his knees as you slump; reaches behind the chair to unbuckle your restraints, shaking his head. “Yeah, I should be. I put you through hell for six years. I came back from Spain expecting to introduce myself to your fiancé or something, you know? Should’ve brought flowers at least.”

A hot tear slides down your cheek. 

It was Leon. On the news. The President’s daughter, the rescue. 

The hero.

This is how you welcome a hero home?

Spying your arms wilted at your sides, Leon takes the opportunity to press his mouth to the plush of your inner thigh. This time, it’s a warming salve when he kisses into your skin, unlatching only to move an inch and repeat, sucking roses the shape of his mouth onto the softest parts of you.

He rasps into your slick flesh, “Just let me have this, and I promise I’ll go.”

And he noses his way back into your folds, quickly giving up on flowery notions to feast like a man starved. You’re lulled to sleep by the lap of his tongue before he starts working it with the prowess of a Swiss knife, soothing and scalding in turns as it digs into your now oversensitive cunt. The scrape of his 5 o’clock shadow on your inner thigh makes for a maddening mix.

It all sends you crumpling over his head with a cry. 

His hungry hand pays no mind, scrambling under the lace of your bra to knead at your tender breast, thumbing at your nipple. You pay back the favor, fisting chunks of his hair as your arousal drips down his chin, and Leon’s thanks arrive in the form of guttural whines you’d forgotten you could wrench from him. 

So goes Leon’s last meal. You’d be enjoying it too if your brain hadn’t finally caught onto what came out of his mouth before he turned it into a decoy.

I’ll go.

Good luck fighting the itch to interrupt. 

You yank hard, and he moans complaint through a mouthful of pussy. “It’s not gonna work,” he gasps when you wrench his face from between your thighs, demanding explanation. 

“So you’re just going to walk out on me again?” you snap through a haze of tears. “What about what I want?”

“You want this?” 

Leon shoves your hands deeper still, wincing when he purposely digs your nails into his scalp. 

“Pull. Make it hurt,” he swallows, voice cracking. “Tell me to get the hell out. Tell me you hate me for breaking your heart. Find someone who’s in your life enough to love you right, and let me set you free, sweetheart, please. I can’t take it.”    

By all means, you should take his offer. 

Pull out every damn strand of hair on his head. Give him a taste of his own medicine. Go on for God’s sake. What happened to drinking yourself to half to death, trying to water down the fear that Leon beat you to its doorstep?

Think about never having to wake up to the cold side of your bed again. Don’t think about how perfectly Leon’s cheek cradles into your thigh. How he lets you map the moles on his neck when you have trouble falling asleep.   

Finally having a shoulder to cry on, someone who sweeps you off your feet, inside jokes that confuse everyone but you two. Forget how Leon won your heart as a teenager doing exactly that. 

Getting called pet names that make you blush in front of your friends: baby, angel, darling, sweetheart. Don’t you dare imagine each one rolling off Leon’s tongue the first time he crowned you with them.

Do not, above all circumstances, remember that wrapped in your arms right now is the boy who, after saving the President’s daughter all by himself, ran back to you within hours of his return. Who’d waited for you in his own way.

Your hands drop to cup his cheeks. Wetness makes your thumbs slip when you brush them across — the rain had to have dried off long ago. And with eyes misting shut, you thread your fingers as tenderly as you can through Leon’s hair, and press a kiss to the top of his head. 

“You’re really doing this?” Leon’s whisper wavers a decibel above hope.

Hotel citrus stings your nose, and you wonder how long it’ll take to replace it with the scent of your shampoo. 

You’ve missed this. Missed him. 

“The clearance I have after this mission, it’s insane,” he’s twenty-one again at the touch of your lips, gushing in disbelief over his badge coming in the mail with you at the kitchen table, “I-I couldn’t believe I got them to let me go right after the press release. Alone! I can’t be home all the time but it won’t be like before, I can actually come back, and if you want me to-”

But unfortunately, the relentless throb between your legs forces you to school your expression into anything except elated at the unfolding prospects.

“Leon.”

His grin flashes white. “Yeah?”

“If you came back just to eat me out, I’ll kick you out for real.”

It must be fun, you gripe, thinking straight without soft breaths fanning embers between your legs like a sadistic bellows for the past ten minutes; ruining your cushion beyond hope of wash or repair. 

Leon lets out a barking laugh, head thrown back, and aghast, you bat at his chest. 

“Mean really is a good look on you. You don’t want to talk details?” he teases, pulling you in for a kiss that tastes like desire – like you.

“Not when you’re- you know-” you splutter, antsy.

“Oh, come on. Say it.”

“You used to be nice to me!” 

Sadly for you, you’ve kissed him giddy, and giddy turns him cocky real fast. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want if you tell me, angel. Four words.” He grins, tucking a hand between your thighs to interrupt your squirming and raising the other to count, “‘Leon. Please…’”

“Fuck me already!” you cry, and it’s three, but he sweeps you up in a blur of limbs anyway.

Bra strap falling off your shoulder. His mouth sealing onto yours. Pussy sobbing for attention over the crotch of his dress slacks. Leon groaning at the feeling of you soaking through fabric covering a held-off arousal so hard there’s no way it doesn’t hurt. His endurance training had come in handy, it seems.

There’s a blind fumbling in the dim light as he grits out a “Gladly,” and stumbles out of your living room in a mad rush, sacrificing his shoulder to several walls for the sake of kissing you breathless.

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking like Bambi. You sure you can make it?”

“Leon Scott Kennedy, if you don’t take me to bed right this second…” 

“And here I was trying to be nice. Bedroom?”

“On the right,” you pant, clawing his mouth back onto yours again. 

He follows through, no reconnaissance training needed to find the door you direct him towards with your foot. Either the heat’s better here, or it’s every cell in your body buzzing with anticipation when he flicks the nearest lamp to life. You pull him onto the bed with you, silk sheets caressing your bare skin as you scooch to make space for Leon to crawl up and over you. 

The sharp rasp of a fly zipping undone cuts through the air. He hisses in frustration, patting his pockets. “Shit, I don’t have a-” 

“Condom?”

“Yeah. You still keep them in your nightstand?”

You worry your bottom lip. “Not for a while, I haven’t, um, done anything in a bit, but I’m on the pill and I’m clean.” Please, please, don’t let this be a dealbreaker. “Is…that okay?”

“Holy shit.” Leon whooshes out a breath, grinning as he leans back on his knees. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

It’s a go. Your stomach swoops with rollercoaster adrenaline.

He balls up his slacks, kicks off his sodden boxers (your chest puffs with pride as he tosses it to the floor), and parts your trembling legs painstakingly slow in comparison. Sharp eyes rove over the love bites littering your thighs, admiring his handiwork. You bite the inside of your cheek, devil on your shoulder itching you to tease, and let your hands skitter across over the juncture of your thighs where Leon’s focus lingers.

“Spread yourself for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs. 

You do. Let your fingers dip into your arousal, gasp at the cold air kissing your folds when you bloom for him. Roses all over your thighs when you’re his prettiest one. He leans down and kisses the bud at your center, sending the most pleasant electric tingle running up your spine. 

“You promised,” you whine, craning your neck to see his face framed between your thighs again. “Need you inside. Please.”

For once, Leon indulges you, but not without himself too. 

“Turn over for me. Oh, I know,” he coos at your pout and the upset buck of your hips, “give me a chance, angel. I’ve been dreaming of this for years. Planned out every fucking detail.”

You flip over with a huff. One broad palm lifts your pelvis into the air, easy as anything, and the other slips a pillow between your thighs, making sure the plump cotton nestles right up against your swollen clit. You give your hips a tentative grind and promptly gasp at the shot of pleasure. Friction at your command, leaving Leon free to run wild.

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Good?”

“Mhm...”

You face the headboard, stomach to the sheets and blood roaring in your ears. Blind again to what he has in store for you. Slick pumps sound from behind – Leon finally planning to make good on his word – and the head of his cock nudges at your weeping entrance, teasing the now-fraying nerves lining your slit, so close to where you need him that your breath audibly catches.

He waits. Pulls your strings taut –

Hisses, “I’m gonna fuck out every memory of anyone you’ve been with while I was gone.”

– and cuts them loose.

Your scream ricochets off the walls when he plunges in.

It shouldn’t be pretty. There’s nothing pretty about the haze of green that clouded Leon’s vision for a selfish second while yours was at his mercy not long ago. Your one-night stands translated to competition in his head. He’s only a man. But there’s something undeniably pretty about the divine arch of your back that has him spellbound when your cunt swallows him to the root in a single go, suffocatingly sweet.

“Goddamn, you’re tight!” 

Leon’s fingers sink into the fat of your hips as he fights for balance. You’ve got a mattress to claw; he’s only as stable as his pride. He lets you catch your breath after the first thrust, has your addled brain waxing poetic when you swear you feel his dick throb in time with his heartbeat inside you. 

It doesn’t help that he’s got a mouth on him. “Pussy sucking me in like she doesn’t want me to leave,” he gasps when you clench.

Your fingers curl proudly into your bedsheets. 

It’s a game of push and pull from here. Leon’s hips drag back, and with all the agony of too many nights with his right hand and your name for company, he starts carving into the meat of your ass. 

You make a strangled noise, and eventually improve to, “Oh, ohmy- ohmygod!”

He can’t keep his hands off you. They span your lower back, cup your breasts in turns, explore the drenched underside of the pillow you rut against in time with his thrusts. You’re handled with just enough precision to keep you speared on his dick, all so Leon can watch, gobsmacked, how your drooling pussy opens up for him. In-out, in-out. A scene out of his wet dreams.

Your cries syncopate with the slam of his thighs against yours, an embarrassing, pornstar-worthy, “Ah-ah, ah-ah!” that you’d have more shame over if you weren’t busy getting the brains fucked out of you. 

Leon realizes the beauty of the present tense with each inch of his length you coat in your arousal over and over again. 

“Look so pretty taking me like this, my perfect girl, doing so fucking good, look at you…” 

The pressure building in your stomach rears its head. Threatens to push you over.

“I missed you so much,” you sob into the sheets, “so fucking much, I can’t, I don’t know how to- oh!” 

“Won’t leave you ever again,” Leon pants, tilting your chin so he can see your pretty face. “Never- oh my God, you’re close, aren’t you?”

Call it intuition, instinct. If you were close before, Leon’s fingers rushing to your clit cement your theory; he’s never been wrong about it, even as a rookie.

Your hands scramble to claw at the back of his neck.  

“Fuck, you are!” he exclaims.

Home stretch. Leon’s hips threaten to stutter, so he sinks his teeth in your shoulder in a desperate bid to keep them steady. 

For you, the pain of it is primal, flavored with a need for connection that has you groping blindly to lace his fingers through yours. Instinct all over again. 

For Leon, it’s how you kept him going all this time; you’ll keep him grounded now. He’s not going to last otherwise. 

You listen, face planted to the bed. Wait for the last thread to snap, for Leon’s gasp at the final flutter of your cunt around him. Your orgasm doesn’t come in a babbling, sputtering, break of the sound barrier, no – it comes as a gentle push.

A trust fall off the edge with Leon right behind.

You see bright light. Nothing of the abyss you plunged into when he left. There’s a jerk behind your navel, and pleasure starts curling upwards from your stomach like the licking of a comfortable fire. Your ears pop from the ecstasy flowing through your veins and it’s almost as if you can hear its crackling embers right here, right now as Leon fits so perfectly inside you. 

In and out. In and out. In-out, in-out. You breathe, and he breaks. 

He spills into you warmer than sunshine. Molten gold, filling your cracks like kintsugi. The air admits, “I love you”, having trouble telling apart which of you said it first.

He’s got a week on his hands. A week of wonders stretches in front of you, seven whole days to figure out how this new arrangement will work. 

“It’s as much as they’d let me call off on such short notice, but we’ll take it from there,” Leon murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

He’s back in your arms where he belongs. Morning peeks through your blinds with the sun’s face washed clean from last night’s rainstorm, and if you open your window right about now, you could say hello to all the flowers blooming in celebration. 

You can get to that later. You’ve got more pressing matters on your hands, like taking headcount of the constellation of moles dotting Leon’s chest and introducing yourself to the new ones. You have a feeling you’ll learn them by heart real soon.

“We can figure it out together,” you hum, content with your head propped against the headboard. 

An exhilaratingly real concept. 

“Together.” Leon breathes lightly. “Yeah.”

“And you know, I think that’s more than enough time to buy me real flowers.”

He chokes back a not-so-subtle cough. “You’re still hung up on that?”

“If you want to make up for how I’ll have to wear pants and turtlenecks to work for the next week, yes,” you poke into his chest, fighting the smile tugging at your lips.

“But you hate flowers! You say they always die on you!”

“No girl actually hates flowers, Leon!”

“At least I didn’t show up empty-handed. Give me a sec, sweetheart, I almost forgot.”

Leon pecks your forehead, slipping out of bed to pad to the living room. He comes back, having fetched his now dry suit jacket with the curious bulge still threatening to spill out of its left pocket, and hands it to you like a cat would a dead bird at your doorstep.

You give the creased clothing an unimpressed stare.

“Look in the pocket,” he insists, climbing back under the comforter.

You pull out a half-melted pack of Ferrero Rocher.

“Okay, well, they weren’t supposed to do that and I think I left them by the radiator…”

He’s lucky they taste just as delicious melted. You’ll have to give him a lesson in gifting before the holidays roll around because he’ll be here to celebrate them for the first time in six years – a thought sweeter than the chocolate-flavored kisses you peck onto his cheek. 

And in between the shining candy wrappers and Leon’s blond hair tickling your neck when he presses you into the bed again, this time, you think everything gold might just stay. 

fun (and spicy) fact about chocolate, and psst, find more of my work here!

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated, they keep fics from dying out <3 take care and i love you!

divider by @/adornedwithlight

[briefinquiries]

Tyler Owens x Reader: Don't Take Him

Request: Anonymous said: "hi! oh my gosh i love your tyler x reader writings so much. could you do one where the reader is watching the tornado wrangler's livestream while they're chasing and suddenly it cuts out & she's worried something happened to tyler? with just fluff and angst and all that? thank you <3"

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: angst

A/N: I'm afraid i'm officially down bad for tyler owens (and glen powell). send help.

The notification popped up on your phone while you were cooking dinner in the kitchen. 

The Tornado Wranglers started a live video. Watch it before it ends! 

You rolled your eyes and smirked. Tyler and his stupid channel, you thought. 

After wiping your hands on a dish towel, you swiped your thumb across the notification, letting it take you to their feed.

Boone’s face was the first you saw. His goofy, contagious grin flashed across the screen. “Alright, it’s rollin’,” he said, flipping the camera to show Tyler in the driver’s seat. “How we feelin’ today, T?” 

Tyler beamed, his smile causing his eyes to crinkle the way you loved so much. As annoying as it was to constantly be competing with tornadoes for Tyler’s affection, you had to admit that his passion was admirable. 

“Oh, we’re feelin’ pretty good, Boone– why don’t you show the viewers what we’re chasin’ today!”

The screen panned over towards the windshield, showing the storm ahead. The footage was a little grainy, but the impending storm in the distance was obvious.

“Ain’t she a beaut?” Boone marveled. 

“Now y’all got fireworks last week– this week what do you say we give rockets a go?” Tyler said, just as Boone turned the camera back on him. 

“Idiots,” you mumbled to yourself, shaking your head. You rested your phone against the utensil jar, propping it up so that you could continue to maneuver around the kitchen and listen at the same time. 

After a while, you got lost in the recipe you were trying, tuning out your boyfriend and his friends.

“Alright, Boone– Lilly?” Tyler said as you continued to chop the vegetables on the cutting board in front of you. “You ready?” 

“Oh, I’m ready!” you heard Lilly chime back. 

“Here we go, folks– as always, don’t try this at home!” 

You briefly turned your attention back towards the video as they began actively driving into the tornado, your view limited to Boone’s shaky camera work as Tyler’s driving undoubtedly turned chaotic. 

To avoid motion sickness, you looked back towards the food in front of you.

“She’s gettin’ close, boys!” Lilly yelled. 

You heard their collective cheers and hollers. 

“Anchoring time–” Tyler said. 

There was a brief pause before you heard Boone. “Hit the button, T–”

“I am hitting the button,” Tyler said firmly. 

“Tyler–” Lilly said. It was the hint of urgency in her tone that had you looking back towards your phone again. 

“It’s jammed–” Tyler said. “Here, gimme the screwdriver.”

Boone had clearly ceased thinking about camera angles. All you saw was the edge of Tyler’s face in the corner of the screen.  

“Tyler, we gotta lock it down–”

“I know, Boone. I’m tryin’ here– the damn button’s stuck again.”

“Guys–” Lilly warned. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched the frame. 

“Guys, it’s getting closer.”

“I know–” Tyler said. “Boone, move your hand.”

“C’mon, man, let me try–”

“I’m telling you, it’s stuck–”

“Look out!” you jumped at Lilly’s sudden scream, followed by the sound of a loud bang, that echoed even through the screen. 

“Oh shit–” Boone yelled, camera flying. 

You grabbed your phone urgently, but all you could see was the ceiling of Tyler’s truck. Suddenly, gear was flying through the screen– almost as if the truck was flipping. You held your breath, panic and dread flooding through your entire body as you watched helplessly. 

“Hang on to someth–” Tyler’s voice was suddenly cut off along with Boone’s feed. 

The Tornado Wranglers live stream has ended. 

Even after their video went dark, you continued staring at your phone– like you were hoping Boone would pop back up any second, laughing like this was some sick, twisted joke. 

Except you waited– and waited, and Boone never popped back up. 

And neither did Tyler. 

Frantically, you pulled up your contacts and clicked on Tyler’s name. You had an unspoken agreement that no matter what he was doing during a chase– if you called, he answered. 

So that’s exactly what you did. 

But your nerves weren’t settled. In fact, you stopped breathing all together when Tyler’s phone went straight to voicemail– something he swore he’d never do. 

Hoping that he just had bad service, you called a second time– and then a third. But each time you heard Tyler’s voice telling you to leave a message at the beep, you felt the pool of panic inside of you rising higher and higher. 

“C’mon Tyler,” you muttered to yourself. 

Stupidly, you let your hopes get up when Lilly’s phone actually rang. But when that went to voicemail too, your hopes just about shattered. You didn’t even bother to try Boone– he may have been the camera guy, but he almost never had his own phone within reach. 

After your fifth attempt to reach Tyler, you finally did leave a message. 

“Hey, it’s me. I was watching the livestream when it cut out and I–” your voice cracked, causing you to stop and take a shaky breath. “Listen, I just need to know that you’re okay. So please call me back.”

With that, you hung up the phone, setting it on the counter after finally realizing it probably wouldn’t be beneficial to try calling him a sixth time– no matter how badly you wanted to. You stared ahead out the window that was over the sink. It was blue skies where you were– just a few wispy, thin clouds overhead. Nothing that remotely resembled what Tyler had just driven through.  

You didn’t even know where he was chasing today. You’d meant to ask when he’d called you last night from his motel room, but you’d gotten distracted by the dog whining to go out and ultimately forgot. Now, you had no way to contact him and no idea where he was…  

Suddenly, a sob bubbled in your throat. Before you could filter or control it, you were letting out a shaky gasp– shoulders shuddering as you gripped the edge of the counter and doubled over. 

You felt it everywhere– from your mind down to your toes, your entire body reacted to the cruel, impossible idea of something happening to Tyler. 

Maybe he was fine, you told yourself. Maybe Boone just dropped his phone and the feed cut– But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew it was ridiculously unlikely. You saw those things go flying– you heard Lilly’s scream. 

Maybe the car flipped, maybe it was crushed. 

Maybe Tyler was pulled right from his seat, tossed into the oncoming storm. 

Maybe he was hit with flying debris, his body mangled and bruised and broken–

“No,” you whimpered to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no– please– please don't take him, please don't take him.”

You weren't even sure who you were pleading to, all you knew was that you couldn’t imagine Tyler not being okay. He was the strong one– always steady, always certain. He was your rock, the person you leaned on for absolutely everything. And the idea of him being hurt somewhere was unfathomable. Tyler didn’t get scared– Tyler didn’t get hurt. Tyler drove into oncoming tornadoes and stayed strong. 

To your absolute despair, all you could do in the upcoming hours while you waited for any sort of news, was hope to God that was still the case. 

Eventually, you found a home on the kitchen floor– back against the cabinets and knees hugged tightly to your chest to try and withstand the dread raging inside of you. 

…

Tyler put his truck in park outside of the house before running a hand through his damp, windblown hair. After the day he’d had, he’d never been happier to be home. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d flipped in the truck. Thanks to the roll cage, they wound back upright with next to no damage– but Tyler knew it’d been his fault. The stupid rods had malfunctioned again– something Tyler had been meaning to take a look at for the past month. Except every time they got stuck, he’d managed to fix the jam before the storms actually hit. But this time, he’d been too late. 

Luckily, his two passengers were even bigger adrenaline junkies than he was. The truck had barely landed back on its wheels before Boone was hollering and pounding his fist against the ceiling in excitement. And Lilly wasn’t far behind him. Meanwhile, all Tyler could do was look down at his shattered cell phone and hope to hell you wouldn’t need to reach him for the rest of the night. 

As soon as Tyler walked through the front door of your shared house, he noticed signs of you everywhere. The lamp near your reading chair was turned on, and the blanket you always used was strewn across the couch messily. He noticed the mug resting on the coffee table, thinking to himself that it was almost certainly half full of the tea you always insisted on making at night but never finished. 

He smiled to himself, as he bent over to untie his muddy boots, eager to spend the rest of his night holding you close. 

He had barely managed to toe off his final boot when he heard shuffling from the kitchen. 

“Tyler?” 

He could instantly tell that something was off– your voice sounded so muffled and choked up.  

“Hey,” he said, turning to offer you a smile. But it faded from his face at the sight of you. Your body was trembling, shoulders slumped and arms wound tightly around yourself. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy from what looked like hours of crying. 

“Baby?” he said. 

In response, you covered your mouth and hunched over just in time for a sob to escape your lips. 

Instantly, Tyler’s stomach dropped to the floor. 

“Hey,” he said, hurrying forward. He hesitated, hands hovering near your shoulders. He’d never seen you like this– so fragile and broken and obviously devastated over something. But he had no fucking idea what it was– which meant, he had no fucking idea how to fix it. 

Your hair had fallen in your face, but he could still see the tears rolling steadily down your rosy cheeks as you gasped for air. 

“Hey,” he repeated gently, tilting his head down so that he was closer to your height. 

“I-I saw– And I thought–” you stammered frantically, jumping to the next sentence without finishing the first. 

In that moment, Tyler decided against his earlier hesitation and risked reaching for you. Just standing there and watching you fall apart went against every instinct he had– he wanted to protect you, keep you safe from anything that could cause this kind of harm. 

But as soon as his hands grazed your shoulder, Tyler knew that he’d made the wrong choice. The moment he made contact, you lunged forward– hands planting themselves on his chest before you gave him a shove. 

“You asshole!” you yelled through a sob. 

Tyler staggered backwards– more from being caught off guard by your sudden burst of anger, than from how hard you pushed him.

But he barely had time to recover before you were lunging for him a second time. Using what little energy you had, you shoved him again. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” you shouted. 

Tyler took a simple step back, eyes scanning the length of you– trying to decide what the hell he should do. When you attempted to push him for a third time, your arms barely had any energy left in them.

“Hey–” he breathed, gripping your wrists when they landed on his chest a fourth time. 

“Let go of me!” you yelled, wiggling from his grasp. “You’re an asshole, Tyler!”

“Stop,” he begged, releasing your wrists to wrap his arms around your shoulders. You fought his hold, fists colliding with his chest instead. But this time, he didn’t let go. 

“No!” you sobbed, but he could already feel you slowing down. Not like your shoves or fists hurt before, but with each pound, the impact grew lighter and lighter. 

“Stop,” he repeated, forcing you to his chest, despite your resistance. You were pushing him away– but everything about your demeanor screamed that you needed his comfort. 

Finally, whether it was his persistence or your exhaustion, you gave up fighting and let your body melt against his.  

Tyler planted one palm between your shoulder blades firmly and used the other to cup the back of your neck, anchoring you to him securely. As soon as Tyler tightened his hold on you, you erupted into a fit of sobs– like all the dam inside of you needed was just a little bit of pressure to break. The trembling turned into violent shaking, and you began gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it. 

And Tyler had no fucking idea what to do– 

So, he did the only thing he could do, which was hold onto you tightly and let you stain the front of his plain gray shirt with your tears. 

“I got you, baby,” Tyler whispered as he pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head. “You’re okay, I got you.” 

Eventually, he heard you take a ragged breath and pull away just enough to look up at him. Tyler cupped your jaw with his large hand and used his thumb to stroke your cheek. “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

You bit down on your quivering lip before speaking. “I-I was watching– I was watching Boone’s livestream when it cut out– and then, your phone– I couldn’t reach you. I- I called like– so many times, but you didn’t answer– I thought– I thought something had happened– I thought you were hurt– or-or worse–”

“Oh, baby,” Tyler exhaled, guilt spreading through him at the thought of you having to see whatever got streamed from the accident earlier. He was the reason you were so distraught in your shared kitchen at eleven o’clock. He was the reason your eyes were red rimmed and swollen. He was the reason your cheeks were stained with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“I thought I was gonna get a phone call– from the hospital or- or your mom or something– I didn’t think you’d- I didn’t think you’d come home, I thought you died,” You broke on the last admission, like something inside of you had cracked. You collapsed in on yourself, hunching over and wracking with heaving sobs.

Tyler pulled you back into his embrace, like he was the only thing preventing you from drowning. Gradually, his soft touch and gentle murmurs brought you to the surface again. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he repeated, lips ghosting along your temple. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

“But- the truck– it flipped–”

He nodded above you. “It did– I couldn’t get the screws bolted down in time. But we have the cage, the truck rolled right back upright. Everyone is fine. I mean, Boone might have a few loose screws, but there’s no tellin’ if that’s from the rolled truck–”

Your tone immediately hardened as you sharply pulled back again. “Are you seriously making jokes right now, Tyler?” 

And truthfully, Tyler wasn’t entirely sure how to react. He looked down at you pathetically, chest aching to see you so upset. You being this angry with him was uncharted territory. 

“You could have died!” you said loudly. “I know you think you are, but you’re not invincible, Tyler! This isn’t some movie where you get to drive into tornadoes completely unscathed ten times out of ten. This is our lives! I-I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”

”Everything’s okay–”

“Everything is not okay! I’m not okay! Do you know how helpless I felt? Watching that stupid livestream? I tried to call, but– but you didn’t answer, I couldn’t do anything but wait here! I mean, what if that had been me? What if you’d seen a video of me crashing my car– and then had no way to reach me? What if you had to spend all night wondering if you were going to get a call that I was dead in a ditch God-only-knows-where?”

For once, Tyler had no response. Because the truth was, he knew everything you were saying was right. He’d be equally angry and frustrated and horrified if the tables were turned. 

You wiped the tear falling down your cheek, lip quivering. “I– I can’t live in a world without you in it, Tyler. I really can’t–”   

In the deafening silence, he sighed. “I know,” he said quietly, stepping forward to bring you back into his embrace. He was surprised when you willingly let him wrap his arms around you, head falling to rest on his chest. 

Tyler’s hand ran through your hair. “I know. I’m okay, baby. I’m right here, I got you.”

He was okay. He was alive and he was right here– you could hear his heartbeat beneath you–  feel his breath against the side of your neck. He was alive and unharmed. 

You kept your eyes closed and tried to memorize the sound of his heartbeat. You let it seep into the cracks of your heart and heal whatever had been broken in the last few hours of worrying– wondering if he was alive. You focused on the way his arms felt around you– impossibly warm, and so, so safe. 

Gradually, your breathing and your mind slowed. Until all that was left was Tyler. 

Your voice was shaky when you finally pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you exhaled. “I didn’t like not being able to reach you.”

Tyler’s hand stroked your hair gently, “Baby, I’m so sorry I made you worry– my phone broke when we rolled. I’ll get a new one tomorrow, I promise.”

You nodded slowly and placed your hand against Tyler’s chest. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

You blinked a few times, realizing how tired you were. “Yeah–” you said, nodding. You felt Tyler’s heartbeat beneath your palm.   

Each beat reminding you that he was here and he was alive and he was okay. 

“Can you–” your voice cracked slightly, making you wince. “Can you please just stay with me the rest of the night? I just–” you glanced down at the floor, embarrassed to admit how much you needed him. “I just need to be close to you tonight.”

Tyler’s eyes softened. “Of course, baby. Where else would I be?”

You nodded slowly. 

Tyler grabbed your hand and led you towards the couch. He took the blanket you’d left sprawled out from earlier and wrapped it around your shoulders before pulling you down beside him. He laid back against the cushions and made a spot for you. Without even hesitating, you curled up between his legs and rested your head back against his chest. 

“I need you to promise me you’ll be careful,” you pleaded. “I know you love chasing, and I’d never ask you to give that up, but I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you.”

You felt Tyler sigh beneath you, his chest rising and falling steadily. “I promise.” 

“And I need you to promise me you’ll get those damn screws fixed. That’s like the third time this month you’ve told me that they’ve jammed.”

You felt his chest rumble as he chuckled softly. “I will. Believe it or not, I didn’t like rolling in my truck, either.”

You lifted your head from his chest so that you could get a good look at Tyler’s face. Even after all these years with him, he still managed to leave you breathless.  

“Well then maybe it’s time you take a break and just stay home for a little while,” you teased, lips curling into a soft smile. 

The corner of Tyler’s lips tugged upward as his green eyes sparkled under the dim light. “You know what, that might not be a bad idea.” 

You raised your eyebrow skeptically. You knew you shouldn’t get your hopes up, and yet, that was exactly what you did. “Really?” 

Tyler’s hand tucked a loose strand of your hair from your face before his thumb grazed across your wet cheek. He nodded sincerely. “Really.”

You were a mess– eyes puffy, lips cracked. You were exhausted and so shaken up from everything that had happened. And who knew how long Tyler would have to put extra effort into helping make you feel safe. 

But right now, wrapped in his embrace on your shared couch, all you needed was him.