#right angle cross of explanation

[aeth-eris]

human design : incarnation crosses part 1 : right angle crosses the incarnation cross in human design represents your life's purpose and destiny, derived from the sun and earth gates of your chart. it is a key theme that influences your journey, shaping how you express your energy and interact with the world. understanding your incarnation cross can illuminate your path, revealing insights into your unique strengths, challenges, and the role you're meant to play. this post dives into the different incarnation crosses, exploring their significance and how they guide individuals toward alignment with their true purpose.

in human design, the gates listed in an incarnation cross (e.g., 1/2 | 7/13) correspond to the sun and earth placements in both the conscious (personality) and unconscious (design) aspects of your chart:

sun personality gate: conscious expression, representing core identity and purpose.

earth personality gate: complements and grounds the sun personality gate.

sun destiny gate: unconscious expression, representing a deeper purpose.

earth destiny gate: supports the unconscious sun gate, providing balance.

right angle cross right angle incarnation crosses in human design focus on personal destiny, emphasizing self-discovery, individual growth, and direct life experiences. they are not tied to transpersonal karma but are centered around the evolution of the self. these crosses guide individuals through themes that highlight their personal journey, such as love, direction, challenge, and insight. those with right angle crosses are here to explore life through their own lens, learning and evolving through the situations they encounter directly, shaping their unique path and purpose. right angle cross of the sphinx (13/7 | 1/2) the right angle cross of the sphinx (13/7 | 1/2) encompasses life themes related to guidance, direction, and leadership. individuals with this cross have a natural ability to tune into past stories and experiences (gate 13) and use that reflective wisdom to guide themselves and others. they are here to show people the way forward by offering insight and helping them navigate their paths. gate 7 emphasizes their leadership role, enabling them to influence others effectively, often in group or community settings. this leadership isn’t about control but rather about offering a supportive and visionary role.

gate 1 provides a theme of creative self-expression, urging these individuals to express their unique identity and inspire others through their actions. their creativity serves as a beacon for others to follow, showing that embracing one's authenticity and uniqueness can pave the way for success and fulfillment. gate 2, known as the gate of the direction of the self, plays a vital role in helping these individuals align with their own path and the paths of those they guide. they possess an intuitive sense of direction, which allows them to see the bigger picture and understand the right course of action not only for themselves but also for others.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of the sphinx (13/7 | 1/2) revolve around guiding others toward clarity and direction through wisdom, leadership, and creative inspiration. these individuals are here to serve as navigators for their communities and social circles, ensuring that both they and those around them move toward purposeful and aligned destinations. alternatives:right angle cross of the sphinx 2 (2/1 | 13/7) right angle cross of the sphinx 3 (7/13 | 2/1) right angle cross of the sphinx 4 (1/2 | 7/13)

right angle cross of laws (3/50 | 60/56) the right angle cross of laws (3/50 | 60/56) is centered around creating and upholding structure, values, and stability within society and personal environments. individuals with this cross are designed to address chaos (gate 3), finding ways to bring order through innovation and transformation. they act as custodians of values (gate 50), ensuring that the principles and laws they uphold are not only effective but also nurturing and protective of the community. they are driven by a deep sense of responsibility to maintain the integrity of systems, ensuring they support growth and sustainability.

gate 60, known as the gate of limitation, provides the theme of recognizing and respecting boundaries. it’s about understanding that, while structure and order are necessary, there must also be flexibility within those frameworks to adapt to change and growth. individuals with this gate understand that limitations can be used as a foundation for innovation, creating stability in the process. gate 56, the gate of stimulation, contributes the theme of storytelling and interpretation, offering a way to communicate and adapt laws so they resonate with people’s experiences and evolving societal needs.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of laws involve establishing sustainable systems that balance structure and adaptability, ensuring that values and laws evolve with time. these individuals act as stabilizers within their communities, providing a structured yet flexible approach to creating and maintaining order. they use their insight to build rules that protect and nurture growth, aligning societal needs with practical, effective solutions. alternatives: right angle cross of laws 2 (56/60 | 3/50) right angle cross of laws 3 (50/3 | 56/60) right angle cross of laws 4 (60/56 | 50/3)

right angle cross of service (17/18 | 58/52) the right angle cross of service (17/18 | 58/52) is focused on improvement, correction, and service to others by enhancing and refining systems and processes. individuals with this cross are naturally inclined to analyze and observe patterns (gate 17), forming insights on how things can be optimized. they work to identify flaws and imbalances (gate 18), aiming to correct and restore harmony in their environment. gate 58 provides the energy and enthusiasm needed for ongoing improvement, while gate 52 brings focus and patience, helping them maintain steady efforts and discipline.

individuals with this cross use their ability to recognize patterns and refine processes to create systems that are efficient and beneficial to the community. they aim to bring joy and satisfaction by ensuring that their contributions positively enhance the quality of life around them. gate 18’s emphasis on correction ensures they are attentive to details, continuously seeking ways to improve existing systems. gate 52’s stillness helps them focus and remain steady, ensuring their efforts are thoughtful and effective.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of service revolve around continuously refining and perfecting systems in a practical and disciplined manner. these individuals are motivated to enhance and correct structures, ensuring they remain functional, balanced, and sustainable. their life purpose is dedicated to being of service to others by improving environments and processes, offering stability and fostering growth within their communities. alternatives: right angle cross of service 2 (52/58 | 17/18) right angle cross of service 3 (18/17 | 52/58) right angle cross of service 4 (58/52 | 18/17)

right angle cross of tension (21/48 | 38/39) the right angle cross of tension (21/48 | 38/39) is focused on navigating challenges, finding purpose, and overcoming adversity. individuals with this cross are driven by a deep sense of responsibility and control (gate 21), using their skills to manage and guide resources efficiently. gate 48, the gate of depth, emphasizes a need for knowledge and mastery, ensuring that they have the tools and understanding to address difficulties. gate 38 involves the fight for purpose, showing resilience and determination, while gate 39 adds a provocative element, pushing them to confront obstacles head-on.

individuals with this cross are naturally equipped to face tension and challenges, using their drive to master and refine their approach to life’s difficulties. gate 21’s focus on authority allows them to navigate these situations with control and strategic thinking, while gate 48’s search for depth ensures they gain the wisdom needed to make effective decisions. gate 38 provides the willpower and courage to stand firm against adversity, and gate 39’s provocative energy encourages them to challenge and overcome obstacles, turning difficulties into growth opportunities.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of tension involve finding strength and purpose through navigating tension and conflict. individuals with this cross use their insight, control, and resilience to manage challenges and transform tension into growth, showing others how to rise above adversity and find meaning in difficult situations. their purpose is to master the art of overcoming obstacles, using their skills to guide others through periods of challenge and uncertainty. alternatives: right angle cross of tension 2 (39/38 | 21/48) right angle cross of tension 3 (48/21 | 39/38) right angle cross of tension 4 (38/39 | 48/21) right angle cross of rulership (22/47 | 26\45) the right angle cross of rulership (22/47 | 26/45) centers around influence, authority, and communication. individuals with this cross are designed to lead and manage resources, using their charisma (gate 22) to connect with others and express their ideas. gate 47 emphasizes a mental process of sorting through confusion and finding clarity, allowing these individuals to bring insight to their leadership. gate 26 focuses on marketing and persuasion, while gate 45 provides a natural authority in guiding and managing communities, ensuring they uphold their role as influential leaders effectively.

gate 22, the gate of grace, allows individuals to use charm and charisma to connect with others, making them influential in social settings. gate 47, the gate of realization, helps them process and make sense of complex information, guiding their decision-making and leadership abilities. gate 26, the gate of the egoist, emphasizes strategic thinking, persuasion, and an ability to influence others, while gate 45, the gate of the gatherer, provides a sense of authority in managing resources and directing communities.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of rulership involve leading with insight, charisma, and strategy. individuals with this cross are meant to use their influence to manage and guide others, establishing and maintaining order within groups. they possess the skills to communicate effectively, persuade, and lead, ensuring they uphold a position of authority that benefits their communities. alternatives: right angle cross of rulership 2 (45/26 | 22/47) right angle cross of rulership 3 (47/22 | 45/26) right angle cross of rulership 4 (26/45 | 47/22) right angle cross of the four ways (24/44 | 19/33) the right angle cross of the four ways (24/44 | 19/33) revolves around providing direction, support, and insight for others in practical and relational ways. individuals with this cross possess a deep understanding of transformation and connection. gate 24, the gate of returning, focuses on contemplation and finding clarity through inner reflection, while gate 44 emphasizes awareness in recognizing patterns and connecting with others.

gate 19 is about sensitivity and the need for nurturing relationships, promoting support and connection within communities. gate 33, the gate of retreat, supports reflection and provides insights from past experiences, allowing them to guide others effectively. these gates collectively help individuals with this cross to lead through a balance of practical insight, relational sensitivity, and contemplation.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of the four ways involve offering direction and support through clarity, reflection, and connection. individuals with this cross use their ability to analyze past experiences, form connections, and create nurturing environments to guide others. they serve as thoughtful leaders who balance insight with the practical and relational needs of their communities. alternatives: right angle cross of the four ways 2 (33/19 | 24/44) right angle cross of the four ways 3 (44/24 | 33/19) right angle cross of the four ways 4 (19/33 | 44/24) right angle cross of the vessel of love (25/46 | 10/15) the right angle cross of the vessel of love (25/46 | 10/15) centers on embodying and expressing love in all its forms—self-love, universal love, and the love of life. individuals with this cross focus on living authentically and compassionately, connecting deeply with others and life itself. gate 25 emphasizes universal love and purity, guiding individuals to act with openness. gate 46 encourages being present and finding joy in the physical experience. gate 10 focuses on self-love and living true to oneself, while gate 15 promotes harmony and balance through embracing diversity.

gate 25, the gate of innocence, encourages openness and purity, allowing individuals to connect with others on a deep, spiritual level. gate 46, the gate of the determination of the self, emphasizes the joy of physical experiences, promoting a sense of presence and appreciation for life. gate 10, the gate of behavior, highlights the importance of self-love and authenticity, guiding these individuals to live in alignment with their true selves. gate 15, the gate of extremes, emphasizes balance and the acceptance of diversity, fostering unity and harmony in varied environments.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of the vessel of love involve embodying and expressing love through authenticity, presence, and compassion. individuals with this cross act as examples of heart-centered living, showing others the transformative power of love. they help others find balance, acceptance, and unity by embracing love in its purest and most diverse forms, promoting healing and connection within their communities. alternatives: right angle cross of the vessel of love 2 (15/10 | 25/45) right angle cross of the vessel of love 3 (46/25 | 15/10)

right angle cross of the unexpected (27/28 | 41/31) the right angle cross of the unexpected (27/28 | 41/31) centers on navigating life's unpredictability and embracing change. individuals with this cross are designed to manage challenges and unforeseen circumstances. gate 27 emphasizes nurturing and caring for others, while gate 28 focuses on finding purpose through adversity. gate 41 inspires initiation and new beginnings, while gate 31 involves leadership and direction, allowing these individuals to influence and guide others through unexpected events.

gate 27, the gate of caring, drives individuals to nurture and support those around them, even in the face of unexpected challenges. gate 28, the gate of struggle, emphasizes finding purpose and meaning in adversity, encouraging perseverance. gate 41, the gate of contraction, inspires them to initiate new cycles and possibilities despite uncertainty. gate 31, the gate of influence, helps them use their leadership skills to guide others through these unpredictable experiences, providing direction and stability.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of the unexpected involve facing life's unpredictability with resilience and purpose. individuals with this cross are meant to use their nurturing, leadership, and initiating qualities to guide others through challenges, finding meaning and direction in the unexpected. they are here to show how embracing change can lead to growth, transformation, and a deeper understanding of life’s purpose.

alternatives: right angle cross of the unexpected 2 (31/41 | 27/28) right angle cross of the unexpected 3 (28/27 | 31/41) right angle cross of the unexpected 4 (41/31 | 28/27)

right angle cross of contagion (30/29 | 14/8) the right angle cross of contagion (30/29 | 14/8) is about spreading energy, influence, and inspiration, often through emotional intensity and dedication. individuals with this cross are designed to express and share their passions, motivating others to act. gate 30, the gate of feelings, brings emotional intensity and desire, while gate 29 emphasizes persistence and commitment. gate 14, associated with power and resource management, focuses on channeling energy efficiently, while gate 8 highlights influencing others through self-expression and originality.

gate 30 drives individuals to feel deeply and passionately, pushing them to express their desires and emotional experiences. gate 29, the gate of perseverance, provides them with a commitment to follow through on what they initiate, spreading their influence by sticking to their passions. gate 14, the gate of power skills, emphasizes using energy efficiently, guiding them in channeling their resources to support their goals. gate 8, the gate of contribution, allows them to express their uniqueness, inspiring others through their authenticity and self-expression.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of contagion involve spreading influence and inspiration through emotional expression, dedication, and originality. individuals with this cross are meant to share their passions and ideas, motivating others to take action and embody their own unique contributions. they demonstrate how deep emotional connections and persistence can ignite change and spread transformative energy within their communities. alternatives: right angle cross of contagion 2 (8/14 | 30/29) right angle cross of contagion 3 (29/30 | 8/14) right angle cross of contagion 4 (14/8 | 29/30) right angle cross of eden (36/6 | 11/12) the right angle cross of eden (36/6 | 11/12) focuses on the themes of emotional intimacy, peace, and creating meaningful connections. individuals with this cross are designed to bring harmony and balance to their environments, especially through their ability to manage emotions and navigate relationships. gate 36 emphasizes the experience and resolution of emotional turbulence, while gate 6 deals with emotional boundaries and establishing harmony. gate 11 focuses on ideas and clarity, bringing insight, while gate 12 promotes expression and sharing of emotions, fostering deeper connections.

gate 36, the gate of crisis, gives individuals the ability to navigate and resolve emotional upheavals, guiding themselves and others through times of change and intensity. gate 6, the gate of friction, emphasizes the need to set emotional boundaries and create harmony in relationships, helping them manage emotional dynamics. gate 11, the gate of ideas, allows for clarity and vision, helping individuals express their thoughts in ways that create peace and understanding. gate 12, the gate of caution, brings careful expression, allowing individuals to share their emotions and ideas with authenticity and grace, creating meaningful connections.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of eden involve creating emotional intimacy, peace, and harmony in relationships and environments. individuals with this cross are meant to navigate and transform emotional situations, bringing clarity and connection to those around them. through their insights and expressive nature, they foster a sense of unity and understanding, helping others find balance and emotional fulfillment. alternatives: right angle cross of eden 2 (12/11 | 36/6) right angle cross of eden 3 (6/36 | 12/11) right angle cross of eden 4 (11/12 | 6/36) right angle cross of planning (37/40 | 9/16) the right angle cross of planning (37/40 | 9/16) centers on building and maintaining supportive and structured communities. individuals with this cross focus on establishing alliances and creating secure environments. gate 37 emphasizes the bond between individuals, building connections based on support and loyalty, while gate 40 deals with willpower and commitment, providing the energy to uphold these bonds. gate 9 focuses on attention to detail, bringing a sense of focus and persistence, while gate 16 emphasizes enthusiasm and skill, helping individuals develop and share talents that benefit the group.

gate 37, the gate of friendship, emphasizes nurturing relationships and forming bonds that bring security and support. gate 40, the gate of aloneness, contributes the energy to remain committed to creating stable, cooperative environments. gate 9, the gate of focus, provides attention to details and persistence in maintaining and refining plans, while gate 16, the gate of skills, highlights the enthusiasm and talent needed to develop and improve these structures.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of planning involve building and maintaining supportive communities through cooperation, loyalty, and shared skills. individuals with this cross work to create and sustain environments where people feel secure and connected, using their focus and enthusiasm to develop and maintain effective plans that benefit the group. alternatives: right angle cross of planning 2 (16/9 | 37/40) right angle cross of planning 3 (40/37 | 16/9) right angle cross of planning 4 (9/16 | 40/37)

right angle cross of maya (42/32 | 60/56) the right angle cross of maya (42/32 | 60/56) centers on understanding and managing cycles, limitations, and transformations within the material world. individuals with this cross are designed to bring clarity and structure to life's processes, guiding others through periods of change and development. gate 42 emphasizes the completion of cycles, ensuring that what has been started is properly finished, while gate 32 focuses on continuity, perseverance, and maintaining traditions. gate 60 addresses the acceptance of limitations, showing how they can become a foundation for innovation. gate 56 brings storytelling and interpretation, allowing individuals to communicate and make sense of these cycles and limitations, sharing wisdom and insight with their community.

gate 42, the gate of growth, is about understanding and completing life cycles, ensuring that all experiences are processed and integrated. gate 32, the gate of continuity, emphasizes the importance of preserving and evolving traditions, guiding the community in a sustainable way. gate 60, the gate of limitation, focuses on understanding and working within boundaries to bring stability and opportunity for growth. gate 56, the gate of stimulation, provides the ability to share experiences through storytelling, helping others understand and navigate the cycles of life.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of maya involve guiding others through the material and experiential aspects of life, using an understanding of cycles, limitations, and traditions. individuals with this cross help their communities find clarity and insight by making sense of the natural rhythms of life, sharing stories, and ensuring growth and continuity. alternatives: right angle cross of maya 2 (62/61 | 42/32) right angle cross of maya 3 (32/42 | 62/61) right angle cross of maya 4 (61/62 | 32/42)

right angle cross of explanation (49/4 | 43/23) the right angle cross of explanation (49/4 | 43/23) is centered around bringing clarity, insight, and emotional intelligence to collective understanding. individuals with this cross focus on transforming emotional experiences and providing logical explanations. gate 49 involves emotional principles and the drive for change, while gate 4 offers logical solutions and answers. gate 43 focuses on insights and breakthroughs, bringing fresh perspectives, while gate 23 enables these individuals to articulate these insights clearly.

gate 49, the gate of revolution, emphasizes emotional intelligence and the need for transformative change based on principles and values. gate 4, the gate of mental solutions, provides logical reasoning and the ability to formulate answers, helping these individuals structure their explanations. gate 43, the gate of insight, allows for deep, intuitive realizations that can shift perspectives, while gate 23, the gate of assimilation, emphasizes clear communication, enabling individuals to share their ideas effectively and accessibly.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of explanation revolve around using emotional intelligence and logical reasoning to articulate and share insights that transform perspectives. individuals with this cross are meant to provide clarity, communicate solutions, and influence change through their ability to explain complex ideas and emotions in understandable ways. alternatives: right angle cross of explanation 2 (23/43 | 49/4) right angle cross of explanation 3 (4/49 | 23/43) right angle cross of explanation 4 (43/23 | 4/49)

right angle cross of penetration (51/57 | 54/53) the right angle cross of penetration (51/57 | 54/53) focuses on bringing awareness, initiating transformation, and driving ambition. individuals with this cross have a dynamic energy that pushes through challenges and instigates change. gate 51, the gate of shock, brings a bold and competitive nature, encouraging individuals to awaken themselves and others. gate 57, the gate of intuition, provides heightened awareness and a keen sense of timing. gate 54, the gate of ambition, emphasizes the drive for progress and achievement, while gate 53, the gate of beginnings, focuses on initiating new cycles and experiences.

gate 51 drives individuals to challenge the status quo, using shock to jolt others into awareness and transformation. gate 57 offers deep intuitive insight, enabling them to navigate situations with precise awareness and timing. gate 54 emphasizes ambition, inspiring individuals to strive for personal and collective growth. gate 53 provides the momentum for initiating new beginnings and opportunities, helping individuals take decisive action to transform circumstances.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of penetration involve using bold, intuitive, and ambitious energy to bring about change and new beginnings. individuals with this cross lead through their competitive spirit, intuitive awareness, and determination, guiding themselves and others toward growth and transformation. alternatives: right angle cross of penetration 2 (53/54 | 51/57) right angle cross of penetration 3 (57/51 | 53/54) right angle cross of penetration 4 (54/53 | 57/51)

right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix (55/59 | 34/20) the right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix (55/59 | 34/20) is centered on living in the present moment, manifesting power, and embracing the flow of life. individuals with this cross are designed to experience life dynamically, channeling their energy into immediate, impactful action. gate 55 emphasizes emotional spirit and abundance, while gate 59 focuses on intimacy and creating bonds. gate 34 provides pure power and strength, and gate 20 emphasizes presence, allowing individuals to act spontaneously and with confidence in the moment.

gate 55, the gate of spirit, encourages individuals to tap into their emotional depth, experiencing life’s richness and abundance fully. gate 59, the gate of sexuality, emphasizes creating deep and intimate bonds, promoting close connections with others. gate 34, the gate of power, brings strong life force energy, enabling them to act with strength and vigor. gate 20, the gate of the now, focuses on the present moment, allowing for immediate and powerful manifestation of energy.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix involve harnessing emotional spirit, personal power, and the present moment to create transformative experiences. individuals with this cross are designed to live life spontaneously and powerfully, embodying dynamic energy that influences and connects deeply with others. they serve as examples of living fully in the present and using their strength and emotional spirit to shape their reality. alternatives: right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix 2 (20/34 | 55/59) right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix 3 (59/55 | 20/34) right angle cross of the sleeping phoenix 4 (34/20 | 59/55) right angle cross of consciousness (63/64 | 5/35) the right angle cross of consciousness (63/64 | 5/35) centers on seeking truth, understanding, and bringing clarity to life's mysteries. individuals with this cross have a deep curiosity and are driven to question and explore. gate 63 focuses on doubt and the drive for investigation, while gate 64 emphasizes abstract thinking and processing confusion. gate 5 relates to patterns and rhythms, supporting a structured approach, while gate 35 brings experiences and the desire for new adventures.

gate 63, the gate of doubt, compels individuals to seek clarity, pushing them to question and investigate for truth. gate 64, the gate of confusion, allows them to process abstract information and work through mental challenges, bringing understanding. gate 5, the gate of fixed patterns, provides a rhythm and structure, helping individuals ground their explorations in consistent routines. gate 35, the gate of change, encourages the pursuit of new experiences, broadening perspectives and leading to growth.

overall, the themes of the right angle cross of consciousness involve exploring and questioning life’s mysteries, using curiosity, structure, and adaptability to find clarity. individuals with this cross are designed to embrace doubt and confusion as tools for discovery, guiding themselves and others through their insights and understanding. their purpose is to uncover truths and bring new levels of awareness and clarity to their environment. alternatives: right angle cross of consciousness 2 (35/5 | 63/64) right angle cross of consciousness 3 (64/63 | 35/5) right angle cross of consciousness 4 (5/35 | 64/63)

[formulaonecrumbs]

omg what if oscar got his deadpanned nature all from his older sister and those two as they get older are always sarcastic together towards everything

my little echo

Oscar Piastri x older sister!reader

summary: oscar piastri slowly turns into a smaller, sassier version of his older sister. simply because he thinks she’s the coolest person alive.

warnings: sibling sarcasm, chaotic household, oscar being your mini-me

A/N: i love this au so much, well i love all of the older sister au’s but baby oscs got a soft spot in my heart. thank u for the request anon!! enjoy, sweet angel 🫶

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you’d barely gotten three steps into the kitchen before chaos greeted you like a warm, screechy welcome mat.

edie was standing on a chair yelling about how mae stole her diary. mae was yelling back that she didn’t, that she was just looking. hattie was stirring a pot of something violently on the stove, earbuds in and completely oblivious to the screaming behind her.

you just blinked. took a deep breath. leaned against the fridge and stared blankly at the wall.

“sounds peaceful,” oscar said from beside you, mirroring your stance, hands in the pockets of his hoodie like he’d been doing this for years.

you glanced at him — twelve, gangly, hair sticking up at odd angles — and raised one eyebrow. “tranquil, really. zen.”

“serene,” he added, nodding solemnly.

edie’s voice went up an octave and mae hurled a cushion across the room. it missed everyone and hit the dog.

you sighed. “we’re being punished for something.”

“you think mum cursed us for eating the good biscuits?”

“only logical explanation.”

he stood there, shoulder to shoulder with you, arms crossed and expression perfectly blank. and it hit you — not for the first time — how much he’d started to act like you. the timing. the tone. the subtle sarcasm. like he’d watched you handle the chaos a hundred times and decided, yeah. that’s how i’ll do it too.

it was kind of adorable. and also mildly terrifying.

“you know you’re turning into me, right?” you said, half a smile pulling at your mouth.

he shrugged. “there are worse people.”

“aw,” you teased. “is that love i hear?”

“don’t ruin it.”

you tousled his hair. he didn’t fight you, just scowled and smoothed it back in a very you kind of way.

he even sighed like you.

“you’re like a little clone,” you said, grinning. “my echo.”

“your taller echo,” he muttered, smug.

“barely. and watch your attitude, or i’ll make you be the one to tell edie that mae drew hearts around her crush’s name.”

he blanched. “i’ll do the dishes instead.”

“wise choice.”

nicole passed through the doorway, gave you both a look. “if you’re standing there judging everything again, go take the bins out.”

you and oscar, in perfect, practiced unison:

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

“not at all.”

she rolled her eyes. “you’re raising a monster.”

“i’m raising a legend,” you said proudly, clapping a hand on oscar’s shoulder.

he stood a little taller.

and as the house swirled with noise and crashing and the smell of something mildly burning, the two of you remained side by side — still, dry, unfazed — a matching set.

THE END :>

[takes1]

your needy Kenma smut was SOOO good omfg I was biting my fist reading it!! can i request a needy suna smut?

needy!suna rintarou x reader

hi!! so glad you liked it!! wow this took me so long i'm so sorry! i just could not find a way to write it without it being exactly the same as kenma's!

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / forbidden, established relationship / manager!reader / vocal!suna / whiny!suna / needy!suna / bratty!suna / liiiight mommy kink nobody freak tf out!! / suna has a cute laugh / creampie / raw cuddly sex / 1.9k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. my imagines. my request box

"Don't look at me like that, Rin'."

Your fingers were smushing the lower half of his face, angling his head away from you. His head stayed obediently forward at the center court, but those eyes were still piercing through you.

Through his fishy-lips, his words became jumbled together, "'can' helb i'--,"

It wasn't his fault he looked so mean, so critical when he focused in on something.

"I can't help it," He spat, rubbing his jaw.

Suna wasn't careful about his hand placement. The members of Inarizaki knew you had been dating for a time, but Coach Kurosu did not need a reason to question your managerial position.

When you pushed his hand away from your waist, his face scrunched; that mean and bitter look returned, tenfold.

A frustrated, hushed, but not quiet, "I want you."

Though it wasn't an appropriate time, place, or circumstance, it would be lie to say that it wasn't hot. The unique mixture of his assertive, court-like focus and lesser-known bedroom-only begging forced you to cross your arms.

"You-," You glanced around, thankful nobody heard that, "Have a game to focus on."

The attitude he gave was not only unwarranted, but it succeeded in making you less receptive. To you, it was obvious that he was only looking for an out. He was tired and halfway through a challenging match. You couldn't spare to be his partner right now, and he did not like that.

He sucked his teeth, tapped his foot, crossed his arms, worked his jaw, and gave you a sharp sigh, all within five minutes of angry silence.

What a whiny bastard.

You found his struggle almost amusing. At the moment, it was more important to maintain your focus, for the both of you.

Still, it kept you wondering throughout the remainder of the match: What had you possibly done to warrant such a strong response?

Every instance that he had to be around the bench, drinking water, a temporary switch-out, he would send you a deeply dissatisfied glance. You didn't justify it with a reaction. He was being bratty.

Though you were a prude, anti-PDA personality in public, especially around the team-- you were the one to push him back onto the mattress and throw his shirt across the room, once you were back at his place.

"Fuck--mnh!"

That pretty sigh was all he could get out before you were on top of him.

"Start talking," You muttered. Your shirt was off in seconds.

His breathing grew heavy, eyes black with lust at the sight of your pretty skin, his favorite bra he clocked earlier under your shirt- the whole reason his mind got to spinning.

Suna was kept this irritating, calculating, slithery persona up around his friends, and especially during matches, because he learned that it kept him safe. He didn't always like being so on edge. He wanted to trust somebody enough to tell them everything that passed through his mind, to be skin-to-skin and a little weird, because you were comfortable and safe.

Here, under you, after enough love and time, he knew he didn't need to waste energy on appearances.

"I- ah-h, I just wanted you so bad," Was his honest attempt at an explanation.

He sat up to touch you, kiss you, but you kept him to the sheets with a forearm.

"Are you trying to get me kicked out?"

Suna huffed, eyes bouncing from your face, to your confined tits, then back, "What?""

Your legs slid a bit further apart, weight settling better onto his warm lap, "If Coach finds out we're dating, you know I'm gone."

You snapped, just for emphasis, but he flinched, "Like that. In an instant."

He was painfully hard. You could feel him throbbing, even through his combo of athletic shorts and thick sweatpants. Despite the circumstances, you knew he was keen enough to understand that you were a little pissed off about his lack of restraint.

He was in that spot you liked seeing him work through. Struggling, deciding whether to be nice, or snarky.

"You're smarter than that, baby," Was much kinder of a statement in tone, but it tipped him off to be rude, instead.

Those narrowed eyes dripped down to your chest slow, sweet, like honey.

"Why'd you wear that, then?" He felt you stiffen. He placed a hot palm onto your hip to help his well-intentioned venom settle.

You couldn't believe that was his entire problem, summed up in five words.

"Are you really so dirty-minded that you could tell what bra I was wearing? Under my shirt?"

The call-out was meant to return his energy, but he responded in a more secure way than you.

"When it's you, yeah--," He sat up with ease, against your pushing, just to remind you that he could outclass your force if he wanted to. He caught your small frown and he corrected himself, "Yes, ma'am."

You gave a small hum, a low-lidded stare right back at him. He was so hot when he deferred to you.

It warranted a strong, messy kiss- all charged with hours of denial, suggestive glances, and too many minutes of clothed rubbing.

All your clothes came off in a range of easy to difficult, distracted efforts.

Suna lay under you, all flushed and twitchy with anticipation. Your hands flitted down his sensitive, strong sides, his cock crammed between your legs, getting spoiled and slick. Not inside, not just yet.

You loved tickling him just to hear his laugh.

And he'd tolerate anything with you gliding over his dick, like that. Giving him such a good view.

"Shhh-haha-h-ahh!" He bit his lip to keep from giggling, moaning, too much or too loudly.

That look he gave you was enough. All twisted, pleading, intelligent. Like he knew exactly what he said and how he said it, would get you turned on.

His sound was adorable, rare.

It was unrestrained, and light, cute, enough to understand why he kept it behind his hand around his friends. Sounded exactly like something a bunch of guys might make fun of him for.

"Hmm.. Let's cuddle fuck," You pressed a tingly kiss just under his ear.

You knew he was feeling lazy. Your job today wasn't easy, either. You wanted to feel close at the end of a busy day, more than anything.

Suna was warm, and tired, and tacky to the touch but it all added to how badly you wanted each other. It was a demanding match, and getting all upset with each other made it feel that much longer.

Slick, and hot, and easy was the adjustment to him. Nothing to do with his real size- you were just ready, after having to put up an act, as if you were too above all of it.

The panting you had to listen to on the sidelines, watching him miss his mouth with the squeezy bottle, all the sweat and water dripping onto his jersey, it ate at you, corroded the brick walls you put up. Even his frustrated glare was sexy. He couldn't stop looking at you, even with an important task at hand, or when his teammates needed him to focus.

Now he fucked you like your mean -still, justified- rejection was never a problem, like he was savoring you slowly.

"Yes-yes, yesyes," Suna swallowed up your moans in a greedy kiss.

"Mmh- how's that feel--?" You purred.

"So good," A satisfied groan, "Fuck- Got such a perfect pussy."

His hand kept your thigh up, your knee close to your shoulder. He inspired a gasp at how quickly he bottomed out to your teasing.

He stretched you so good, so easily, and kept your trembling steady in his grasp-- but every sound he made was shaky, barely held together, and never masked.

After three months, Suna decided at some point on his own that he could trust you enough to completely let go in the bedroom. Though he naturally gravitated to a more submissive role, he usually said some downright sleazy, vulgar shit to get his kicks.

"A-ha, h-fuc-k, aughh, you feel so good, you--," His breath clipped into a high, closed-mouth whine as he pulled you harder onto the base of his cock, just flexing hard, as deep as he could get.

Your teeth sunk into his pillowcase, fingers filled with plush.

The knowledge that he loved it, but couldn't ever get as deep as he wanted, had your strength waning. Squeezing, bracing, at all the butterflies tired you out.

Although, if it were a competition, Suna had you beat by a mile. The drooling, whiny mess behind you may have had enough to strength to use his body weight to keep you smushed, but you could tell he was sloppier, clumsier, with exhaustion.

He buried his face in your neck.

"I-I'h- needed you so bad," His moan was so light and breathy- like he was swimming on Cloud 9-, "So-h, so... fucking...bad."

Your uncontrollable squirm to get away from the sensation was met with instant crushing. Even if you wanted your thigh back, it would never happen.

"Mh-h-! Rin-," You tried to speak, but he was hitting all your angles just right, so you stopped.

His words were twisting up that knot in your tummy, the trap of his arms a steady, innocent backdrop to how filthy he decided to fuck you.

Slurred mutters, consisting of mostly nonsense syllables and phrases, sometimes bred real messages like, "So hot," "Mommy," "So much," and, "'Can't take it."

His yapping, you thought, may have been a way of making up for how little he spoke, usually. You were generally much quieter than him here, but outside of the bedroom, the opposite remained true. It was cute.

"M'so- close-mh," His groans were short, choked on pleasure, his squeezing desperate and uneven.

The idea of him finishing close, hugging you, just like this, was too hot to let not happen.

You gathered yourself to tell him, "C-um-- Mh, inside, pretty boy."

"F-uck!" That tone completely tipped him over the edge.

Your grin was to yourself, twitchy and genuine, before the feeling of fullness set in.

He was left to fuck out his load as deep inside of you as he could get, "Fuckfu-ck- Ahh-hh-!"

Your nails dragged across his skin- the white hot, pulsing enough to spur a sudden orgasm. Dark lines remained in their wake as your muffled whines filled his ears.

And Suna was nothing if not dedicated. He fucked you as well as he could through your own, whinier, less violent experience. His breath, laden in the resolution of his own, was hot and tingly across your sensitive ear.

You squeezed his arm to stop and he finally let your leg down.

"Hm...sorry," He mumbled into a peck against your cheek, "You okay?"

Sore, and achy, you shared a giggly kiss. He softened naturally and you readjusted to hold each other, warm and soft, with chemical infatuation.

"Mhmm," You stole a longer, slower kiss.

Those pretty eyes watched you, worshipped you, as you rubbed your hand across his jaw.

"Perfect."

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu my request box

[abbotjack]

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀JACK ABBOT TATTOO HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

[saintodo]

♡ word count: 1.1k

♡ pairing: rafayel x gn!reader

♡ tags: suggestive, unestablished (romantic) relationship but established friendship, reader's not explicitly mc

"Whatcha doing?"

Your head suddenly pops into Rafayel's line of vision as you lean over the back of the couch where he sits in his studio, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Jeez, you scared me!" Rafayel says, though his actions speak to the contrary. "Give a guy a warning next time before you sneak up on him."

You roll your eyes at his theatrics.

"Like you didn't hear me walking up behind you," you bite back. "Or me knocking for that matter. What's so riveting that you can't get up and open your door for your guest?"

You lean further into Rafayel's space, intent on learning what's captivated his attention to the point that he can't even get the door for you. Granted, you knew where he kept his spare key, but still. It's the principle of the matter.

You expect him to show you something related to paint making, considering he spends so much of his free time doing just that. Maybe, some super rare mineral that he had poor Thomas go and acquire for him or some shells that would look like any other shell to you that Rafayel would insist were unique and oh so special.

Instead, your eyes are greeted with a video playing on Rafayel's phone of the man himself. Masturbating. More specifically, fucking himself with his fingers.

"Don't you have any shame at all?"

You scrunch your nose at the unexpected, though not exactly unpleasant, sight and give Rafayel a sideways glance.

"Why should I?"

He grins and spreads his arms over the back of the couch. Twilight waves brush against your shoulder as Rafayel tilts his head back and looks up at you. Infuriatingly and effortlessly charming.

"Because it's the middle of the day and you're looking at your nudes," you deadpan.

At this angle, you no longer can see Rafayel's phone screen, but the video continues to play — soft wet sounds of skin against skin filling the lapse of conversation.

“Don’t act like you haven’t done the same,” he waves you off.

You roll your eyes. Again.

“Even if I have, I wouldn’t do it when i’m expecting company,” you huff. You cross your arms over your middle, leveling Rafayel with a glare that has no real heat behind it. “We’re supposed to hang out and this is what you do instead?”

"I was deciding which video I wanted to post," Rafayel offers up as an explanation.

It’s no secret between you that Rafayel posts explicit content of himself online. It mainly started out as a hobby of his, but he quickly amassed a cult-like following, so now it’s grown into a side hustle of sorts.

Rafayel sighs dramatically. He rests the back of his hand against his forehead, reminiscent of a damsel in distress. "But none of them are just right."

You snort. "This isn't one of your art pieces, Raf. I'm pretty sure that your followers are gonna eat up whatever you decide on, so just choose one and post it already. I want to hangout.”

“How cruel,” Rafayel gasps at your easy dismissal of him. “Here I am experiencing a difficult dilemma, and you want to abandon me in my time of need.”

“Whatever will you do?” you dryly respond.

You flinch, loudly cursing as you lurch backwards and nearly slip on your ass when, in a flurry, Rafayel suddenly darts upright, twisting to face you.

“You almost made me fall,” you complain. You clutch at your chest, your heart hammering beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” Rafayel says, utterly unrepentant. “I have an idea.”

You warily eye Rafayel. Any sign of moping that was present just moments ago has been wiped clean, replaced by a gleam in Rafayel’s blue-pink gaze that doesn’t bode well for you.

“Do I even want to know what it is?”

“Don’t be like that,” Rafayel lightly frowns, his bottom lip jutting out to form a stupidly perfect pout, “Don’t you want to hear my great idea?”

“No,” you deadpan.

A few seconds pass.

You sigh.

“Fine,” you whine. With a flourish of your hand, you say, “Go on. Tell me all about your great idea.”

“You could star in one of my videos.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?” you say. The words roll off your tongue automatically.

“My followers said they want to see something from me other than solo content,” he says as if that’s explanation enough, which it most certainly is not.

“Okay,” you drag the word out as your brain tries its best to wrap itself around the events quickly unfolding before you. “What does that have to do with me?”

Rafayel exhales and props his elbow up on the back of the couch. He drums his fingers against his temple.

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

A frown forms on your lips.

“Shouldn’t you be nice to the person who’s going to do you a favor?”

Rafayel perks up. He shifts, tucking his feet beneath him as he pushes himself onto his knees, palms supporting his weight as he draws closer to you.

“So you’ll do it?”

In one smooth motion, you pull your shirt off over your head and toss it aside. Rafayel’s eyes drift to your chest. His gaze follows the motion of your shoulders touching your ears as you shrug.

“Why not?”

You take a step forward, reaching towards Rafayel to card a hand through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times before. Your palm comes to rest at the back of his neck and your thumb presses slightly against the base of his skull, encouraging him to tilt his head back. Rafayel gives easily to your unspoken demand.

You hover above Rafayel, crowding into his space. Your nose brushes against his, lips barely ghosting. He tries to angle his head to catch you in a kiss, but you draw back slightly, right out of his reach. You laugh when a whine escapes him and smooth your thumb over his hair in a placating manner.

“So impatient,” you tease. You press a kiss to the corner of his lips to quell the irritation that’s surely mounting within Rafayel the longer you delay giving him what he wants. “You’re paying for dinner by the way.”

Rafayel’s hands move from their place, deft fingers smoothly slipping into the belt loops of your jeans and firmly tugging, bringing you even nearer. This time, he takes what he wants, stealing a chaste kiss from you, and you feel him smile against your lips.

“Fine by me.”

[charliemwrites]

Part 2 of mean ghost

Content: Simon being mean (again), non-con touching (not sexual), established kidnapping

You do this thing when you think you’re alone. Stretch out nice and slow - back arched, arms up, head back. You make a little noise in the back of your throat and then sigh nice and long as you relax. Sometimes even catch a yawn, rubbing at your eyes to fight off a wave of sleepiness.

You do it after waking from naps, cleaning, showering, even just sitting still for too long. If he interrupts - or you think he’s going to - you shrink down again, take up as little space as possible and try to work through your limbs one by one. Try to remain unnoticed, unobtrusive.

His stealth has never been so handy.

The most tempting is when you’re on the couch. You’ll lie on your stomach and stretch, ass tilting up like an offering. Then you’ll flop out all limp and satisfied, arms folded under your head, ankles crossed prim and proper. He wants to sink his teeth into the plush fat of your thigh.

“Wh-hey!”

You squirm; Simon’s having none of it, pins you with a harsh hand on the back of your neck. You yelp in surprise and discomfort, going still only because you have to. Unhindered, he continues to yank your joggers down over your ass, peels them to mid-thigh.

No bite marks.

“Fuckin’ mutt,” he grumbles to himself. “Doesn’t know how to play with you right.”

You make a high-pitched, distressed sound, hips shifting uneasily.

“Hush up,” he tells you absently.

You whine again, quieter this time, hands balling up into tight little fists by your head. He stares at the bare skin of your thighs, smooth and unmarked. Is sorely tempted to touch. Bruise. Bite.

Yanks your pants back up again instead and lets you go.

You scramble to the far side of the couch, curl up with your knees to your chest. Stare at him with big wet eyes.

“Wh-what…?” you breathe. “Why?”

He tilts his head. Your hair is all mussed up now, cheeks flushing with color and paling at intervals. Body not knowing how to react.

“I-I was just… sitting there,” you say like you’re trying to rationalize it to yourself.

“Because I wanted to,” he replies. That’s really all the explanation you need.

You sniffle a bit, blinking rapidly. Lashes already wet and sticking together with unshed tears. The light glitters in them.

“Was that scary?” he asks, taunting.

You sniffle again and don’t answer, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling.

He rises onto the couch, still maintaining the distance you made. Stares as your eyes drop to your fidgety fingers, twisting and rubbing together to self-soothe. Keeps staring as you wrestle your breathing under control. Tuck your elbows into your side, compact. All set to hunker down until the predator loses interest.

“C’mere.”

Your head snaps up, breath hitching.

“M-me?”

“Who the fuck else?”

You lick your lips nervously, uncoiling a bit in a bid to buy yourself time.

“Y-you want me… over… there?” you say it like translating an unfamiliar language.

“Told you to c’mere didn’t I?” he rumbles. “And what’d I say ‘bout repeatin’ myself?”

“S-sorry,” you say, hands up as if in surrender. “Just… I just wanted to make sure I understood.”

“Thought I made myself pretty fuckin’ clear.”

Your silence and darting gaze disagree; he gives you a pass only because you scoot a bit closer. Within arms reach again. His hands twitch on his thighs. Your eyes dart down to the movement instantly, so hyperaware.

He flips his hand, curls a finger, beckoning you closer.

Your expression twitches, a complex amalgamation of the stages of grief. Then swallow and inch just a bit closer, as much as you seem able to stand. The tiniest sliver of heated air separates your bodies now, yours angled towards his with his weight on the cushion.

Fidgety hands again, and biting at your lip. About to shake out of your skin.

“What do you call me?” he asks.

You blink, head popping back a bit in genuine surprise. “Um… could you — what do you mean…?”

He narrows his eyes a bit, parsing your expression. If it were Johnny, he could make the biggest, saddest, wettest eyes in the world and Simon would know he’s being a fucking brat. Asking questions just to poke holes in his paper thin patience.

You, however, seem to be asking out of an abundance of caution. A desire to please him on the first try rather than risk failing at all.

“If you needed my attention,” he says slowly, watching a nonverbal I-would-never cross your pretty, vulnerable face, “how would you call for me?”

You tilt your chin down a bit. Tongue and teeth for weights and measures.

“I-I’d say ‘excuse me’,” you begin slowly. “Or, um, I guess if… if I was in another room…”

A longer pause this time. Long enough that he’s about to bark at you to spit it out.

“Mister lieutenant Ghost… sir…?”

He stares for a second. Feels the corners of his mouth twitching beneath the mask.

Makes his voice deep as he growls, “You call me sir or mister. Nothing more nothing less. Understand?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm.”

He narrows his eyes. You blink in return, notice he’s expecting something. Fidget again.

“Um, th-thank you,” you offer.

He huffs. Christ, what’s Johnny been fucking doing with you all this time? So polite and quick to learn, you just don’t know your manners yet. Haven’t been taught.

“Thank you, what?” he prompts.

“Oh,” you say as it clicks. “Thank you… sir?”

“You’re not sure if you’re grateful now?” he tsks.

“No!” you put your hands out quickly, trying to placate - still so, so careful not to touch. “I-I mean yes… um, yes sir. I… uh, thank you, sir.”

He considers you. Waits until you swallow thickly, leaning away as far as you can without scooting away again. Get that pretty gleam of tears again.

Clicks his tongue. “Off you go, then.”

You don’t ask where, just dart off the couch.

“We’ll work on it.”

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Masterlist

[setmeatopthepyre]

fuck it friday

not tagged by anyone 'cause I'm being the change I want to see in the world etc etc etc

from pothos | pathos pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5

-

Eddie is on his couch, aimlessly swiping through housing listings, vaguely hoping that the next generic wide-angle picture of a soulless sunny living room will suddenly give him all the answers he needs, when the doorbell rings.

He opens the door without looking. He gets as far as “I’m still all out of flour from last time--" when he realizes it’s not Buck on his doorstep at all. It takes a second because he's not used to seeing the captain of the 122 in anything other than a suit or a set of turnouts. “Deluca?” he says, surprised. “I thought poker night was next week.”

“I ain’t here to clear you out this time, Diaz,” Deluca says.

Eddie huffs. As if. The man barely has a filter and that translates fairly directly to the efficacy of his poker face.

“Are you gonna let me in, or what?”

“Sure. If you tell me to what I owe the visit.” Eddie’s already stepping aside, letting him in.

Deluca strides in like he owns the place, crossing his arms as he takes in the living room. “Is it just you?”

“Yes…?” he says slowly, following him in. He snatches his nearly-empty bottle from the table, lifts it and points from the bottle to Deluca in the universally understood gesture for you want one?

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

Deluca doesn’t offer up an explanation for his presence as Eddie cracks open two bottles of beer, hands one off to the man still standing in his living room like he’s trying to decide if he wants to be there at all, and sinks down onto the couch again for lack of anything better to do.

Deluca doesn’t sit, but he does take a long swig of his beer and narrow his eyes at Eddie. Finally he asks, “You seen Tommy?”

Eddie nods. “Couple of days ago. Why?”

“Any clue what the hell is wrong with him?”

What, this guy, too? Eddie rubs at his eyes. “How about you tell me why you’re asking?”

Deluca glares at him some more, seems to come to some decision, and sinks down on the other side of the couch with a huff. “He skipped out on my little girl’s birthday.”

Eddie blinks. He isn't sure what he’d been expecting, maybe something more akin to Buck’s vague hunches, but not… this.

He does vaguely recall the subject of Deluca’s kids coming up at poker night, though. Racks his brain for a second. “You’ve got three kids, right?”

Deluca eyes him for a second, but it’s less of a glare this time. “Yeah. Two girls and a boy. Oldest just turned ten, youngest is three.”

“Huh,” is all Eddie finds himself saying. Thinks for a moment, again, of Christopher, of the birthday party Eddie only got glimpses of over a video call. He really needs to stop procrastinating and just pick a damn house. Maybe he should just go to El Paso and see from there.

But this isn’t about him.

“And��� Tommy usually goes to your kids’ birthday parties?”

“Goddamn right he does. He’s their favorite uncle.”

Uncle? “Hold on, you guys are…?”

“Jesus H. Christ, Diaz,” Deluca says with a roll of his eyes. “Do you want a copy of my family tree? No, we ain’t related, but we might as well be.”

Eddie raises a hand in surrender. The guy’s clearly passionate about this.

“The important thing is,” Deluca continues, eyes intense and jabbing a finger in Eddie’s direction, “The man has showed up to every single goddamn birthday and big event, and now he skips Sophie’s big ten? Something’s goin’ on.”

There’s a simple solution to that, if you ask Eddie. “Did you ask him about it?”

“Who the hell do you think I am? Of course I did. You know what he did?” Eddie gets the feeling he’s not actually expected to answer and Deluca proves him right. “He goddamn apologized.”

He frowns. “I don’t know man, that seems… reasonable?”

Deluca gets to his feet with a grunt of frustration, starts pacing. “Don’t be an idiot, Diaz. You have any clue what Tommy does when he knows he’s fucked up?” It’s another rhetorical question. “One of three things,” Deluca says, raises one finger. “Either he gets defensive and turns into the world’s most sarcastic asshole--” A second finger goes up. “He turns into a pathetic pile of misery and then moves heaven and earth to make things right--" Third finger. “Or he shuts down completely. What he doesn’t do is fuckin' apologize and then pleasantly ask me if Sophie had a nice day. So you better tell me now, what the hell did Buckley do to him?”

“Now hold on,” Eddie sets his bottle down, gets to his feet as well. “Buckley--- Buck didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah? Then why the hell does Tommy tell me they’ve broken up and then turn into a fucking pod person?”

Eddie sighs. He’s pretty sure he’s getting a migraine or something. “You better ask him, because he broke up with Buck, not the other way around.”

Deluca falters, mouth snapping shut from where he’d looked about ready to yell at him some more. “What?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, shrugs.

“That goddamned idiot,” Deluca mutters.

-

tagging @sugarpenchant @beanarie @rcmclachlan @emphasisonthehomo @rimatsu @trombonechurchill @leashybebes @geddyqueer @ambernotember

tag list for those who requested tags for this fic under the cut ↓

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[cryptidghostgirl]

Hey so uhh, it said requests are open so I'm gonna shoot my shot ig. I have this fic idea but I'm a shit writer so here it goes.

Alastor x reader but the concept is that the reader is Alastor's shadow.

Now, hear me out: Alastor is said to be a powerful demon since his manifestation in hell, we know that it takes demons quite some time to accumulate their power before they become overlords.

If "The Radio demon" was an alias was that operated between more that one person, then it would make sense as to why and how he rose to the top very quickly (assuming we ignore the fact he made a deal with someone).

That and Alastor's black appendages and shadows seem out of theme for a demon who's primary power is based on Radio.

As for how they met, it could go two ways. Either with Alastor, a man hungry for power, strikes his first deal with Shadow!Reader to get them to do his bidding. Or Shadow!Reader offering Alastor their services after realizing that he has a lot of potential. Either way, their partnership blooms into a sort of kinship between the two of them.

Do with this concept whatever you want with it, I just wanna get this concept out in the world in the hands of someone much more capable of writing than I am.

Enjoy!

A/N please always shoot your shot. this is such a fun idea,, thank you so much for entrusting it to me. I've decided just to write their meeting for now but may continue it later on. I hope you like it!!

The Thing (Alastor x Gn!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Mention of cannibalism and the Donner party. I think that is it.

Word Count: 1,752

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

There was a secret, one that no one knew, one that would tear the demon realm apart at its edges if anyone found out. The illusive Radio Demon and his shadow were, in fact, just that: the illusive Radio Demon and his shadow.

Y/n was master of the immaterial, shifting forms and shedding skins the way others change their clothes. When Alastor arrived in Hell, they had long since been established as one of the many demons to be aware of.

Rumor runs rampant everywhere but especially in Hell where in controls, combines, and divides. Y/n was just that, a rumor. Never the same face twice, never in the same place twice. No one even knew their name, simply referring to them as the thing or the hunger. They snatched sinner's souls from their grasps and devoured them whole. An urban legend, a ghost story only here, all the ghosts were real.

Alastor was as observant in death as he had been in life, it didn't take him long to catch sight of the shadow. Though he had only been in Hell a few days when it had first appeared, he could tell it had nefarious intent.

The thing was a good actor, almost good enough to fool him. It lay in the reality of his own shadow, following his moves perfectly. However, no one is perfect and every once in a while, there would be a little slip. The first one which had caught Alastor's attention was when he had taken a step forward and it had gone the wrong way, quickly righting itself and following after the mistake.

Alastor pretended not to have noticed, but he remembered. He lay in wait for another such occurrence. It was not until two days later, when his shadow gave him four hands rather than two with no apparent explanation such as an odd angle to the sun or another body near him, that his thesis was confirmed. There was, in fact, something following him.

It stuck like glue to the heels of his shoes. Alastor was quiet, Alastor schemed. He had trapped it in a pure white room which he had fixed lightbulbs in from all sides. When he had turned on the lights, he had turned on them, arms crossed and foot tapping expectantly.

The shadow had looked this way and that, searching for a place to hide. When they realized it was no use, they had pulled themselves from the floor into three dimensions and faced him head on.

"Who are you?" Alastor had asked before quickly reevaluating his question, "What are you?"

It moved like liquid in the air, twisting and dissolving at its edges. Bubbles, or what was almost bubbles, what looked like bubbles, rose to the surface of it's body and as they popped, a demon began to take the shadow's place.

"I am everything."

They were many voiced. When they spoke, it sounded like a crowd of people saying the same thing in unison. Alastor stared at the demon, unamused. They were a full person now, about a head shorter than him and seemingly very calm considering he had them trapped. Then again, Alastor had only been in Hell a few weeks by this point, not nearly enough time to work up the sort of reputation he was hoping for.

"Is that a bad pickup line?" Alastor asked, "Am I supposed to ask what you mean and you'll say something like 'I could be everything to you?'"

The demon raised their eyebrows, shaking their head.

"It is the truth."

A tense silence fell between the pair. Alastor broke it with a sigh, rubbing his temples in irritation. He hadn't really known what to expect from this endeavor save an event to break up the monotony of his days. The demon was not delivering.

"Yeah, alright."

"Who are you?"

"You've been following me for what, two weeks? And you don't know?"

The demon shrugged.

"I was trying to be polite. It has been a while since I have spoken to anyone."

"Sure. Well," Alastor turned to the door, pulling a skeleton key from his pocket, "this has been interesting. Enjoy eternity alone in a well lit room."

Alastor opened the door. The demon made no move to follow him out of the room, no move to escape. They simply watched him in curiosity, their head tilted slightly to one side. Alastor hesitated, his body blocking the exit and his back towards them. He watched them over his shoulder as a thin black smoke seemed to emanate from the outline of their body.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

An empty threat, barley even a threat to be honest. Alastor stepped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Once he was sure it was locked, he slipped the key back into his pocket. He made to leave, intending to go out on the town in a desperate attempt to find entertainment. Barley two steps forward, and shadows began to pool on the floor before his feet, blocking Alastor's path.

He watched in a mild interest as the demon pulled themselves from the shadows, taking on a different face than they had worn in the room. Now they were broader, taller, stronger. They looked mean.

"I told you."

"Is this what you meant when you said you were everything?"

The demon nodded once. Their wide eyes were unblinking, unchanging, as their form mutated again. A spider demon now with many arms and a lanky figure. Alastor raised his eyebrows.

"So, you let me catch you."

"I was bored. No one ever notices me until it is too late, except you."

"I find that hard to believe. You were easy to spot."

The demon's eyes widened slightly at this, something similar to surprise but halfway to fear.

"Like I said, Alastor the interesting." they mused after a moment.

Alastor bowed his head slightly in recognition of the title.

"I could take your soul, destroy you. Why were you so willing to risk all that? Surely a bit of entertainment can't be worth that much to you."

He was trying to get a gage on the creature, and he knew they could tell. It was a mild threat, one he couldn't follow through on even if he wanted to. Sure, he could maim the creature, cause it great pain, but beyond leaving them formless for a few days tops he was powerless. He knew that, but he didn't know if they did. Either way, the situation would play out to his advantage. It would either give him more information, or the upper hand.

They considered the situation for a moment before answering. Alastor couldn't figure out if it was because of their interest in him, for fear of him, or some third, other undefined motivation. No matter what it was, he didn't care. This was the most engaged he had felt in weeks.

"You aren't an overlord. You can't make a contract."

"And you are?"

"No."

"Too weak?" Alastor teased and the demon glared at him.

"Far from it. I don't like being seen."

"But you're letting me see you."

"I am allowing you to see a face. It is not mine."

Alastor fell silent. He had figured that the demon before him didn't have a true form, or if they did, that it was shadow. Things were becoming curiouser by the second. He was no longer regarding his attempts to trap the demon as a waste of time.

"So, you want power but anonymity. Those things don't go hand in hand."

"I know. You want fame and lack the power. Another unmatched set."

Alastor's ear twitched at that, displeasure running through his veins and clouding his sight. His hand tightened where he held his microphone.

"I have power enough."

"What use is a Radio Demon with nothing to broadcast?"

"Are you suggesting a deal?"

The demon smiled a smile that was too big for the face it wore. Alastor had to admit, they were unsettling. He understood the rumors.

"I've heard of your... reputation shall we say? But if you think I will trust someone who's face I have never even seen, you are dead wrong."

"Was that a joke?" the demon tentatively asked after a moment.

"Not on purpose but I supose so."

The thing seemed to roll the idea over in their mind as their form changed once again, this time becoming a demon with the body of a shark. They seemed not even to notice they were changing as their eyes flicked back to Alastor's.

"You want information. Then you will be open to the idea of a partnership."

"This was your goal all along, a partnership as you put it."

A statement, not a question. The demon smiled, their eyebrows slightly raised.

"Oh, was it now. At least I had an end goal to this little... situation."

Alastor scoffed, looking away. They were right. He had come up with no ideas past capturing the thing that had been following him. He was in the dark. They had everything figured out.

"Show me your real face. Then we can talk."

"Alastor Hartifelt. Died 1933. Louisiana famed radio host and serial killer cut down in his prime by a hunter who mistook him for a deer."

"Are you trying to intimidate me?"

"Not at all."

The demon shifted once again. It took them longer to find form this time, remaining as a black cloud for a few moments before at last settling on an almost human body. They were shorter than he had expected, smaller too and decked out in what seemed to be colonial dress. They held a hand out to him.

"Y/n L/n. Died 1846. Newly wed and member of the Donner party."

"Cannibalism." Alastor mused, gently taking their hand in his.

He had expected them to be cold, immaterial. He had expected his hand to slide right through theirs. Instead, the demon, Y/n, was warm and solid to the touch, just like anyone else. They smiled, mouth full of needles.

"We all take what we are given."

"I suppose."

Y/n dropped his hand and crossed their arms. Despite their stature, they radiated authority and poise. It was almost impressive.

"If you will be the face, I will be the force."

"No soul binding."

"I couldn't if I wanted to. Not an overlord."

Alastor looked them up and down. His smile grew.

"Not an overlord yet."

----

tags:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0

[jujuicykaisen]

Can you do a drabble or fic about a reader just resting against Nanami's big fat tits?

YES.

Characters: Kento Nanami

Contents: gn!reader, loving descriptions of Nanami's chesticles

Kento Nanami

The train swayed back and forth as it surged along the tracks, carrying you and hundreds of other commuters away from your offices and stores and factories back to your little boxes of peace and privacy. The day weighed on you. It hadn’t been a bad day, just a tiring one. One of those days that seem to last forever, and like the clock starts swinging backward whenever you look away from it.

Clinging to the handrail, standing at an awkward angle to avoid the flying elbow of the woman next to you as she lifted her water bottle to her mouth for the third time in the past minute, you gazed out of the window. The buildings smeared together in an abstract blur as your mind turned to one single, pure, crystallised image for comfort.

A muscular chest, straining the buttons of a crisp, teal blue shirt.

Kento…

That was what you needed. That was your goal. The shining beacon that would lead you home like a candle in the darkness. 

Nanami’s tits. 

You alighted from the train with a sense of renewed vigour, striding from the station and along the nice, suburban streets. Neighbours, who knew you as “that nice couple”, nodded at you as you passed. You jerked your chin up and down in the rote movement of social niceties, already fishing in your pocket for your house keys. 

Nanami would be home by now. He always texted you on the rare occasion he had overtime. The man was thoughtful like that. He was probably sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, his tie removed and the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. 

Your key scraped against the lock before you managed to wedge it in, twisting it and pushing the door open at the same time. You shuffled into the genkan, dropping your bag, hanging up your coat, tossing your keys into the dish on the hallway table for that specific purpose. You shook your public armour off like a dog coming out of a muddy puddle, and padded up into the house.

“Honey?” His voice echoed toward you. You heard the clink of one of the cut crystal glasses against the table, and knew he was about to get up and come to greet you.

“Don’t move!” you said, barrelling through the living room door. “Stay right there.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow at you, his fingers still splayed around the rim of a whiskey tumbler. He looked exactly as you’d imagined him, right down to the colour of the shirt he’d ironed that morning. His book was still held in one hand, finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. 

“Is everything all right?” 

“Yes,” you said, stumbling toward the couch, your gaze laser-focused on his shirt, on the landscape of muscle beneath it. 

Crawling onto the couch, onto his lap, you buried your face against those heavy pads of pectoral muscle, made smooth by the layer of high quality cotton shirt buttoned over the top. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the cloth, soaking into you. Nuzzling into his collarbones, you let loose a gusty sigh. This was exactly what you needed. 

Nanami stared down at the top of your head, even as one of his arms moved to wrap around your waist, holding you securely. He waited a moment for further explanation. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” you reassured him, rubbing your cheek against his firm chest. “This is exactly what I needed.”

Nanami watched you rub your face against him like a kitten, still somewhat bemused. He lifted a hand, the blond hairs on his arm glinting in the light, and ran his fingers over your head, smoothing your hair. If you were going to act like a cat, he might as well treat you like one. You let out a low hum of contentment, listening to the steady thud of Nanami’s heartbeat through his shirt. 

“Mind if I carry on reading?”

“Nuh-uh. Carry on.”

“Mm, thanks.” He picked up the book, holding it open in one hand, returning to his reading. His other hand ran slowly up and down your back, the heel of his palm running against your spine. It paused briefly. “Don’t motorboat me this time.”

“...no promises.”

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Crimson Ties ~ 13

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,670ish

Summary: The Stark's get together to make sure Obadiah understands that he has crossed a line.

Warning(s): sexual talk and touching, non-consensual touching, bruises, abuse

Notes: Honestly, it’s just going to get worse before it gets better. Please send in ideas, reactions, etc!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

The doors swung open with a bang as Tony rushed into the house. His eyes were scanning for any sight or sound of you. Steve hadn’t told Tony why they needed to hurry back, but Tony knew it had something to do with you. He wasn’t used to being concerned about someone like this. It was pushing him way out of his comfort zone. Finally, Tony caught sight of Yelena and Clint outside on the porch. Steve followed Tony out there.

“Where is she?” Tony immediately asked. 

“She’s reading under the tree over there,” Clint answered, his head motioning towards you.

Tony’s eyes snapped over to see you sitting on a blanket, leaning up against the large tree in the corner. You had a book in your hands but, even from where Tony was standing, he could see that you weren’t really focused on it.

“What happened?” Steve wondered.

“It’s my fault,” Yelena admitted. “I was too busy on the phone with Natasha. Obadiah walked in and headed straight for her studio.” Tony’s eyes never left you as his body tensed at Yelena’s explanation. “He… He threatened her and…”

“And what?”

“Slapped her.”

Tony’s head snapped in Yelena’s direction, eyes wild. “What?” The single word came out sharp and quiet.

“I watched the video footage,” Clint added. “He wants her to find a way to get Brock into the house. She tried to tell him no and he slapped her. Stane is a complete idiot for thinking that there were cameras in there.”

“How is Y/N doing?��� Steve wondered.

“She hasn’t said a word,” Yelena sighed. “I’m worried that she’s scared to say anything after that.”

“Well, everyone’s on their way, including Howard and Maria. We’ll come up with a plan to make sure Obadiah isn’t allowed to come near her again.”

“When they arrive, have them go to my office,” Tony stated. “I also want a surveillance detail on every moment Stane and his employees make. I’ll join you all when I’m done.”

Tony stepped off the porch and headed for you. He made sure that his footsteps were loud enough to for you to hear him coming but not to scare you. The closer he got to you, the more he could see the bruise along your face. Tony hated that your own father did that to you. He may not like his own father, but Howard never laid a hand on him. Tony stopped at the edge of the blanket. He stuffed his hands in his pant pockets.

Noticing Tony, you shakily set your book in your lap and angled your head in a way to try to conceal the bruise from Tony’s eyes. You remained silent, trying to ignore the growing pressure inside of you. Tony didn’t have the words to say anything. There wasn’t anything that could fix what’s been done. With a sigh, he got onto the ground beside your blanket and laid down. You blinked at him, confused. Tony’s eyes focused on the clouds slowly moving across the sky.

“I don’t remember the last time I laid down and watched the clouds,” Tony said quietly. You glanced up at the sky through the tree branches. “It’s peaceful.” You pushed yourself off the tree and slid onto the ground, mirroring Tony’s position.

Back over on the porch, Steve, Yelena, and Clint were watching the scene unfold in front of him.

“We got here as fast as we could,” Maria said, hurrying to them with Howard, Rhodey, Peggy, Bucky, and Natasha. “Is she okay? Is she—“ Her worries died on her tongue as she saw you and Tony laying next to each other across the yard. 

“Tony’s trying to handle it right now,” explained Steve. “He would like us to start in his office.”

“Then let’s go,” Howard muttered, leading the way to Tony’s office.

You and Tony laid in silence, alone in the backyard. Tears filled your eyes and slipped down your cheeks. Tony turned his head to see your cheeks glistening with tears. He hated this for you and had no clue how he could make this better.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispered. “How can I fix this? What can I do for you?”

“I don’t need anything,” you said softly, keeping your eyes on the sky.

“Y/N…”

“I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Tony scoffed, quickly sitting up to look down at you. “No, it’s not. I can’t— You can’t—“ He sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. “It’s not okay for you to be treated this way, by anyone… Including me and your father.”

“I…” You swallowed the growing emotions. “I don’t know any different…”

“That’s going to change. I’m going to change and I will make sure that your father and Rumlow will never go near you again.”

“You don’t know what you’re promising. They will do anything to get what they want. And I truly mean anything.”

“I don’t care. You deserve to be free of this.”

You shook your head. “They’ll get what they want in the end. They always do.”

“Y/N…” Your name rolled of his tongue like a prayer, causing your eyes to snap to his. “I will protect you.”

In this eyes, you could see that he was being sincere. But you knew what your father and his resources were capable of. Tony hated every bit of this. He glanced back at the house and then back at you. The others were waiting for him, but he couldn’t leave you out here alone.

“We need to go inside,” Tony said quietly. 

“Okay,” you whispered.

You stood up and stepped off the blanket. Tony quickly folded it. You headed towards the house with Tony following behind. When you got inside, you paused, looking around. You didn’t know if you were allowed to go off or if you were needed in the meeting that Tony was holding.

“The house is on complete lock down,” Tony told you. “My father brought his extra security and they’re surrounding the house. You can join us in my office or you can do your own thing.”

“I’m going to be in my studio,” you mumbled.

“Okay. That’s fine. I’ll be checking in on you. Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded before heading off to your studio. Tony watched as you went to shut the do and then decided against it. You opened it as wide as you could and got to work. You didn’t even turn on any music. Tony could tell that you didn’t want to get caught off guard again. He went into his office, where everyone was. Waiting around the large conference table.

“Yelena explained the situation to everyone and I showed the video footage,” Steve informed Tony as he entered.

“Good,” Tony murmured, heading to his seat at the far end of the table. “We cannot allow Obadiah to get away with this.”

“I agree,” Howard said, taking those at the table by surprise. “We need to retaliate.”

“We can’t just go in guns a blazing,” Rhodey warned. “We have to be smart about this or it’s going to back fire. But the teams are ready for whatever we ask them to do.”

“I’ll meet with Obadiah tomorrow, with Tony. We let him know that the partnership is over but that Y/N is still a Stark.”

“He won’t like that,” Clint said, leaning back in his chair.

“We do it on our turf,” Bucky confirmed. “We need the upper hand.”

“He will retaliate,” Natasha added. “There will be a war in the city before we know it.”

“I don’t care,” Tony spoke up. He looked over at Maria. “I understand now where you were coming from when you told me to take care of her. Y/N’s been abused all her life and I’ve only made things worse. I’m sorry.”

Maria have her son a small smile. “Thank you, Anthony,” she said. “How is Y/N?” 

“Not okay. But I promised her that they wouldn’t touch her again. And I do not intend on breaking that promise.”

“We will all help you,” Yelena offered.

“I expect it. Everyone needs to be at the top of their game. This is a fight we have no choice but to win.”

~~~

You stayed in your studio for the remainder of the day. You tried to keep your mind off of everything that had happened. The door of your studio was kept open until you left to go to bed that night. You entered your room with a sigh, leaning back against the door for a moment before heading for into your room. Before you headed into the bathroom, a folded piece of paper on your pillow caught your attention.

With unsteady legs, you made your way to your bed and shakily picked up the paper. Your heart stopped as you read the messy handwriting.

I’m sorry I missed you, sweetheart. Hope that you had a nice chat with your father. Can’t wait to see you soon. - B

You collapsed to your knees before lurching forward with a sob. You were never going to escape this.

~~~

Tony didn’t get much sleep that night. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing. He ended up calling Pepper over just after midnight.  After having a rough round of sex, Tony finally fell asleep, leaving Pepper wide awake. She wrapped herself up in a robe and snuck out of Tony’s room. The hallways were barely lit with soft lights near the baseboards, allowing Pepper to find her way to Tony’s office. She slipped in and headed straight for his large desk on the other side of the room. Turning on the lap, Pepper quickly got to work. Brock asked for the house and security plans. And Tony was an idiot, who told her his password months ago. With ease, Pepper was able to email everything and more to Brock and download it onto a USB.

Pepper made sure that everything looked untouched and slipped back into Tony’s bed without anyone noticing. She smirked to herself at how ease it was. She knew that the security detail was all on your side on Tony’s. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand and she picked it up.

Brock: Got your email. I’ll be sure to keep my girl distracted more so that Tony’s all yours.

Pepper: And I’ll be a distraction anytime for you as well.

Brock: Perfect. 

~~~

“She hasn’t been out all day?” Tony questioned after Yelena had told him that no one had seen you today.

“I know she’s in there because she’s said she’s good and just wants to be left alone,” Yelena continued. 

Tony huffed, glancing at your closed bedroom door. “Keep me updated. I’m going to my parents to confront Obadiah.”

“Will do,” Yelena nodded.

Tony met Happy and Steve out at the car then headed to his parents. Obadiah was already settled in with a drink when Tony arrived at Howard’s office. Howard and Tony shared a look before Tony walked around the desk and stood behind his father.

“Well, I take it this isn’t a friendly meeting,” Obadiah said, taking a sip of his drink.

Howard turned his computer screen to face Obadiah. On the screen, the video footage of you and Obadiah in your studio was pulled up. It was paused just before the slap. Obadiah sat up straighter.

“What is this?” He asked.

“I think you know exactly what it is,” Tony retorted. “Play the footage.”

Howard pressed play and scene began on the screen. The sound was off, allowing the silence to increase the tension in the room. While Obadiah’s focus was on the screen, Howard and Tony focused on him. He did not move as he watched himself slap you and you fell back onto the floor. Howard paused the footage.

“You attacked my wife in her studio,” Tony stated, eerily calm.

“This is all a misunderstanding,” Obadiah said. “She tripped.”

“You slapped her!”

Obadiah scoffed. “I asked her to allow Brock onto the security staff. He is my way of ensuring that she’s safe. She told me no and she was taught better than to do that.”

“Brock is not welcome near her,” Howard responded. “He’s also not welcomed in any of our homes, hence why he was stopped at the door today. He’s done too much damage.”

“My daughter has forgotten her place.”

“No,” Tony’s voice was clipped as he spoke. “You’ve forgotten yours.”

Obadiah stood, hands slamming on the desk. “I built this alliance. I gave my daughter to your family to keep the peace and to build a new era. Her last name may now be Stark but she will always be a Stane. She is my responsibility, whether she’s married into your family or not.”

“You gave her up like you were selling a piece of furniture. Do not pretend like you understand being responsible for her.”

Obadiah laughed. “Oh, like you would know? How’s Pepper by the way? She still meeting your every need?”

Tony stepped forward but Howard stopped him with a raised hand. “Enough,” Howard demanded. “You slapped my daughter-in-law, in her own home. And you did it because she refused to make sure that Brock had a way into the house. You did not ask her anything. You demanded it.”

“She knows better to refuse her own father. I outrank her.”

“You don’t outrank me. You don’t outrank my son. And you sure as hell don’t outrank my daughter-in-law in her own house.”

Obadiah looked between the two men, beginning to realize that he may have miscalculated things.

“You and Brock have been abusing Y/N for years,” Tony accused. “Me and others have seen the bruises. We’ve seen the way she flinches and tenses whenever she’s around the two of you. It ends now.”

“You both are soft,” retorted Obadiah.

“No. We’re civilized and you’re obsolete,” Howard replied. “Our agreement is over. Effective immediately.”

“Then Y/N returns to me.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Tony stated.

“There will be no more meetings,” continued Howard. “No more dinners. Anyone associated with the Stane name are not to contact Y/N, every again. And if you or Brock even breathe in the same room as her again, neither of you will see the light of day.”

“You can’t threaten me.”

“I just did.”

Tony leaned over the desk to get close to Obadiah’s face. “Y/N is not your property,” he started. “She no longer a Stane. She’s my wife. And she has the full protection of the Starks. Forever.”

Howard stood up and nodded to Bucky. Bucky and Steve stepped up, one on each side of Obadiah. “They will guide you out of the house,” he said. “I wish things didn’t have to end this way.”

Obadiah stood up, glaring at the Stark men across from him. “This isn’t over,” he threatened. “You just unleashed something you will regret.”

“Goodbye Obadiah."

Steve and Bucky each grabbed one of Obadiah’s arms. He tore free of them.

“Let go of me!” He exclaimed. “This isn’t over!” He turned around and marched out of the room with Bucky and Steve following to ensure he left. Obadiah stormed off to the car, where Brock was waiting. “Get us home, now!”

Brock began driving off. “What happened, Boss?” He wondered.

“They broke the agreement.”

“What?”

“No meetings. No money. No contact with Y/N.”

“They can’t do that. She’s your daughter.”

“They’re turning her against me. And turning you into a target while they’re at it.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“We are going to remind them what fear tastes like. We’re going to go after the other Stark alliances. The Stark secrets. Everything. But first, we need to send a message.”

“To Y/N?”

“I want her reminded that she’s a Stane, not a Stark. That at the end of all this, she will be right back with us. I don’t want anyone killed, not yet. But scare her.”

“It will be my genuine pleasure.”

next chapter >

[anim-ttrpgs]

i know that trying to definitively categorize media is a fool's errand, and also that "urban fantasy" is the accepted term for "it's the modern world except there's vampires or elves or some shit", but personally, I hardly even consider Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy to be fantasy. I consider it science-fiction, and that's how I approach it when writing the more fantastical elements. I don't exactly have anywhere I'm going with this but I think that some people that have really delved into the monster lore might get what I'm talking about. It's extrapolatory. It's about "what if X happened - well then Y might happen as a result, and what are the implications of Y."

That's also why some of the rules text very vaguely alludes to some scientific explanations for vampires without saying anything like "uh, for vampires to be scientific and realistic it has to be a virus spread by bite that transforms people into immortal blood-drinking mutants who die if they see a right angle, something viruses are scientifically and realistically known to be able to do, and medieval peasants were just too stupid to understand that so they thought that crosses repelled vampires because of God."

Vampires in Eureka are still the vampires from Eureopean folklore, but the scientific implications of them existing like that are extrapolated on and explored. That's where the cosmic horror comes in.

[l0singsdogs]

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of reverse Robin AU fics, and while they’re amazing—each one exploring different angles, like Damian as Nightwing, Tim taking on the Red Hood arc, or even adding Cass, Duke, and Stephanie—it got me thinking. Some stories place Jason in the role of Red Robin, while Dick becomes the youngest Robin, which is always an interesting twist.

But I have this idea: what if Jason Todd—22 years old, still mending relationships with his family—ends up in one of these reverse universes? In this version, Jason has been going to the Batcave more often, having more of Alfred’s home-cooked meals, and building stronger bonds with his siblings, even if calling them "brothers" doesn’t always come naturally. He’s... fixing things. Then, suddenly, he falls into this alternate universe. He knows right away something's off—not just because of the subtle differences in Gotham, but because his smartwatch (or some kind of tech on his wrist) confirms he’s crossed into another reality. Of course. Because these things always seem to happen to him. That’s when he spots Nightwing. But this Nightwing is different—green eyes, not blue like Dick’s. The katanas catch Jason’s attention too. He knows Dick doesn’t use katanas—he prefers escrima sticks—but there’s something even more glaring: the posture, the furrowed brow, the intensity in those green eyes. Jason could recognize it anywhere. The first thing out of his mouth is:

“Damian?”

Because of course—that’s what Jason assumes. The stance, the scowl, the eyes. But more than anything, Dick Grayson isn’t that tall or broad-shouldered, at least not the Dick Jason knows. This Nightwing is taller, more muscular, and a hell of a lot angrier than the Nightwing from his universe. They fight. It’s brutal, but Jason knows how to handle it—he's fought a version of Damian enough times to predict his moves. Then comes the introduction, because obviously, Jason has to explain himself. And that’s when it hits Damian—Nightwing or Robin or whatever he is in this world—because this can’t be Red Hood. It can’t be Jason Todd. His Jason Todd is fifteen years old and currently sleeping at Wayne Manor, probably stressing over a math exam the next morning.

Cue the chaos.

Jason—23 years old, battle-scarred, and wearing the Red Hood armor—can’t stop staring at this older, more composed Damian Wayne. A Damian who seems… more mature. More communicative. It’s jarring, especially since the last time Jason saw his Damian, the kid was bickering with Tim about some animated movie and had just turned fourteen. Jason's no fool—he’s smart, observant—and it only takes him a few minutes to piece together the truth: he’s in a reverse universe. One where Damian is the eldest. And as much as Jason won’t admit it, the realization both unsettles and intrigues him.

Of course, Damian—this Damian—drags Jason back to the Batcave. And that’s when the real headache begins. Because Bruce Wayne is younger. Not by much, but enough. He doesn’t have as many battle scars etched into his face, but there’s still that unrelenting fire in his eyes—the mission comes first. The three of them—Jason, Damian, and Bruce—stand in the Cave, caught in the mess of explanations. Damian tries to tell his father that this Jason is from another universe—one where he’s older—and Jason explains he needs to find a way back to his world. But it’s Bruce—Bruce, who keeps glancing between Jason and the kid version of him asleep at the Manor—who struggles the most. Because his Jason, his son, is only fourteen. No scars. No guns. No Red Hood. He’s not this tall, battle-worn man standing before him.

It’s like seeing a glimpse of the future—a future Bruce can’t help but wonder about. What happened to my son? What broke him so badly? How did he become this? Because Bruce would do anything—anything—to keep his children safe. And Damian—this Damian—is equally stunned but masks it better. His little brother—the one he cares about more than he lets on—is at home, a kid. Not standing here in front of him, battle-hardened and angry.

Jason, of course, can’t help himself. “Guess I’ll have to tell the Damian in my universe that he’ll actually grow tall enough to look Dick in the eye someday.”

Because it’s Jason—he jokes, even when everything feels like a gut punch. Then comes the planning—because they’re Batboys, and Batboys always have a plan. But Bruce is still shaken. Even though he knows there’s a plan to send Jason back—because of course there is—he’s overwhelmed with questions. How did this other Bruce meet his children? Did he know Damian as a child? How did Dick grow up? Did Tim chase his dreams? There’s so much he wants to ask, but they all know the rules—too much information could alter the course of events.

Still, Jason’s curiosity flares too. He’s calculating, observing—he notices the differences in this Batcave, in the way this Bruce moves, in how the team operates. And part of him—though he won’t admit it—wants to meet his counterpart in this universe. The Jason Todd who’s still a kid. The one who hasn’t been broken yet.

He also wants to see Dick as the youngest—because if Dick’s already a pain as the older brother, Jason can only imagine how insufferable he'd be as the younger one.

And then there’s Damian. Jason doesn’t say it, but seeing Damian so composed, respected, and—dare he say—kind to those around him... it stings in a way he didn’t expect. He’s proud of him, though he'd never admit it. Damian’s grown into the role of big brother better than Jason ever thought possible. But Jason’s Jason, so he doesn’t voice any of that. He just watches.

At some point, Jason and Damian share a quiet moment:

“So… Nightwing? Why?”

“Jon. Kryptonian beliefs.”

Jason blinks. “Wait… how old is Jon here?”

“He’s twenty-eight.”

And suddenly, it clicks. Everything really has flipped.

Jason imagines a fully grown Jon Kent—probably a carbon copy of Superman but even more annoying—and his head spins with all the differences in this universe.

Then there’s the Robin situation—no Red Robin, just Robin—which only adds to the confusion. And somewhere in all this, Jason realizes Bruce wants answers. He can feel the weight of Bruce’s unspoken questions—like he’s desperate to know how things unfolded in Jason’s world. If his kids were safe. If they were happy. Jason, ever the rule-breaker, might even pull out a photo from his own universe—one with his family—just to show this Bruce and Damian. To prove something. To break the rules a little more.

The kicker? The rescue mission to send Jason home could take a week.

So now Jason has to spend seven days with this alternate version of his family.

Cue the chaos at Wayne Manor, where Jason awkwardly pretends to be a “friend” of Damian’s—maybe even giving a fake name like Peter—to explain why he’s suddenly staying over.

He meets his younger self—a version of Jason who’s still just Robin. A kid with friends, with school worries, with a life not yet shattered by tragedy. He sees Damian—the older brother now—patient with his younger siblings.

He watches an eight-year-old Dick Grayson—talkative, full of ideas, adjusting to a new home and the idea of staying in one place. He meets Tim—still complicated, maybe with a hint of Joker Jr. lingering in his past—but focused on his work with Young Justice and his missions. And Cass—rescued younger than Jason remembers—already a quiet but fierce presence.

It’s a mess of angst, heartache, and a desperate curiosity from Bruce, who wonders what his children’s futures hold.

And Jason? He just tries to survive the week.

Because in this world, the family dynamic is reversed—but the pain, the love, and the Batfamily chaos?

That never changes.

I wanted it to be Jason, but honestly, it could be anyone. It could be Dick to add more drama, or Tim Drake! It could even be Duke—or Bruce himself. You can go in any direction you want with the storyline. This is just an idea because I find the reverse Robin dynamic really entertaining, and we've already seen that Damian can be a great older brother—in the comics with Lizzie, he's perfect. So you can take this idea and do whatever you want with it. I just needed to get it off my chest after everything I've been reading. Of course, feel free to add anything!

[itsharleystuff]

↳ 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄

Gif not mine!

— 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Joel Miller x afab!fem reader

— 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7k

— 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Ellie finds an old chessboard somewhere in Jackson and asks you to teach her how to play. Joel joins and isn’t too happy about losing three times against you.

— 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content (minors dni!), age gap (reader is in her mid twenties, Joel is early fifties), sex, p in v, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, use of whore (like once), pet names (darling, sweetheart, angel), multiple orgasms, they do it on the table, cum eating, bit of angst, insecure Joel, canon divergency, probably ooc Joel and Ellie, mentions of death and loss, alcohol consumption, confessing feelings. Let me know if I missed something!

a/n: this one’s a bit rushed but I wanted to post it before my birthday so I apologize if it isn’t great. Anyways, I’m writing a second Javi fic, so if you liked 𝐌Í𝐀 I’m certain you’re going to love the next one:)

no use of y/n

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

"You're cheating." Ellie rambles, standing up to get a better view of the board and analyze it from different angles. You can't help but giggle at her childish attitude, cause it truly brought a certain joy to the dynamic. "Hey! It's not funny."

"How could I cheat? You were watching my game the whole time." You defend you case, raising your hands in a sign of peace but gaining a glare from the girl.

"I don't know, you're the one who's teaching me." In that moment, you hear the crack of the front door opening, but none of you bother to stand and greet the main resident of the house, too busy in your own matters.

"Look, I'm playing fair. I am simply older and more experienced than you." Ellie grimaces and sits back on the chair, both arms crossed over her chest. "But try not to feel too bad. I've always been really good at chess."

Joel enters the dining room and walks right past you, going straight to the kitchen. You guess he's either going for a beer or to pour some whiskey into his favorite glass. Always the same routine every weekend: he would come home late with absolutely no explanations as to where he was, drink something strong and spend some time with both of you before heading to bed.

"You must be a really good strategist, then." She replies, amused. "I’ve heard this game is all about that. Strategies."

When you're about to respond, the man's heavy footsteps get closer as he comes to the room once again and leans back on the wall opposite to you, a glass of whiskey on his hand. His grayish hair is messy and his eyes seem to shine brighter under the warm light hanging over your heads when he looks at you intently. Often, he would appear exhausted after being off all day, but tonight it was different. Something about him was, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

Ellie must've sensed a shift in the air, since she changed her approach in a second. "Joel, you're pretty ancient. I bet you know how to play."

You hold back your laughter at her mocking comment, reaching the board to rearrange the pieces. He cocked an eyebrow in her direction, straightening his posture nonchalantly.

"I'm more of a poker man," he retorts with a distant air, diverting his gaze to Ellie.

"Poker?" You frown as he comes your way, but doesn't take a sit just yet. "I didn't take you for a gambler, Miller."

He sets the glass down on the table, leaning over the chair next to you with a smirk. "M'not. There’s many ways of playing other than betting your money, f’you know what I mean.”

Your eyes widen at his response, taken aback. So he meant like… The one were you end up naked. “Now, I would’ve expected that from Tommy, but you? That’s a surprise.”

He shrugs, faded smile still on his lips.

You remembered what Ellie once told you, ‘he does that whenever you’re around,’ she had said in a meditative tone, ‘smile, I mean. It’s kind of creepy cause… y’know, he never does.’ Perhaps that’s why she acted differently every time you three were together.

“Yeah, whatever.” The girl grumbles. “Can you play chess or not? I need someone to take revenge for me.”

Joel takes a seat beside you, slowly, glancing over the board before sipping from his drink again. He looks back at Ellie, whose eyes were sparkling with excitement. The man sighs in defeat, well aware that he just couldn’t say no to her. A dad reflex, maybe, but it worked out in her favor and she’d take advantage of it as much as she could.

“Fine. I call black.” You nod in agreement and the younger one leans on her elbows for a better view. “Either way, I know you like making the first moves. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Your first reaction was almost choking on your own saliva. Honestly, how dare he say something like that in front of Ellie? Did he suddenly forget that she was fourteen and terribly clever? Had he lost his mind? Also, he never called you by anything other than your name whenever she was around, so this whole situation felt like a personal attack.

“You okay over there?” Ellie asked, slightly concerned at your incessant coughing.

“Yeah…” you give him a dirty look and press a hand to your chest, making the first move with a white pawn. “Could you bring me some water? I think my soul might’ve left my body.”

“Sure.” She quickly answers, standing up. Joel doesn’t say anything else, his mind focused only on the game now.

It had all happened last weekend.

Thinking in retrospective, your relationship with him had always been ambiguous. You couldn’t quite recall when he actually started talking to you and not just ‘bear with your presence’, nor when his invitations to come over to his place started coming from him and not Ellie.

At first, it was simply you and her. Bonding was easy, despite her sharp character. She looked up to you, for whatever reason that might be, and that smoothed things. Joel was a completely different story. He acted like you didn’t exist, as if you were merely another bug roaming his house. Though when he saw how good your friendship with Ellie was, his brusque behavior started to fade, or at least settle down somehow.

Sooner than later you started coming over to make dinner, or teach the teenager how to bake some of the recipes your grandmother had thought you -more like you’d do everything while she chatted to keep you entertained-. But truth be told, it became more of an excuse to see him.

Honestly, you were doomed since the very beginning. There was undeniably no way you would’ve been able to escape Joel Miller’s silent charm. His presence became a constant need to you, and you’d often find yourself relating certain things to him. Smoke, denim, pills, booze, watches and boots, to mention a few. To you, he was all gray and blue, merging in the best way possible.

You didn’t expect him to thank you for taking care of them. Them. Not just Ellie, him too. Or that he’d suddenly show up to places you would frequent, which made you wonder, could he possibly feel the same way? Sure, it could’ve been a simple coincidence… If it weren’t for the stolen looks you’d often share. Though his face rarely reflected any interest in you, his piercing gaze would frequently burn your skin every time you were hanging out with other men.

Two weeks ago, Maria had been held back from patrol due to her pregnancy, and you were called to fill up her place. The thing is, you were supposed to leave with Tommy, but somehow ended up with his older brother, riding at dawn in utter silence and searching for a prey to hunt. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, yet it allowed you to watch him more attentively: his broad shoulders and sturdy back, the dark graying hair that, in some way, made him more attractive. And then your mind, went to some… Darker places.

How would his big, manly hands feel cupping your breasts? Flashy images of his rough, calloused fingers pinching your nipples meandered your mind. His face buried between your legs, his mustache tickling your…

“You ‘kay there, sweetheart?” He had asked, abruptly taking you out of your freakish daydreaming. “You seem distracted.”

Well, that was a way of putting it. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” you babbled, “I hate the rifle.” Joel glanced back at you with a stiff, confused expression. “If I shoot this thing, I’ll feel the kickback on my shoulders and back for at least two weeks from now.”

The horses were stagnant, waiting by the trees while you took a stroll nearby, keeping an eye for any sort of animal that would serve for dinner.

“Show me.” He said, internally amused by your inquiring expression. “Show me how you hold it.”

“Oh…” You compeled, in spite of the anxiety his stern eyes brought upon you.

“You’re doin’ it wrong.” He grunted, coming to approach you, still holding the position.

You scowled, raising a brow to him but not daring to move a muscle. “Maybe you’re just making me nervous, did you think about that?”

Joel plants himself behind you, staying so close that you could feel the warmth of his body through the many layers of clothing. Your heartbeat races when his hand rearranges the rifle on your elbow, unintentionally wrapping his arms around you.

“You need to hold it like this.” His tone was low but still firm. “Keep it up.” You feel his chest pressed to your back and his face near yours, making it hard to breathe.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, cause if your head turns even a little, you fear the distance between you might as well disappear. His hand holds your wrist steady, the other one going from your elbow to your waist in a tight grip that makes you gasp.

“Do I make you nervous?” He questioned, without letting you go. Paying no mind to the way your nerves buzzed and ears rang at the proximity, you slowly nodded. “Are you afraid of me?”

His doubt made your heart jump and knit your brows together. “No. I trust you.” Joel’s breath hit your temple and it took all the self control in your body not to get rid of the distance.

“You shouldn’t.” Both his hands are on your waist in a firm grasp. He definitely noticed your flushed cheeks, the ragged breathing and constant desire to look at him. Like a damn teenager in love. You gulp, trying to regain composure.

“And why is that?” He didn’t answer, and every second that passed and his hands were still on you only made it worse. You needed to get closer or your lungs would crush under the weight of expectation. “Joel?”

You finally gave in, raising your head to face him. He was already looking down at you, eyes smitten and lost. A reflection of him you’d never seen before. Your gaze goes to his lips and inevitably lick your own before going up to his deep, brown eyes again.

Fucking hell, the man was mesmerizing.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you’re leaning forward, completely forgetting about the rifle and the whole world around you. Your noses touch and your lips merely brush against each other’s. Instinctively, you close your eyes in hopes that he’d go for it.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his hand comes to arrange your posture again, murmuring a lazy ‘easy’ in your ear, that shared moment vanishing in thin air.

“When shooting a weapon this big, you gotta bring your strength from your torso and legs.” And then he acted like nothing happened; nevertheless, he was perfectly aware of the effect he had on you. “That way it won’t hurt after.”

Well shit. Now you had screwed up.

This man was like a father to Ellie and you were not only infatuated with him, but also add to the list that you had purposely tried to kiss him. You were embarrassed, to say the least. Specially since it appeared that whatever feelings you had were one-sided.

Or so you thought, up until last Saturday.

You hadn’t talked with him about it. In fact, you hadn’t even been alone with him ever since. It was probably for the best, though, that way you wouldn’t have to humiliate yourself in front of him any further. Every time you happened to cross paths, he seemed aloof, more indifferent than usual.

It was pretty late, probably past midnight and Joel hadn’t yet arrived. You had spent all day with Ellie and now you were just waiting for his return, but she was growing tired and you didn’t think it was fair for her to stay up for too long.

“Go to bed, okay? I’ll wait for him.” You told her with a smile.

“Nah, don’t worry. I’m not even…” whatever she was going to say got cut off by her yawn.

“Right. You were saying?” She rolled her eyes and snorted at your victorious air.

“Fine. But promise you won’t stay for too long. I’d hate to know you didn’t get any sleep because of me.” You agreed and said everything would be fine, that she had nothing to worry about.

So you waited there on his living room, reading old crappy magazines about celebrity gossip while facing the crackling fire that kept the house warm. It was easy to lose track of time this way, therefore, when the door opened at last, you had no idea how long you had been waiting around. You rushed to his encounter, but you were totally unprepared for what happened next.

“Jesus Christ, Joel. Are you- shit…” the man standing ahead was someone you knew, but could barely recognize. The side of his face was bleeding, a cut going from his temple to the cheekbone and there were bruises scattered around it. He was sweating and you could swear he was about to faint.

You closed the door behind him, tugging his shoulder to drag him inside, all the way to the kitchen. Despite his rumbles of protest, Joel allowed you to do it, putting up no resistance. His mind was screaming at him to tell you that you should leave and that he didn’t need any help. But he was too fucking exhausted and you were being so kind and warm… He just couldn’t bring himself to do it, ignoring the part of his brain that kept telling him ‘you’ll regret this later’. For once in a very long time, he was being irrational, letting another part of him take control; or rather lose it completely.

You sat him down on a chair and took a clean towel, wetting it with cold water to treat the wound. In addition, you also took the bottle of whiskey that he kept locked away where Ellie wouldn’t find it, pouring him a glass. He gulps it down straight away.

Joel observes your every move closely. Your steady hands going to his chin and raising his face to the light, the way your features drown in concern and your dazzling eyes examine the injury. His skin burnt there where you touched him and it was becoming hard for him to keep his mind focused, growing dizzier with pain and intoxicated by your perfume. He really shouldn’t be feeling this way, and it burdens him to know it. Your lovely, young self shouldn’t be an object of his desire; and the fact that you were what he wanted the most was killing him achingly slow.

Because, even if you did want him back, what good could it possibly come from the whole thing? He’d just hold you back. There were plenty of other men in Jackson that could offer you things he certainly couldn’t. Yeah, that was it. He was way too corrupted to be deserving of someone like you.

“Does it hurt too much?” You muttered while getting rid of the blood, careful not to be too harsh.

“S’okay, angel.” The name-calling wasn’t something you usually liked. It sounded condescending coming from other men, but when he did it, your stomach fluttered. “Were you waiting for me?”

You nod vaguely, “I was worried.” His eyes bore into yours and your heart skips a beat. “I mean we. We were worried.”

“Right…” He noticed how your fingers brushed the hair out of his face tenderly, his self-control threatening to crumble under your touch with every second that went by. His hand takes your wrist, preventing you from keeping up your work. For a moment, he says nothing, simply staring at you fixedly. “I think you should leave.” He blurts out, letting go of you.

Oh, there they were. Those mixed signs that you always seemed to misinterpret.

You groan in exasperation, leaving the bloody towel beside the bottle of alcohol. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Joel was being petty and his deliver managed to hurt a little. But you would not give him that much power, at least not without putting up a fight.

“It’s not about that and you know it.” You cross both arms over your chest and sit on the edge of the table, determined to get out of that agog that wouldn’t let you sleep. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He rubs a hand over his face, taking his time to retort and avoiding your eyes. “I can’t give you what you want.”

You laugh sardonically, challenging him. “And what is that?” His gaze is disdainful and rude, but you don’t let him intimidate you. “Are you afraid?”

If you were anyone else, you’d be shaking with fear. Joel was tough, to the point where some might call him cynical. But you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. His goal was to scare you off.

“Go. I don’t need you here.” You don’t move an inch, resolved to bring an end to whatever this was and ignoring his vicious glare.

“No,” you huffed.

“I told you to leave.” He was getting pissed, his voice trembling with anger and the cold words slicing the tense air.

“And I said no. I don’t take orders from you.” His lips were sealed in a fine line, eyes feisty. “Be honest with me and then I’ll see myself out.”

Silence again. A more prolonged one in which none of you had the bravery to come forward. Every second that went on and nothing happened was a torture you could not endure. That was it then, you’d made a fool of yourself yet again.

“Fine.” Your voice comes out unsteady from choking down the tears as you stand up straight, set on leaving all these feelings behind.

But right when you walk by his side, Joel’s hand grabs your arm softly. His grip wasn’t strong enough to hold you back if you really wanted to go, kind of like he was unsure about his own actions.

“Push me away.” He pleads. And it sounds desperate, as if the whole situation caused him agony. “Please, push me away.”

Your wet your lips, astonished by how guilty he appeared when practically begging you to stay away, “I can’t,” you respond, “I won’t.”

There was no turning back now. He had trapped himself on purpose and jeopardized everything the moment he laid his hand on you. The minute your eyes found each other’s, he realized he’d just lost all willpower that remained.

Joel pulled you closer and the sudden action almost made you trip, forcing you to place both hands on his chest to stay still. Something flicked in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite comprehend. But you took it as a sign to fully give in to your desires, as long as he’d permit it. You sit on his lap, solely enjoying the moment. His face, despite the beating, was ever so beautiful. It wasn’t fair. If he wanted you too, why did he have make it this difficult? Perhaps he was simply… Insecure.

“What have you done to me, sweetheart?” He asked, voice strained as he looks down at your lips. Your fingertips gently trace the edges of his face.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” One of his hands covers your thigh and the other rests on his knee.

“Do you like playin’ around with an old man like me?” You can’t help but laugh a bit, your thumb going across his bottom lip. “Is this what you want? A sweet thing like you can do so much better.”

“I don’t care for boys, or any other men for that matter.” His chest swells at your words. “I like you, Joel. Is that so hard to believe?” The man swears you can feel his heart thumping against his ribs when he whispers a barely audible ‘yes’. His honesty moved you and grew a weird feeling in your chest that impelled you to prove him wrong.

In response, you lastly get rid of that awful distance, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips and feeling the unfamiliar tickle of his mustache. It was stubborn at first, but he caved in eventually, kissing you back slowly. He took his time to relish on your taste before deepening the kiss, manhandling you on top of him. Joel’s hands are on your lower back and the nape of your neck as his tongue explores your mouth in depth, letting go of himself. You moaned in between the kiss, drunken by every light stimulation, which only spurred him on and turned the situation hungrier, more desperate.

“Joel…” you pull back, laying your forehead against his. “I have to go.”

You feel him chuckle at your declaration. “Seriously? Now?” His tone was raspy and faint.

“I don’t want to.” You assure with a pout, “But I fear that if I stay, this won’t end in a simple kiss. And Ellie’s upstairs, remember?” He agreed it was for the best, but still couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself, asking you to stay the night even if he had to sleep on the couch.

That was the night that started everything.

After that weekend, the way he acted changed radically. He remained with that grim, stoic exterior. Yet, he was brighter around you, more beaming. In public, he’d always find a way to touch you, even if it was merely a brief brush of skin. On bolder days, he’d pull you apart from a crown and take you somewhere darker to make out for as long as you could. Which wasn’t much, since everyone always appeared to have some sort of unresolved business with either of you.

Today, however, something was odd. Joel went off, as usual, and you stayed with Ellie, who had found an old, ragged chessboard somewhere in Jackson. A game that, as it turns out, you particularly loved.

That’s how you ended up here.

Three rounds afterwards, you keep winning and increasing his irritation.

“Checkmate.” You say for the fifth time tonight, giving him a triumphant smile, getting up from your seat to pour some whiskey into your glass.

“You’re cheating.” He barks, annoyed.

“See! I told you.” Ellie backed him up and the way they teamed up to bash you almost made you giggle.

“Suck it up, losers!” You shout from the kitchen, entertained by their resentment.

“Spill your secrets then, otherwise I will simply not be convinced.” She replies, glowering.

The drink nearly dissolves on your tongue and you leave the glass on the counter, coming to join them again. You rest both hands on her shoulders in a friendly gesture.

“My grandpa thought me when I was young. Before the outbreak, I mean.” Ellie turns her head to look at you in interest. “He got sick afterwards… Forgetful and amnesiac.” You explain, “Chess stimulated his brain and since I was his only family left, we would spend hours playing.” Joel’s chest feels heavy at the sight of your nostalgic smile. “We had a great time together. He… Passed away a couple years ago.” Ellie takes your hand on her own in a comforting manner, but you don’t feel particularly sad, simply emotional about the past. “Hey, kiddo. Didn’t you have a movie night with Dina today?”

“Shit!” Her eyes widen. “Thanks for the reminder, I totally lost track of time,” she gets up with an apologetic smile, “I’m gonna head out now.” She quickly takes a jacket and ties her hair up. “You guys can keep playing or… I don’t know, just don’t wait around for me.”

And just like that, you’re left alone.

After an entire week of sneaking around and behind everyone’s back, you’re finally alone.

There’s a shift in the air of the room and you narrow your eyes when you gape at him. “You think she knows something?”

He tilts his head to the side and finishes his whiskey. “Probably. Can’t know for sure.” The vague answer made you shrug, deciding to put a pin to it for later.

Now that no one was around, you were determined to have some fun, coming up with a plan that could escalate things between you. And he surely thought so too. It wouldn’t be difficult to get his attention, since he was constantly monitoring your every move. Being that way, you intentionally stand beside him when leaning to reorder the pieces, giving him a very good view of your ass.

“Another round?” You ask tauntingly, “Or are you already tired of getting defeated?”

He grunts, upset by the previous resolutions. “I’d like to play another game.” You turn around with a cheeky smile. “One that I won’t lose.”

“And what would that be?” He gives you a darkened, intense glance, his lips pursed in a smirk.

Joel Miller was a man of few words and he totally lived up to it. Instead of responding, he grabbed your hips and dragged your body to the side, so that you were now standing between his legs, lingering against the edge of the table. You swallow hard, meeting his heavy gaze from above him. It made your pulse raise and blood rush, igniting something that you haven’t quite felt with anyone else yet. He presses a kiss to your clothed abdomen, eyes never wandering from yours as he lowers his lips to your pelvis, lifting your shirt leisurely.

“Look at you, darlin’. All flustered and I’ve barely done anything.” Your chest rises and falls methodically, the atmosphere feeling dense despite the chilly air. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips when he starts laying open-mouthed kisses along your exposed belly, sending shivers through your whole body, “Off,” he motions at your clothes.

You do as told, getting rid of the shirt and tossing it to the floor. His big, warm hands strain your movements as he explores your skin, kissing all the way up to the valley of your breasts.

“Joel…” you take a fistful of his hair and pull at it mildly, just enough to yank his head backwards and bring your lips together, swallowing a whimper from him.

The kiss is ambitious, all teeth and tongue, as if you had been craving each other for long and had just barely given in. He swiftly stands up and sits you at the end of the table, spreading your knees to settle in between your thighs. He parts from your mouth and traces your jawline, neck and collarbones, nibbling and sucking the sensitive skin, lightly scraping it with his facial hair. You were a mess at this point, panting and tugging at him as if you were about to collapse. But then he stops, breathing heavily against your chest and looking up to you with dark, lustful eyes.

“What- Did I do something wrong?” You stutter with uncertainty.

“Ain’t nothing wrong, angel.” His hand rests heavy on your thigh, a mischievous grin painted on his face. “But I told you we’d play a different game, didn’t I?”

This new side of him was exciting in many ways possible and whatever it was he wanted to do, you were certain it was going to be fun. And, possibly, a bit tortuous. You peer at him in expectation.

“Make your move.” He commanded, pointing the board with a succinct head movement. You obligue, choosing a random pawn and moving it with shaky hands while struggling to think straight. The man hums and decides to mirror your tactic. “Keep goin’.”

Next thing you know his fingers unhook your bra and you have to make a quick choice in spite of all the distractions. At the end, you go for a horse, barely capable of register anything other than his hands taking off the piece of clothing. After contemplating your scheme, he moves another pawn in return.

“Shit.” He hissed at the sight of your exposed tits, nipples hard from the cold air and arousal. “Focus.”

You weren’t sure if that last order was for him or for you, but either way the game kept going. He had enough attention span to grope your breasts and tweak your nipples between the pads of his calloused fingers, while also moving the chess pieces around. You couldn’t say the same for yourself; a louder moan escaping your lips when he replaced his fingers with his mouth.

The more ministrations he provided, the harder it became to make strategic moves. But you were determined not to let him win, regardless of the ache between your legs and the growing wetness in your panties that he refused to attend.

“Joel, I…” He takes away one of your rooks, his lips attached to your neck and hands caressing your inner thighs. “I need more.”

He huffs a laugh that vibrates through your lower body. “That right, angel? Tell me what you want.”

You take away his only bishop left and hear him growl at his approaching defeat. “Touch me, please.”

“Where?” His scent fogs your senses, so manly and distinctive of him, growing the need to feel him in any way possible. “Words, sweetheart.”

“I need your fingers in my cunt, Joel.” You spit out, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down his throat and increasing his arousal with your lack of coyness. “Please.”

“Anything for my pretty girl.” He unbuttons your pants and slides one hand inside, palming your pussy over the underwear, altering your breathing pattern and moving the queen with his free hand. “Fuck, you’re drippin’.” You grind against his hand and his grip on your waist tightens to keep you still as he kneads circles on your clit over the thin fabric. “Your turn, darlin’.”

The game carries on at the same time as he moves your panties aside and slides two thick fingers inside your entrance, his thumb still fondling your nub slowly. You can’t keep your moans at low and the stimulation picks up when he curls his digits to hit your right spots. All that can be heard in the room is the cracking wood of the fireplace and the squelching sounds of your pussy.

“Jesus Christ, Joel…” you cry out his name, burying your face on the crook of his neck, grabbing the soft flannel in your fists and spilling all your whimpers into his ear, delighting yourself with the way he smelt. He groans at the feeling of your bare chest pressed to him, his cock throbbing painfully at every sound you’d make.

“You like that, darlin’? You like to fuck my fingers on top of this table like a needy little whore?” You clench around him and throw your head back, a new wave of slick coating all the way to his knuckles. “Ah, so you do like it.”

“Yes, Joel. I-” he speeds up his pace, greedily circling your clit in a way that makes your back arch, giving him a glorious view from his position.

“Fuck, you’re so hot. Been wanting to do this for so fuckin’ long…” He admits, peppering kisses all over your breasts.

“Me too. Thought about you when I-” your voice gets lost at the sudden feeling of heat settling on your lower stomach, building up your crescendo. “When I was alone.” Your confession only manages to prompt him further and make his movements more effective. You squirm under his touch, a hand messing his hair while the other holds his belt to keep him close.

He groans a deep ‘fuck’ at the pathetic sound you made. All because of him. No; all of them for him.

“Joel, I’m- shit, I’m close,” there’s a hotness on the pit of your stomach that extends to your legs.

“I know, angel.” He coos, his free hand brushing the hair out of your face. “Go ahead, do it.” His words are all it takes for your orgasm to hit, shocking every nerve on your body. He helps you come down from it, tracing soothing patterns on your bare skin as your body quivers from elation.

“Joel…” you whisper, both your hands on his belt and going to unbuckle it, watching as he takes both fingers to his lips and licks them clean.

“Sweet” he kisses you again, deeply. You happily return it with the same energy, nibbling at his bottom lip while your palm slides inside his jeans to feel up his bulge over the underwear. He muffles a moan in your mouth, his hot, hard cock twitching under your grip.

Your hand drifts inside his boxers to feel him directly, your thumb rubbing over the tip to spread the surprising amount of precum that oozed there. Joel gasped into your mouth, the sound prompting you further.

“Checkmate.” You tell him, pulling back only when you needed to breathe, guiding your finger to your tongue in order to taste him. “I won.”

His eyes divert to the board in awe, and you admire his mesmerized expression when he confirms that you had, in fact, won again. Joel comes back to dote on your devilish grin, fueled up by a new thrill of excitement.

“Fuck this…” he mutters through gritted teeth, mindlessly tossing the board to the side and letting it fall off the table along with all the pieces, making an absolute mess. It appears like he doesn’t even register any of it, going straight back to kissing you, his hands sliding your pants down your legs.

“Shit, Joel…” You can’t help but laugh at his reaction, encouraged by his sudden passion.

As your lips collide once again, you start to unbutton his shirt and he helps you out of your jeans, along with your very wet panties. He pushes your back against the wooden surface, holding you down with a hand around your neck.

“Winners that boast in their victory are only brats.” He snarls, taking his dick out for you to see. Your mouth waters at the sight of it: thick, bigger than you could’ve expected, the head swollen and glistening. “Brats need to be tamed.”

You whine when he parts your thighs even wider, teasing your slit with his tip, covering it in your slick and intentionally grazing your aching clit, urging you to grab his bicep for support.

“Can’t you just fuck me already?” You blurt out, the sensation only edging you more. “I might just cum again from all the teasing.”

His fingertip sweeps across your bottom lip, an eyebrow raised. “You really that sensitive, angel?” He questions, “Or is it just because of me?”

The inquiry nearly makes you crack up. Damn, the man was totally clueless. “Are you really that unaware of the effect you have on me?”

His stare reflects how pleased he is to hear that. “How many times did you beat me tonight, sweetheart?”

It takes an actual effort for you to recall and muster up an answer when he keeps toying with you so mercilessly. “Three, I presume.”

Joel’s hand slithers to your lower back, keeping you angled for him. “Then I’ll get you off three times.” Your heart jumps at the sentence and you look at him in disbelief. “Can you do that, angel?”

Three fucking times?

When your whole life men had only ever given you… None, practically. One at most, if you were lucky enough. And Joel mother-fucking Miller had the nerve to ask if you could handle three.

“Bet.” The answer is music to his ears, giving in once and for all as he enters you unhurriedly.

He’s so big and you feel him splitting you open exquisitely, the sensation fading any thoughts, beliefs or identities from your mind. Right now, all you know is him. It stings a little and it forces you to screw your eyes shut, letting out a small whine as he bottoms out, your nails digging on his arm.

“You’re doing s’good, baby.” He continues to say in midst of it, talking your way through it, “Taking me so well…” You think it’s somewhat unfair that he’s still fully clothed and you’re naked as the day you came; yet, at the moment your mind can’t even think of anything but his cock, buried deep inside you. “If something feels off or it becomes to much… Let me know and I’ll stop.” You nod, eagerness starting to scratch your insides.

“Yes. Now can you please, please start moving.” He holds back a chuckle, gazing at you from above, barely lifting your hips to feel more of him.

“Atta girl,” he obeys, thrusting his hips sharply and deep. “Look so pretty beggin’ to be fucked.” His big arm travels to the arch in your back, withdrawing and pushing in again, slowly losing his consciousness to pleasure.

“Fucking hell, you fill me up so good…” he moans gruffly at your comment, pulling you down on his cock as he picks up an unrelenting pace, hitting every right spot as if he knew them all by memory.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” Joel drags in an out, rejoicing himself in every high pitched moan you’d spill. Your legs wrap around his waist in an effort to keep him as close as you could.

The angle is very intimate, his whole body flushed against yours, warm and firm, while your hand snakes under his flannel to dig your nails on his bare shoulders, the other scratching his scalp delicately and Joel’s hot, erratic breaths hitting your face as you gape at him. It’s like everything else disappeared and it was all about the two of you and this moment of pure rapture. Unable to contain your urge, you search for his lips, kissing him one more time, the mixture of mint and alcohol in his mouth fogging your senses in the best way possible.

His tip nudges your g-spot relentlessly, the stretch his girth provided so satisfying that you clench around him as your second orgasm approaches, causing him to pull apart from the kiss and let out a sinful groan, deep from his throat, that sends a shudder up your spine. It all becomes too much; the friction of your delicate nipples with his shirt, his thick cock dragging against your walls and lastly, Joel’s teeth biting down the soft skin under your ear, his facial hair scraping deliciously. That is your cum button.

“That’s my girl, making a mess on my dick,” he fucks you through it, slowing down his pace and only pulling out when your legs tremble. “Say it darlin’, tell me who you belong to.”

“You, Joel…” he basks in the view of your fucked out self, looking up at him in a delirious state, eyes low, heat soared across your cheeks and lips plumped. “Shit, Miller,” you sit up, arm still hanging around his broad shoulders while his hard, throbbing cock rested against your thigh. “You’re so fucking hot, did you know that? It drives me insane.”

He laughs huskily, his big hand caressing the side of your face in a caring manner. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he speaks softly, “I think I might’ve fucked you so hard I scrambled your brain.”

You actually crack up this time, pressing a kiss to his forehead and muttering an: “Idiot.” He grabs your thighs and methodically swirls your body, flushing your back against his chest. Without warning, he slams into you again, making you yelp at the sudden action.

“You’ve got a dirty mouth,” he pokes fun at you, “next time we’ll put it to use.” And the promise raises goosebumps on your skin.

This new position gave you the opportunity to feel him deeper, if that was even possible. His thighs and hips firm against yours, every single snap making you feel that delicious stretch he provided as your cunt envelopes him tightly. But you were already far too sensitive and every light touch added to his thrusts made your body feel weaker.

“Joel, I-” he holds you with an arm covering your waist, his fingers pinching your nipples. “Fuck, I won’t last…”

He becomes more vocal, his disjointed moans drifting from his lips right into your ear while the hand on your hip makes its way to rub your clit gloriously, in a way that makes you wonder just how the fuck does he know exactly what your body likes.

“Is my sweet girl gonna cum for me?” you nod, unable to form any words, only capable of reveling on the way his cock throbs inside you. “Speak, remember?”

But you can’t. Nothing comes out of your mouth besides his name, like a constant plea. When the third one finally came, it was simply euphoric; your whole body shudders and your vision goes white, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes as you start to feel lightheaded. Joel draws out with a grunt, a string of curses leaving his lips as you spin around to see him. Your hand wraps around his own when he fucks his fist and you take in the sight of him cumming all over your fingers, his forehead laying on your shoulder as you milk him. Inevitably, you lick your fingers to taste his salty load. A sight that would be engraved in his brain for the rest of his days and that could possibly haunt him in his time apart from you.

“Checkmate my ass,” he grits between shaky breaths, your hand stroking his hair as he comes down from his high.

“What a sore loser…” you joke. In fact, you plan to say something more, but you feel too tired for anything.

It didn’t really matter, though. Joel took good care of you. He bathed with you, cleaned up the whole mess and gave you one of his shirts for you to sleep with, eventually going to bed with your very passed out self.

Well, if Ellie didn’t know anything before, she surely will now.

[http-shield]

my coffee?- bucky barnes

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: fluff, established friendships/budding romance, set in CA:CW timeline where Bucky is in Romania trying to piece back together his life, mixed POV, divination (coffee reading) slight sexual themes, reader is helping bucky try to find some sense of normalcy within his life, human reader, bucky is a lil lovesick loser, lil old world slavic witchy magic, ~ wc: 1.3k ~ not proofread "Do you want me to read your coffee?" Bucky tilts his head. "My coffee?" 

Rain pelts the window as a summer storm rolls over the city.

It had come in quick, the thunder starting only ten minutes before the sky opened and unleashed chaos upon the unprepared populous. You had been halfway home, plastic bags swinging at your side full of groceries as the sky groaned, flashes of lighting backlighting the mountains as you took in the darkness of the clouds building. Your steps hurried, smelling rain on the warm breeze, knowing you only had minutes to reach home.

The heaviness of the bags slows you down, plastic digging into your fingers painfully enough to warrant a reshuffle of the load. Water begins to splatter the cobblestones around you, hitting the earth with soft plinks, and you start to rush, moving items from one bag to another in an effort to distribute the weight evenly, but just as quickly as the rain began, the cold drops sliding down your exposed back stop. You look up from your work, feeling a presence hover above you and are greeted by a smiling Bucky. He stands over you, your pink umbrella held high over your head, and you stare up at him, dumbfounded. 

"What are you- How did you…?" the question comes out in jumbled words as he bends to lift the bags.

His smile is one of ease, mischief lurking behind blue eyes at your blatant surprise. 

"I heard the thunder and realised you didn't take your umbrella, so I came looking for you," he shrugs as though it were the most casual explanation in the world. 

"You came looking for me?" 

"I know the route you take, and you were either walking home or still shopping." The plastic bags are strung over his left arm, and he extends the right one, holding a space for you to loop yours through his.

"You came looking for me." you can't help the smile that spreads across your face as you link limbs. 

"Of course." the way he smiles has your heart stuttering in your chest. 

Bucky begins to walk, setting the pace as you hurry to reach proper shelter. The rain gets heavier with each passing second. You try to suppress the grin, your teeth digging into your bottom lip, but it remains, cheeks aching and burning at his thoughtfulness. 

—-

"Do you want me to read your coffee?" you ask excitedly as he drinks the last of the brewed drink, setting the small cup back into the saucer. 

Bucky tilts his head. "My coffee?" 

You nod, a wordless answer as you scooch closer to him, hands reaching for the porcelain. His watchful gaze follows you, eyes following the lines of your body as you bend forward, dressed in only your pyjama shorts and oversized t-shirt, and he in a black shirt and sweatpants. There is a comfortability between the two of you, the knowledge of who he is, and it has been long established that he no longer has to hide his mental appendage. His heart aches at that. How you had accepted him for all he had done, knowing who and what he was.

Your bare leg brushing against his left arm has his thoughts deviating from the warmth that fills his chest at your kindness to a different kind of warmth blooming deeper. The rain had been both a blessing and a curse as it soaked you both through regardless of the umbrella he had bought. It had started coming down at an angle, and there was no way he could fight against it as you ran. By the time you crossed the threshold into the lobby, your entire body was drenched, clothes sticking to you in a way that held nothing for the imagination, and Bucky had to look away, turning his attention to the bags full of rain splattered groceries. That familiar heat returned to his stomach and only intensified as you began to climb the stairs, taking them two at a time before him, reaching the apartment in record time. He had kept his gaze averted as you tried to unpack the shopping, water dripping from your fingers while you dug through bags, but Bucky pushed you away. His hands gripping your shoulders, he steered you towards the bathroom, instructing you to get out of the wet clothes in fear of catching a cold, something he had heard you mutter to him a thousand times over the first time he had turned up at your door soaking wet from the rain. With the door slammed shut, he had a moment to breathe. To try and address the feeling in his stomach that had begun to pool into a sea of fire. To fix the issues that had started growing. Shame filled his cheeks, unable to think of you like that first and foremost, but secondly, how had such a simple and innocent image of you been enough to have his mind spiralling like that?  He shakes the thought away again as he focuses back on the present. 

You're holding the chipped tea cup, upturned on the plate. 

"My grandma taught me this when I was younger." You explain, eyes trained on the crockery. "Apparently, she had the gift." 

"The gift?" Bucky queries. 

"Yeah, the gift. Sight. Knowledge, you know?" you wiggle the fingers of your free hand as though casting a spell. 

"So, like a witch?" 

"Basically."

Bucky hums, watching as you flip the cup over and smile, whispering words as though they were an incantation.  His attention is rapt as you twist and turn the mug, eyes narrowing at shapes he cannot see. 

"Oh, ova e odličen znak." the foreign words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. 

"It's a good sign?" Bucky is quick to answer in english, suddenly very eager in his fortune regardless of how silly he thinks this is.

You raise an eyebrow at him. "How did you-"

"I speak Russian, remember?" he leans in and flicks your forehead with his right hand.

"But that wasn't Russian." you rub at the spot is fingers had just hit but it doesn’t hurt.

"Close enough." he shrugs, inching closer to get a look into the cup. Your shampoo fills his nose, the lavender scent soothing something within him. 

"Okay, okay." you brush off the questions that begin to rise within you. "Let's see." 

You examine the cup further, turning it over to Bucky, and you point out shapes and figures made in the rivers of coffee. He sees nothing but blobs of brown but nods along anyway, enjoying how you feel as you lean further into him. His heart begins to race, his ribs not used to the pace it sets. 

"You are going to live a good, long life, Mr. Barnes." you finally announce, handing the cup to him. 

"Anything else?" fingers brush over yours, sending shivers across his skin. 

"There was a cat and a house." You think for a moment, and he worries that the following words from your mouth won't be so happy. "Something about a girl and a kid." 

"A girl?" his mouth quirks up. "Like a wife?"

The answer is a nod and a soft smile. 

"You're lying!" the accusation comes out a little louder than he intended but is followed by a laugh as he shoves the cup back in your hands.

"I am not!" you shriek back, turning the mug back around, finger-pointing to the most prominent smudge at the bottom. "See, a pregnant woman!" 

Utter bullshit. It is a clump of coffee grounds. 

But he doesn't say that, doesn't dismiss the happy future you had almost entirely made up. Instead, he looks at you, his lip worried between his teeth. "Nothing about…before?" 

"Nope." With a shake of your head, you put his mind at ease. "As far as the cup is concerned, there was never a before." Soft fingers push his hair back behind his ear, curling around the edge of his jaw. Bucky leans into your touch, his body relaxing as your thumb begins to stroke soothing lines across his cheek.

Bucky knows you're lying. There will always be a before with him, and until you, he rarely thought there would be an after, but right now, with your strange and probably very untrue predictions, he cannot stop himself from wishing it would come true.

[loveinhawkins]

for the one word ficlet prompt thing!!

I'd love to see something steddie with the word "sun". not picky about how you use it and im good with whatever season you'd like! 💕🌻💘☀️

pre season 3 crossing paths in high school, my beloved ☀️💕 ao3

There’s a blind spot just on the outskirts of the school grounds, before you get to the woods: a little hill that if you sit at just the right angle, back pressed up against the grass, no-one can see you. Eddie goes there whenever he needs some peace—like now, reading alone during lunch. He can still hear the distant laughter of students floating along on the breeze, but it’s far enough away that it doesn’t intrude as he reads.

The air smells like summer’s approaching. His fingers skim through drying blades of grass; they feel almost as delicate as pressed flowers.

Despite the calm solitude, the words aren’t going in—and he knows that with the right teacher, he kinda gets Tennessee Williams, but Mr Hauser’s gone, and he was the only one who allowed Eddie free reign to go wild when reading aloud in class, every other sub since then would say he was being disruptive and… okay, that was true some of the time, but most of the time it was because it helped, damn it, gave him at least some hope of scraping a pass—

A shadow falls across Eddie’s page—it doesn’t loom in the way a teacher’s stance would, but he still jumps at the suddenness of it.

“Jesus!”

Eddie tips his head back against the hill, cranes his neck to look upside down. Squints against the sun.

It’s Steve Harrington, and he must have gym straight after lunch because he’s already changed into a T-shirt and shorts, which is an odd decision in Eddie’s opinion as a perpetual gym-ditcher, but whatever, it’s a free country… and it’s not exactly like the guy’s an eyesore.

”You trying to give me a heart attack, Harrington?”

“No,” Steve says shortly; he looks a mixture of embarrassed and… annoyed? Which would be a new personal best for Eddie, considering he’s done nothing to piss him off save for just sitting on the ground. “I didn’t know you were here, dude.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the idea,” Eddie waves his hands in explanation, “welcome to my hiding spot.”

Steve scoffs. “Not much of a hiding spot if I found it.”

It comes out a little petty, sure, but nothing major, Eddie thinks; it’s not like Steve’s picking a fight.

“What’s up with you, man?” he asks lightly.

It’s something he’s pondered more than once over the last couple of years, in between the stress of failed tests and the same platitudes in school reports: Eddie must apply himself next year; Eddie must try harder; Eddie must…

In the background of it all was the enigma that was Steve Harrington. Eddie had found that you couldn’t not look at him, his eyes drawn to even the most fleeting impressions: walking past the lockers or driving in and out of the school parking lot. Seasons changed—whole damn years changed—and still the question remained: just what on earth is up with Steve Harrington these days?

At least now, asking the question is profoundly less upsetting than it had been last fall, when Eddie silently tracked the progression of bruises healing across Steve’s face—along with Billy Hargrove’s intimidating stare.

“Nothing, I’m just…” Steve sighs. “Didn’t wanna spend forever in the cafeteria when it’s so nice out, but… Honestly?”

“Nah, I’d prefer you lie to me,” Eddie says deadpan, and Steve snorts before sighing again; Eddie almost asks him to read some Tennessee Williams out loud, ‘cause he’s surprisingly got the dramatics for it.

Steve flops down onto the grass, lies right on his back with no concern for his precious hair. “I’m so damn bored, Munson.”

“Gosh, my heart bleeds,” Eddie says. “Puh-lease tell me how hard it is to have passed everything and literally not have a care in the world?”

Steve blinks up at him, frowning. “Shit, are you repeating again?”

He sounds earnest, and there’s something in his phrasing that means Eddie isn’t nearly as defensive as normal—maybe because it’s about repeating again rather than failing.

Eddie lifts up the script in demonstration. “Not exactly reading this for fun, dude.”

“God, I’d take that over gym right now.”

“Okay, you’re bullshitting me. You love gym, Harrington. You, like,” Eddie gestures at Steve’s get-up, “actually make an effort and everything.”

“Not when the semester’s almost over, man. We don’t even have a cover right now, so we’re just left to, like, do whatever, who gives a shit. I’m bored outta my mind.”

“Tragic,” Eddie says—gym without a teacher sounds like a dream; he’d literally just leave. “I’m weeping for you.”

Steve rolls his eyes. But it doesn’t feel like a dismissal, even when he doesn’t reply and just lies back in the grass with another sigh.

So… Eddie mulls it over. What the hell, Steve’s graduating; it’s not like they’ll cross paths after that.

“Bet you can’t run to the woods and back before the bell rings.”

Steve sits up, a gleam of interest in his eyes. He checks his watch. “The bell’s gonna ring in, like, two minutes, Munson.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were so bored. Well, if you’re not up to the challenge—”

“No, no,” Steve says, standing up. “I didn’t say that.” He actually gets into position like he’s on the running track, looks at Eddie expectantly.

Eddie covers his bemusement with theatrics; he mimes firing a starting pistol.

And… shit, Steve Harrington can run.

Objectively, it’s not like it’s a surprise; he wasn’t exactly bringing up the rear in the swim and basketball teams. Still, it’s one thing knowing it, another to see it up close like this.

Eddie puts his book back in his bag, watching as Steve disappears from view. Reluctantly, he edges away from the hill—if he doesn’t, he’ll risk being late for class again by the time he walks over, and… He thinks of ‘86, what has to be his third time lucky. Start as you mean to go on, and all that.

Eddie turns back to look. Sure enough, Steve comes sprinting out of the woods, racing up to the hill right as the bell rings.

“Still counts, Munson!” he calls, a little breathless.

And Eddie knows that he’s not really solved the mystery of what’s going on with Steve Harrington.

What he does know is that Steve is smiling as he raises a fist in victory, the sun turning his hair golden for just a moment; he looks utterly free—as he should be, graduation’s right around the corner.

And Eddie can’t begrudge him that.

”Inspirational,” he shouts, cupping a hand around his mouth as he walks backwards. “I’ll get John Hughes on the phone, stat.”

The bell stops. Eddie turns around before he can trip on his own feet.

He’s getting closer to the school building now, can feel the change in the air, cliques unwillingly disbanding as teachers move them on.

But as he heads to class, Eddie faintly hears evidence that the moment hasn’t been broken entirely: Steve Harrington’s laughter, drifting across on the wind.

[stardewvalleybut-i-draw]

OFFICIAL HEIGHT- Tallest to shortest

(Left to right)

Explanation and Subjective Reasoning

Colors and symbols

Green line- top eye level of the tallest man

Red line- top eye level of the tallest woman

Blue line- shoulder level of the tallest man

Orange line- shoulder level of the tallest woman

Yellow line- same height

Yellow dot- taller than previous

Yellow cross shape- subjective/arguable placement or unsure

numbers- starting from the top whites of the eye of Abigail/Penny, every eye increase or decrease is numbered

Reasoning of colors and symbols:

Inspired by the user r/asparagas on the Stardew Reddit from 8 years ago, Abigal and Penny were determined to be the base or around 5'0''

SO! I used them as the base eye level

I couldn't wrap my head around the previous person's reasoning and math so I changed the way to read the height

I use the shoulders as an indicator and eye level sometimes to decide who is taller than who, flawed but I think it gets the idea across!

(+) Exceptions and odd sprites :

Clint- his shoulders are one pixel shorter than Elliott (slouched) BUT has taller eyes and is closer to Harvey in head shape height

Wizard (M. Rasmodius)- It can be argued that the Wizard may be slightly shorter than Sam because the coat makes it hard to read where the shoulder starts

Shane- It can be argued that he is taller than Sebastian because of his sprite and nose location but he might also just be squinting, idk

Lewis- Low shoulders but his head is HUGE and his hat makes him look tall

Gus- his sprite looks slightly down (the ears are highly placed) so it can be argued he is slightly taller than Emily

Linus- his eyes are tall but it is very hard to tell where his shoulders start

Caroline- her shoulders are the same as Jodi but her neck is taller than her BUT she also has a small head, it can be argued Jodi looks tall because of her hair

George- he is in a wheelchair and is at a down-looking angle so he may be shorter

Krobus- used their lower eye instead of the higher one for height reference number

Comments :D

Like I stated before, the previous person from 8 years ago actually did the math to get actual height numbers but sadly that's not my strength

BUT WHAT DO YOU THINK?

let me know if you feel like some people could be moved around!

I'll take you into consideration and make changes if needed!

also posted on the Stardew Reddit!