#that writing is now looking tiny... oops

[imhereonthekitchenfloor]

[meganegatari]

before you read ▪︎ loose continuation to THIS

ultra loser!ellie x teasing(slightly sadistic tbh)!reader. reads fine as a standalone!! no fr sex, but still nsfw!!! loads of teasing, ellie's shy and flustered (also gave her glasses and piercings muahahah AND HAPPY TRAIL MENTION YAYYY), reader's a little insistent (but it's ok), mentions of masturbation, discussion of sex, REALLY horny making out at the end lol, heavy petting, they almost do it, tiny abby cameo, buildup AS PER USUAL YALL KNOW THE DRILL, kinda cliffhanger ending (its on purpose HAHA), different layout bc i cheated n looked at the poll oops...NGL TS HAD ME SWEATINGGG WRITING IT LMFAO don't think i have ever written something more horny....ok enjoy! + 2.2k wc

apparently both of you missed the professor's class cancellation email on this fateful day… other students showed up too, but they left quickly after seeing it was empty. ellie stayed to catch up on some work, enjoying the silence and typing away on her laptop, which looked like one of those beefy gaming computers.

covered in stickers and the keys changing color, you thought it was interesting she'd lug that thing around campus with her, instead of opting for something light and sleek. and now that leaves you. you had no other plans for the day, and had already mentally prepared yourself for this class, totally unaware it was canceled.

you realized it wasn't a bad idea to copy ellie, and catch up on some of your own work. however you were more intrigued by her, to be totally honest with yourself.

watching her from a distance, she captivated you. she never seemed to notice your stares, too absorbed in her thoughts. you watched her type, efficiently and quickly, pausing only to push her glasses further up her nose with her slim fingers.

the truth is, she's hot. but no one was hearing you out on that, unfortunately. they'd say to you, “what a loser! i don't think i've ever heard her talk.”

you felt overwhelmed by the urge to strike up a real conversation with her—more that simple greetings or coursework questions— and it was the perfect opportunity to do just that. so you got up, sat yourself down in the empty spot right next to her, and put on the most charming grin you could muster up. she abruptly snapped out of her focus, almost flinching at your presence.

“hey! you're ellie, right? whatcha working on?” you got close to her to see, being met with a bunch of hieroglyphic-looking strings of symbols on the screen. woah, smarty-pants. “um, it's just…some project, i dunno. how d’you know my name?”

she finally looked at you, her eyes round, wider than the ufo saucer stickers on the back of her computer. they were so green, the hazel ring reminded you of a polished agate stone. the scattered freckles on her face were so pretty too, you'd never been close enough to her to really take notice. she nervously scanned your features, blotches of pink blush decorating the apples of her plump cheeks.

she was so cute, and noticing her evident shyness flipped a switch inside you, what if you messed with her a little?

you shrugged at her, “just seen you around. you're so mysterious.” you lilt, manipulating your tone to make it smoother on the ears, even containing hints of seduction if you dared.

she blushed a deeper raspberry shade and looked down at her hands, fidgeting with her rings. she was somehow getting more attractive by the second, your heart felt like it was about to burst.

“am i? never thought of it that way, you're funny.” she mumbles, her antsiness obvious. but you didn't wish to let up so soon, you were having a lot more fun flustering her than you'd ever care to admit, even wanting to see just how far you could push her.

“ooh, i love your rings. where did you get em?” “just…places. why are you asking me so many questions?” you sighed and rolled your eyes, “well, ellie. we both don't have anything else to do, gotta pass the time somehow. i wanna talk with you, is that okay?” she took a deep breath and nodded, visibly relaxing. she stretched out her arm to get rid of the tabs on her computer, close it, and put it in her bag, which is when you got a look at her forearm tattoo.

“also i'm obsessed with your tattoo, you have no idea how cool you are, how are girls not all over you?” you question, taking her wrist in your hands and examining the tattoo's intricate line work, tracing your fingertips over the pigment in her skin.

you heard her breathing change in tempo, quickening ever so slightly. but she didn't move her arm away, and let you continue. she took a second to respond. “um. thanks, i guess. i don't really know what you mean.” her voice cracked when she said the last part, igniting a flame inside you, one that you didn't know existed.

your mind wandered, you began wondering what she sounds like when she whimpers. was she really so starved of human contact you could mold her like putty, just with your fingers and tongue? you wanted to find out so badly, wanted to hear how she'd cry your name out if you fucked her into oblivion. was she a squirter or a creamer? you hoped to the heavens above you'd get to find out someday. maybe it was too much to fantasize like this, considering you formally met just now, but you weren't hurting anyone if it all never left the confines of your mind.

you were lucky you hid your own arousal well, nothing out of the ordinary showed on your face whatsoever. ellie wasn't so lucky—to her dismay, but to your delight—everything played out on her delicate features so clearly, it was nothing short of delectable. 

your eyes bore into hers, the intensity of the eye contact making her shiver, and attempt to break it. “ellie, ellie, ellie, may i call you els?” you didn't wait for an answer, and continued, “do you have a girlfriend?” you pouted your lips at her, feigning sadness as if her response was something you didn't already infer.

she was stuttering now, stumbling over her words, making less and less sense as the conversation went on. she was anxiously bouncing her leg, you could see her chest rising and falling, and her face had turned a lovely crimson color, it was so strong, the flush had spread down her neck and reached her ears, making her piercings stand out. good lord. 

“ahem- no, i don't have a girlfriend. actually never have, shocking i know.” she chuckles at her self-deprecating joke, and while her smile was enough to light up a room, you wanted to slap the doubt out of her. or rather, fuck it out of her. 

you exhaled loudly, “hahh, well isn't that a shame. you're so pretty, i'll just have to snatch you up for myself then.” she swallowed audibly, greatly taken aback. “sorry, what?” “oh, don't you know how much people love losers like you? tsk tsk tsk, you're so much hotter than you realize, i mean it, els. look at you! you've got these piercings, this tattoo, you're smarter than this whole class combined, seriously.” 

she just gaped at you, unable to process what she was hearing. no one had ever talked to her like this, it was only something she read about. and coming from you? this ethereal person who starred in all of her most intimate fantasies? she rubbed her eyes roughly, convinced she was hallucinating. her mouth opened and closed dumbly, her voice box failing to produce any sound. but you were affecting her so much, especially because she lusted after you to an extent she could only take to the grave.

flashes of her midnight escapades flickered in her mind, of her shoving her hand down her pants like an animal in heat, orgasming so intensely she'd black out, abusing her hole with nothing but images of you playing in her mind, and your name on her tongue. her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of her wild actions, and she shook her head to clear the thoughts away. 

you groaned and leaned back in your own seat, exclaiming, “god i'm so bored. and pent up, fuck. it's been so long since i had sex…” that was true. in any other situation you'd never say something like that aloud, but because you were alone with the clueless idiot you wanted so carnally, you let it slip. 

“...maybe you should take care of that.” you heard her cough out, her voice coming out strangled. “i could. but that's boring.” you opened your eyes again and smirked devilishly her way, poor girl looked like she was about to go on a trip with the ferryman. 

you grabbed her hand, examining it some more, commenting, “you play guitar, don't you? guitarists are very good with their hands, i will say.” you played with her hand, pressing it into a fist, then extending her middle and ring finger. gosh, what's gotten into you? “i bet you're sooo good.” 

you've never seen a person look more flustered than she did right now in this moment. her voice was impossibly quiet, barely above a whisper, “cut it out.” “okay, fine.”

some beats of silence passed, but a thought crossed your mind. if she really hated this interaction that much, she could have got up and left eons ago, yet she stayed here and endured it all. hmm. you blurted out, “els, have you kissed anyone before?” 

and again she stayed silent, even after you waited patiently for an answer. she kept looking away, her jaw tense. 

you decided to quit the teasing just for a moment, and speak to her gently, genuinely. you shifted to sit a little closer to her and asked, “do you want to?” her gaze locked onto your mouth, she licked her lips, then muttered, “if you're really offering and not just fucking with me, sure-” 

your patience broke and you didn't wait for her to finish her sentence before swiftly leaning forward and connecting your lips with hers, relishing the tiny gasp she made as soon as you did it. she tasted like a dream.

after a split second she kissed you back, it was inexperienced and clumsy, fueled by adrenaline, but she got into a rhythm soon enough. you took the lead and deepened the kiss, absent-mindedly tugging on her bottom lip with your teeth, coaxing eager whimpers out of her, pure music to your ears.

you succumbed to the sensations and increased the pace, your tongue dancing against hers. you felt her hands fumble by your waist, and she pulled you closer to her. your hands clawed at her chest, the beautiful symphony of panting, the wet smacking of your lips colliding, and her uncontrolled moans filled the empty room.

she gripped your waist so tightly, fingertips surely leaving small marks in their wake, you couldn't wait to find them later, and you shamelessly felt up her chest, your thumbs finding her nipples—perky, hard, and poking out through her thin shirt. you caressed and rubbed and squeezed, feeling her jolt under your magical touch.

she was fully whining now. spilling needy, high-pitched sounds, this was better than you could've ever imagined. neither one of you breaking the kiss for even a second, your hand trailed lower and landed on her stomach, slipping under the bottom of her shirt. you felt her defined abs tensing, and the whisper of a happy trail—now it was your turn to moan.

she got even louder and her kisses got sloppier, and you were about to venture inside her waistband before a sudden sound startled you both. 

your phone vibrated aggressively, and with great effort you separated yourself from ellie, long strings of spit connecting you to her still.

she whimpered from the loss of contact, chasing your lips, then huffing and quietly groaning while you took out your phone, her hands not letting go of your waist. when you checked it, it was a message from your friend, abby, just saying: URGENT. COME HERE NOW. ASAP.

fuck her. fuck her and her timing, was all you could think. really, now? you wanted to kill her.

trying to slow your breathing and racing heart, you explained apologetically, “ugh, it's urgent. im so, so sorry ellie, i gotta go.” she stared at you, speechless, but nodded meekly, reluctantly retracting her arms. you didn't want to leave, and stayed gazing at her for a little longer, and brushed a loose strand of soft hair out of her face. what a cutie, she looked all disheveled and dazed. you were about to look for a paper to scribble down your number to keep in touch, until your phone buzzed again, and started ringing with abby's repeated attempts to get ahold of you. couldn't she wait a minute?

you gave ellie one last devastated look, getting up and rushing out of the classroom before abby called you another seventeen times. 

ellie was left in the classroom, reeling from the encounter and what it had turned into. she was utterly bewildered at the events that transpired, her blood rushing in her ears, mind spinning, lips still puffy, glasses fogged over, hands trembling, and of course a sticky, uncomfortable damp spot in her boxers. she leaned forward to rest her head on the desk in front of her on top of crossed arms, to take a moment to cool down before escaping back to her place. 

“holy shit.” 

im horny🧍‍♂️just like ellie after that. as soon as she got home, u best believe she came so hard she saw literal angels and deities LMFAOO (this is my favorite thing ive ever written gawdDAYUM)

yall who wanted more, hope this suffices as a continuation! @stonerzdaze420692 @womenlvrrr

[revelboo]

this right here is your ask to write a character you have wanted to write but haven’t gotten around to yet!!!

How about a shit-post scenario? I need more of the extra tiny Blokees… give me a teeny Star, Sounders, and Shocky

Mass Displacement Mayhem

Wheeljack x Reader

• Sitting crosslegged and sorting odds and ends into piles for Wheeljack, your head snaps up at the ‘oops.’ Eyes widening when he lunges for you, a hand outstretched and doesn’t quite make it. Whatever he was working on blowing up. Throwing your arms over your head as Wheeljack slams into the counter you’re on and curls himself over you, you hear shrapnel pinging off his back. And the blast of energy released knocks you flat as Wheeljack makes a funny noise. Then mass shifts, his optics widening as he scrambles to climb up with you. Hooking your arms around him, you pull and fall backwards with him sprawled on you. But when you lift your head, your mouth just falls open.

• “Ow,” he groans, before panicking that maybe he’s crushing you and trying to get up. Only to look up at you. “Oh.” Because you’re bigger than him somehow. He’d mass displaced past his limit and he’s about knee high on you now. Flexing his servos as he sits up, his vocal indicators flash pink when you touch them. “That wasn’t supposed to do that.”

• He’s toddler sized. Still Jackie, but so little. And you know darn well he’s an adult bot, but you still grin like an idiot and examine his little hands. Because he’s so adorable this size. When he doesn’t protest, you drag him into your lap, hooking your arms around him like a teddy bear. “I didn’t know you could go this small.”

• “I can’t.” Vocal indicators fully red now as you wrap yourself around him fussing over how tiny he is- and why are you talking to him like that? Voice cooing like he’s a sparkling. “I uh, really need to mass shift back?” That earns him an unhappy sounding ‘aww’ and he grimaces. “I guess i don’t have to right this second,” he mutters, venting when you hug him even tighter. Because being cuddled definitely isn’t awful. Hears you murmur he’s ‘toddler sized’ and has no idea what that means, but at least you’re happy? And as far as explosions go, this one wasn’t that bad, really. Comm pinging, he acknowledges it and hears Ratchet’s furious voice yell at him. “What the Pit did you do? I know this was somehow you!” Oops. Maybe it was isolated and not that- optics shuttering as pings start coming in from all over the Ark.

• Making a noise, Wheeljack just slumps, face pressed against you as his hands fist in your shirt. “I did it to everyone,” he groans as you bite back a laugh knowing he won’t appreciate it. But he’s so cute this way. It can’t be all that bad, they can just mass shift back, right?

[stylesispunk]

"You're the loss of my life"

outbreak! Joel Miller x f!reader

part 2 here

summary: you and Joel went from one kiss to getting married to becoming strangers.

w.c: 5k>

Warnings: angst, implications of cheating, mentions miscarriage. Perhaps some grammar mistakes because no proofreading oops!

a/n: I know everything I write is angst but is what it fits in my mind right now. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The day you killed yourself, you woke up. The salty tears streamed down to your ears. There was a pity gaze you didn't want to meet, looking down at you, perhaps asking why. 

You didn't want to talk, even less to answer the pitiful comments from people who thought they had a say on all this.

You remember the fall. You remember Joel running to Sophie to save her life instead of yours, instead of both. You and the baby who was inside you. The one who wasn't there anymore because of its tiny form didn't resist the impact of your fall.

What a tragedy.

Sadness overcame you in the aftermath. In a world like this, treating your wounded body wasn't as hard as treating your heart, which became a frozen glass shell.

The days that followed were a blur, each moment blending into the next, a never-ending cycle of grief and numbness. You avoided mirrors, hating the reflection of a person you no longer recognized. The hollow eyes, the lifeless expression—they belonged to a ghost, not to you.

Joel tried to talk to you, his words a constant hum in the background. "I'm sorry," he'd say. "I didn't know what to do." But his apologies were meaningless, lost in the chasm that had formed between you. He perhaps saved Sophie because he loved her more, because in that split second, she was the one who mattered.

Not you anymore.

You spent hours in the nursery, the room you had so carefully prepared. The crib, the tiny clothes, the stuffed animals—all mocking reminders of what could have been. Your hands would linger on the soft blankets, tears falling silently onto the fabric. It was in that room that you felt the closest to the baby you had lost—a place where the field of dreams you had died.

One night, as you sat in the dark, the pain was too much to bear, and you decided you couldn't go on. The world was too cruel, too indifferent to people's suffering. You wrote a letter, your final words, to those who might wonder why. It was brief—just a few sentences explaining the unbearable weight of your grief and the unending ache in your heart. Meeting your family and beloved ones in heaven sounded better than keeping yourself prisoner in a world that would never be a safe place for anyone.

You took the pills, each one a step closer to peace. As you drifted off, you felt a strange sense of calm, a release from the torment that had consumed you. You hoped that in death, you would find the solace that eluded you in life.

But then you woke up again. The salty tears streamed down to your ears. There was a pity gaze you didn't want to meet, looking down at you, perhaps asking why.

Waking up again felt like a cruel joke. You were back in the same world, with the same pain. But something was different. Joel was there, his eyes red and swollen from crying. He took your hand, his touch hesitant and afraid.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered, his voice breaking.

You turned away, unable to meet his gaze. The wound was still too fresh, and the betrayal was still too raw to face them.

Joel's gaze burned in your back, and the smell of death was in the room. You held your breath for a moment. You wanted to smell the flowers and the baby smell of the little head of your baby, which you would never get to meet.

"Why?" he questioned, and for the first time, his voice did soothe your wounds; instead, it caused your blood to boil inside you and irritated you.

"I want Ellie here, not you."

"Baby- “

"Go." Your voice could slice Joel’s skin.

He recoiled as if struck, his face crumpling with pain. He stood there for a moment, looking lost and broken. "Please, don't push me away," he pleaded, but you couldn't hear him through the rage and grief that consumed you.

"Leave," you repeated, your voice cold and final.

Joel's shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that followed was suffocating, a void that threatened to swallow you whole. You curled into a ball, the tears flowing freely now—a torrent of pain and loss.

“Go to Sophie,” you whispered to the void, allowing yourself to cry.

Time seemed to stand still in that moment; your sobs were the only sound in the quiet room. You didn't know how long you lay there, but eventually, you heard a soft knock on the door.

Ellie's voice was hesitant when she called out your name, filled with a mix of anger and concern. "Can I come in?"

You didn't answer, but she opened the door anyway, slipping inside and closing it behind her. She looked at you, her expression torn between fury and sadness.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "Why did you try to leave me too?"

You looked up at her, seeing the pain in her eyes and mirroring your own. "I... I didn't think I could handle it anymore," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I lost everything, Ellie. I lost you, I lost Joel, and I lost the baby. I didn't know how to go on."

Ellie walked over to you, her steps hesitant. "You didn't lose me. I'm still here," she said, her voice softening. "But you almost did. And I'm so mad at Joel. He should have saved you both. He should have done more."

“Do you think Joel doesn’t love me anymore?” you sobbed.  The pain in your voice broke Ellie’s heart.

She kneeled beside you, taking your hands in hers. "I don’t know what’s on his mind now," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But I do know he loves you. He's just... broken too. We're all broken."

You pulled her into a tight embrace, both of you crying together, sharing the weight of your grief. “I lost my baby because of him.”

Ellie held you tighter, her own tears mingling with yours. "Cry,” she said softly. "Blaming him won't bring the baby back. It won't help us heal. We have to find a way to forgive and move forward."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, finding strange solace in each other’s arms. The pain was still there, raw and overwhelming.

You were standing in the small kitchen of your home in Jackson, the dilapidated walls a far cry from the security of the life you once knew. But for a moment, you allowed yourself to dream of something better. Your hands trembled slightly as you held the small, worn piece of paper—a positive pregnancy test, a symbol of new life in a world consumed by death.

Joel walked in, weary from a long day of patrol. His eyes lit up when he saw you, but they quickly clouded with concern as he noticed the look on your face.

"What's going on?" he asked, setting down his backpack and walking over to you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Joel, I have something to tell you,” you began, your voice shaking. "I'm pregnant."

For a moment, there was silence. Joel's expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then to something darker—fear and maybe even anger.

"Pregnant?" he repeated, his voice rising slightly. "In this world? How could you be so irresponsible?"

The words hit you like a physical blow, your earlier excitement and hope crumbling into dust. "Irresponsible?" you echoed, your own voice rising defensively. "It takes two people to do this, you know.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "You know what it’s like out there! Every day is a fight for survival. We can barely keep ourselves alive, and now you want to bring a baby into this?”

“I know this is not the best way, but what do you want me to do?” 

“You know what.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you fought them back, unwilling to show weakness at his suggestion. "I know it's dangerous, Joel. But it's also a chance for us to have a future. To have a reason to keep going."

Joel's face softened for a moment, but then the hard lines returned. "And what if we can't protect it? What if we lose it? Bringing a baby into this world... it's a death sentence."

You turned away, unable to look at him. "I thought you'd be happy," you whispered, the tears finally spilling over. "I thought this would be something good for us."

He reached out, but you stepped back, the distance between you growing. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, but the damage was done. "I just... I can't see how this can work."

You clutched the pregnancy test to your chest, tainted by doubt and fear. “Are you mad because of the baby, or what would Sophie think of this?" you questioned quietly.

Joel's expression faltered, and he looked away, unable to meet your gaze. The mention of Sophie seemed to strike a chord, bringing a new layer of tension to the room.

"Sophie has nothing to do with this," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.

"Doesn't she?" You pressed, your voice rising. "She's always in the back of your mind, Joel. Every decision you make, every risk you take, it's always about protecting her."

"She's my partner in patrol,” he shot back, his voice growing louder. "I’m just as protective as I am with everyone here! I can't fail her, or you. But this world... it's no place for a child."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I know you're scared, Joel. So am I. But we can't live our lives in fear. This baby is a chance for us to have something real, something good. Don't you see that?"

Joel's shoulders slumped, the weight of your words pressing down on him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "I do see it," he admitted quietly. "But it doesn't change the reality we live in. I just... I don't know if I can take that risk."

The room fell silent, the tension hanging thick in the air. You turned away from him, your heart heavy with a mixture of hope and despair. "I'm going to do everything I can to protect this baby," you said firmly, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. "With or without you."

Joel looked at you, pain and conflict warring in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it, shaking his head. He turned and walked out, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your heart breaking as the small symbol of hope in your hand seemed to grow heavier by the second.

The “I do” and vows seemed so foreign in the back of your mind now.

A week had passed since your almost-death. The days were a blur of grief and small steps toward recovery. Ellie remained close; her presence was a constant reminder that there was still something worth fighting for. In your head, you felt guilt and pity, not strong enough to keep believing you were the same woman who arrived here. You were the gosh of a lively fighter who became a lifeless frame.

Maria approached you in the cafeteria, where you were trying to busy yourself. She had always been a pillar of strength in Jackson and a calming presence for you since the day you, Joel, and Ellie arrived.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice gentle. "How are you holding up?"

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down. Maria sighed, pulling up a chair beside you. "I know it's hard. But you need to take things slow. You can't rush healing."

You nodded, though her words felt distant. The weight of your grief was a constant presence, making everything seem surreal. "I just... I don't know how to keep going. I don’t know how to do this again," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper as Sarah’s lifeless frame came to your mind.

You had lost another child.

Maria reached out, squeezing your hand. "One day at a time," she said. "And remember, it's okay to lean on others. You don't have to do this alone."

You wanted to believe her, but the pain was too fresh and overwhelming. As the days turned into a week, you forced yourself to go through the motions, trying to find some semblance of normalcy. One afternoon, you found yourself in the cafeteria of Jackson. The noise and bustle were a stark contrast to the turmoil inside you.

Maria was there, talking to a few people, and she caught your eye, giving you an encouraging smile. You tried to smile back, but it felt forced. The weight of your loss was a constant shadow, making everything seem heavier.

As you moved through the line, Maria came over, her expression concerned. "Hey, remember what I said. Take it slow. You don't have to do everything at once."

Something inside you snapped. The pressure, the grief, the guilt—it all came crashing down. "Take it slow?" you repeated, your voice rising. "How am I supposed to take it slow when everything is falling apart? How am I supposed to keep going when I not only lost my baby but also my husband?!”

The cafeteria fell silent, all eyes turning towards you. You could feel the weight of their stares, the shock, and the pity. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as the enormity of your outburst sank in.

Maria reached out, but you recoiled, your emotions spiraling out of control. "I don't need to take it slow!" you shouted, tears streaming down your face. "I need... I need..." You didn't even know what you needed; the pain was too overwhelming to articulate.

Joel was there in an instant, his face etched with worry. "Hey, hey," he said softly, reaching out to you. "It's okay. You're okay."

But you weren't okay. You felt like you were drowning, the weight of your grief pulling you under. You shook your head, backing away from him. "Don't touch me for fuck's sake! I don't want your dirty hands on me!”

Joel’s eyes glazed, but you didn’t care. He had become the best of the man you had married ten years ago.

Joel's eyes glazed, but you didn’t care. He had become the ghost of the man you had married ten years ago.

He froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The cafeteria's silence deepened, the tension thickening. You saw the pain in his eyes, a reflection of your own turmoil, but it did nothing to quell the anger and sorrow boiling inside you.

"I can't do this," you said, your voice breaking as you took a step back, your chest heaving with sobs. "I can't keep pretending that everything is going to be okay. Because it's not! Nothing is okay!"

Ellie pushed through the crowd, her face pale but determined. "Mom," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We're here. We're all here. We'll get through this."

Joel looked helplessly at Ellie, then back at you. "Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Just let us help."

You looked at him, the man who had once been your rock, now just a shadow of the person you had relied on. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but Ellie’s presence brought a flicker of something else—a reminder of why you needed to keep fighting.

Ellie wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly as you sobbed into her shoulder. The room remained silent; the weight of your grief was palpable. But in that moment, you felt a glimmer of hope—a reminder that you weren’t alone and that you had people who loved you and who were willing to help you carry the burden.

Joel stepped closer, his hand hovering uncertainly at your back, not daring to touch you without permission. "I’m so sorry," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "For everything. I’m so, so sorry."

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady yourself. "You killed him," you snapped, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I can’t forgive you.”

Joel's face crumpled, the weight of your words hitting him like a physical blow. He took a step back, his hand dropping to his side. The silence in the room grew heavier, and the tension was palpable.

"I know," he said, his voice barely audible. "I know I can never undo what I've done. I live with that guilt every day."

Your anger burned hot and fierce, like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. "You killed him," you repeated, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "And you expect me to just forgive you? To move on like nothing happened?"

Joel shook his head, his eyes filled with sorrow. "No," he said softly. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't even know if I can forgive myself. But I want to try. I want to make things right as much as I can."

You looked at him, the man who had once been your partner, your confidant, now a stranger in the wreckage of your shattered life. The anger still burned hot within you, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something else—pain, sorrow, and a desperate longing for the life you had lost.

"I don't know if I can do this," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't know if I have the strength to forgive you."

Ellie's arms remained wrapped around you, a comforting presence amidst the turmoil. She gently guided you away from the cafeteria, her touch reassuring as you stumbled through the hallways of Jackson. The weight of your grief felt heavier with each step, but Ellie's presence gave you a glimmer of strength.

As you reached the door, Ellie helped you inside, guiding you to the small couch in the living area. She sat beside you, her eyes filled with concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice filled with worry.

You shook your head, the tears still streaming down your face. "I don't know," you admitted, your voice hoarse. "I just... I don't know how to deal with all of this."

Ellie reached out, taking your hand in hers. "We'll figure it out together," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I promise."

You squeezed her hand tightly, grateful for her unwavering support. "Thank you, Ellie," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

She leaned in, wrapping you in a tight hug. "I love you, Mom," she said softly. "And I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

Tears pricked at your eyes as you hugged her back, her words echoing in your mind. "I love you too, Ellie," you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion.

As you and Ellie held each other close, the weight of her love and support was a balm to your wounded soul. But amidst the embrace, a knock on the door interrupted the moment, causing both of you to startle.

Ellie pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with concern. "Should I... Should I get that?" she asked, her voice hesitant.

You shook your head, wiping away your tears as you tried to compose yourself. "No, it's okay," you said, your voice still shaky. "I'll go."

Ellie nodded, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before standing up from the couch. "I'll be in my room if you need me," she said softly, giving you a lingering look before leaving the living area.

As Ellie disappeared down the hallway, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. With trembling hands, you made your way to the door and opened it, revealing Joel standing on the other side.

His expression was a mix of worry and remorse as he looked at you, his eyes filled with a silent plea for forgiveness. "Can we talk?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated, the memories of your outburst in the cafeteria still fresh in your mind. But despite the anger and pain, there was a part of you that longed for closure, for a chance to understand.

"Okay," you said finally, stepping aside to let him in.

Joel entered the house, his footsteps hesitant as he crossed the threshold. The living room felt suffocatingly small as you both stood there, the weight of your shared grief hanging heavy in the air.

"I... I don't even know where to start," Joel said, his voice strained with emotion.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. "I just... I need to understand," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I need to know why you did what you did."

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the abandoned streets of the city. You and Joel had been scavenging for supplies, your footsteps echoing in the eerie silence that seemed to permeate every corner of the world.

You had felt uneasy all day, a knot of jealousy and insecurity twisting in your stomach at the sight of Sophie, her laughter ringing in your ears like a taunt.

You had implored Joel to come. You just wanted to feel as worthy and important to him as you used to, even in your state. But despite your misgivings, you had pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable and worthy of Joel's love and attention.

And then it happened.

If Joel had been more careful, he wouldn’t have allowed you to come. But he didn’t want to make you feel worthless.

A horde of infected had descended upon you, their snarls and growls a chilling symphony of death and despair. You had frozen; your mind was unable to comprehend the danger until it was too late.

But Joel had acted, his movements swift and sure as he pulled you away from the oncoming onslaught, his grip firm and unyielding.

And then he had seen her.

Sophie was trapped beneath the rubble, her screams echoing in the chaos as the infected closed in, their hunger insatiable.

And in that moment, something inside Joel shifted.

He had hesitated, torn between saving you and saving her, his eyes flickering with indecision, before he made his choice.

He had chosen Sophie.

He jumped off the horse, leaving you alone. You had watched in horror as he raced towards her, leaving you behind, your heart shattering into a million jagged pieces as the truth of his betrayal washed over you like a tidal wave.

You had screamed, your voice lost in the cacophony of the chaos, your tears mingling with the blood and dust that coated your skin.

And then the world went dark.

You fell from the horse, hitting the cobblestones hard. The pain was sharp and intense, searing through your body like a white-hot flame. You could hear the distant sound of screams and growls, the world around you spinning in a haze of confusion and agony.

Through the haze, you could dimly make out Joel's voice, calling out your name in desperation. But his words felt distant, a mere echo in the darkness that threatened to consume you.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos subsided, leaving behind a heavy silence that pressed down on you like a weight. You tried to move, to call out, but your body felt numb and unresponsive. Your world went black.

"I need to know why, Joel," you repeated, your voice trembling with emotion. "Why did you choose her over us? Why did you leave me behind?"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you waited for his answer, the weight of his betrayal still fresh in your mind, a wound that refused to heal.

Joel's gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his guilt. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I panicked. I made a mistake."

Anger surged within you at his words, a fiery rage that threatened to consume you. "A mistake?" you repeated, your voice rising with indignation. "You left me to die, Joel. You left our child to die. How could you call that a mistake?"

Joel flinched at your words, the pain in his eyes mirroring your own. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry. You were my wife; I should.”

"Were you my wife?” You sobbed, “Since when is that in the past, Joel?”

Joel's words hung in the air like a heavy weight, his admission of guilt and regret piercing through the veil of anger and pain that enveloped you. But amidst the turmoil, there was a flicker of something else—a longing for understanding, for closure, for a chance to heal.

"You are my wife," Joel repeated clearly, his voice trembling with emotion. "I should have protected you. I should have been there for you. But I failed. I failed both of you."

His words stirred something deep within you—a wellspring of grief and longing that threatened to overwhelm you. "And now?" you whispered, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "What am I to you, Joel?"

Joel looked at you, his eyes filled with sorrow. Not uttering a word.

“Do you have feelings for Sophie?” You asked, fear creeping to your bones, not wanting to hear the answer.

Joel's silence spoke volumes; his hesitation was a weighty presence in the air between you. You held your breath, afraid of what his answer might be and of the truth that lay hidden in the depths of his gaze.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Joel spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his words heavy with uncertainty. "

“You love her,” you stated. “That’s why you chose her.”

Joel's silence in response to your accusation only confirmed your worst fears, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth and a heavy ache in your chest. The truth hung in the air, stark and undeniable, like a shadow cast by the setting sun.

Tears stung your eyes as you struggled to process the betrayal, the pain of Joel's admission cutting through you like a knife. The realization that he might love Sophie and might have chosen her over you and your unborn child was a blow that threatened to shatter you completely.

"I can't do this," you whispered, your voice barely more than a broken plea. "I can't stay here, knowing... knowing that I'll never be enough for you. Living in a world like this is already hell, but you made it even worse. You made me feel disgusted by myself, worthless, and ashamed," you shouted. "You're a fucking coward."

Joel flinched at your words, the truth of your accusations cutting through him like a knife. For a moment, it seemed as though he might speak, might try to defend himself, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Hate me; I'll wait. Until you forgive," he finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you struggled to find the words to express the depth of your pain. "Forgive you?" you chuckled bitterly. "I won't."

There are two types of grievances. The one who met the spirits in death and the one who met with the ghosts of someone who should have died in front of you. You still couldn't comprehend which one was worse. Both were painful, and both watered your eyes. But having the ghost of someone who brought you warm, freezing your aura while slipping from your grasp, leaving you crying to yourself till your head tired up and there wasn't anything left that fell into the voiceless world of sleeping, where in your dreams, you were still the same woman in the white dress, marrying the love of your life.

"I needed my husband! I need him now! And the worst thing is, I still need you, but you're just a fucking phantom."

"I'm still here," he exclaimed.

"No, you're not.".

"It wasn't even born!" Joel said.

The silence met souls leaving the lovers's bodies.

You were left speechless, tears ricocheting. Your heart was clenched in pain, and your throat felt like it was being torn apart by a monster.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Save it," you spat. You were exhausted, and your heart hurt so much that you couldn't even feel it beating anymore. "Sorry if grieving my baby was such a burden to you."

As you turned back to face Joel, the weight of your words hung heavy in the air, a painful reminder of the gaping chasm of loss that lay between you.

"Let me remind you of something, Joel," you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "Losing Sarah was the worst thing that happened to us, and just imagine how it is for me to know I carried her and this baby just to lose them both."

Joel's expression softened, a flicker of remorse crossing his features as he looked at you, his eyes filled with regret. "I know," he said softly, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"I'll move out," Joel said suddenly, his voice tinged with resignation. "So you can bring your new lover here and make all the babies you want."

His words cut through you like a knife, a painful reminder of the irreparable rift that had formed between you. "You know what really broke me?" you sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. "You... you're the biggest loss of my life, but as much as I love you, I despise you the same. You're the loss of my life I will be yours. There's no way back from this, Joel."

As the weight of your words hung heavy in the air, you reached for the wedding band adorning your finger, a symbol of a love that had once been unbreakable but now lay shattered at your feet.

With trembling hands, you removed the ring, feeling its weight in your palm as you stared at it, the memories of happier times flashing before your eyes like a cruel mockery of the present.

Without a second thought, you flung the ring towards Joel, watching as it spun through the air before landing at his feet with a soft thud.

"There," you said, your voice choked with emotion. "Take it. Take everything that remains of us."

Joel looked down at the ring, his expression unreadable as he reached out to pick it up and his fingers trembling as he held it in his palm.

"I don't want this," he whispered, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

But you shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you stared at him, the pain of his betrayal a raw wound that refused to heal. "I don't want it either," you said, your voice barely more than a broken whisper. "But it's all we have left."

And with that, you turned away, unable to bear the weight of his presence any longer. The wounds he had inflicted upon you ran deep, a festering wound that refused to heal.

[fastasyoucant]

𐙚⋆.˚ tailor-made lovin’ | annie moore oneshot.

cw | suggestive. black fem!reader. wlw. MEN DNI. she’s not with smoke. tiny mention of homophobia. allusions to cunnilingus. lowk reader act like preacher boy @ the end oops :3 word count: 1.4K

The Mississippi sun had been tucked away in the thick clouds, and a hush rolled over the shop, creating a soft, illuminated look to the room. The familiar scent of sandalwood incense clung to the fabrics surrounding you. Business has been slow this week, ain’t no orders. Ain't a wandering eye in the windows. The scuff marks on the floor reminded you that it would get busy again; time just needed to stretch its legs.

And maybe it heard you.

Because just as you turned your back toward the counter, the bell chimed. “Welcome in.” You nodded, the once furrowed brow lifting with curiosity.

"You the seamstress that I'm always hearing good things about?" Her eyes stayed on yours, letting the calm energy speak words she didn't need to.

“I’m hopin’ I can be that seamstress fo' you! What you need?” A tingle ran through you, realizing your service was essential. You needed the money for sewing materials, food, and a roof over your own head.

“The chest area on this dress here, s’a little tight. I just need it to be expanded or somethin'. You think that could be done?”

“I don't see why not! That’ll be ten.”

“Ten?” The woman laughed, not cruel but knowing. “Naw baby, I ain’t rich.”

Usually, you don’t make deals with clients, but you understood the struggle. She looked like someone who worked hard for every dollar in her pocket— She knew labor.

“Alright, seven fifty?” You tried a lower number, but tried not to play yourself.

“I can make that work.”

A smile had been crafted on her face when you took the deal. The lady unfolded the item that needed altering, a well-sewn, orange, cotton-rayon dress.

"If you don't mind, I need to take a few measurements." You grabbed the measuring tape from the small coffee table that rested behind the register, placing it around your neck.

"I don't mind at all. You gon need me to put it on right? There's a zipper on here that I always tussle wit'. I'm gon' need a bit of help."

You took in a sharp breath, your body beginning to buzz, thinking about helping her slide on that beautiful dress. You remembered the old ladies in the church, whispering about women like you-- folk they said were sinful, unnatural. Folk they pretended didn't belong.

“That’s fine by me.” You nodded your head. “I just need you to sign your name here!” Your hands snatched the loose paper and pen, placing the notepaper facing her, handing the pen to her faithfully.

She leaned onto the counter to write her name. You hoped the gulp wasn't audible. Your eyes gazed down at her chest; you were no better than a man. "Thank you, ma'am." The once blank paper had a soft signature that read 'Annie'. That name sounded familiar, and now that you thought about it, so was her face. You had seen her before. When the mundane smell of incense had been introduced to your senses once again, that's when it clicked.

"You the one wit’ that Hoodoo shop? Down on Terrance Road?" When she heard you realized who she was, those big brown eyes found a sparkle in them.

"Mhm," Her head nodded with the syllables.

"I was waitin’ on you to notice, I ‘member you coming in and buyin’ that sandalwood not too long ago." That nostalgic feel to the way she spoke only made the memory clearer.

"That's right! Usually I’m good wit' rememberin' faces. Everythin’ going well down there?" You started up conversation.

“As well as it could.”

Her shoulders fell after shrugging, she most likely didn’t want to speak about work when she was off. So you didn’t impede. “I ain’t tryna rush you, Miss Annie, but whenever you’re ready, the dressing room is that white door.” You tilted your head in the direction of it.

When Annie turned to see where she needed to go, you stole sinful glances at her. Her frame was perfect, the plaid sundress complimented her complexion. “Alright then.” She nodded and made her way to the dressing room. She didn’t spare any time trying to get the dress on. You didn’t want to ask because quite frankly, you weren’t sure if you could hide the desire to see her undraped. Then you began to hear her grunt, shuffling herself around into the dress.

“Miss Annie, you need help now?”

“Yes please.”

Slowly dragging in air, you headed towards to room. You carefully opened the door. “Zipper always givin’ me sum trouble.”

“S’alright,” Your jaw clenched, that orange against her brown skin could make flowers bloom in the winter. You began to tug at the dress’s zipper. it was almost as if it was glued in place.

“Damn, this zipper ‘bout stubborn as hell.”

“Ain’t it.” Annie huffed as you yanked continuously until it zipped up.

“Okay, let’s hurry up and get your measurements so you won’t be uncomfortable for long.” You held the door open for her. “You can gon ‘head ‘n step on that platform fo' me.”

She got on the podium, standing in front of the mirror. You were too busy staring at her to notice her looking at you through the reflection. Her lips curled as she noticed that lingering look.

“Do you mind liftin’ your arms?”

Without a word she raised her arms, keeping her sight set on you to hold eye contact. You told her what to do but she was in control. The flimsy measuring tape had made a quiet flick as you quickly took it off your neck.

You wrapped it around her bust, and the tape gently stretched around her body. You met the ends of the tape and pulled it snug.

“Thirty-eight and a half.” You muttered under your breath as you went to write her bust measurement right next to her name. “You can go back and change! I got a hanger waitin’”

You tidied up the register, throwing away wrappers and old receipts. You hadn’t heard that much movement from Annie. “Ma’am, you can—”

She was turned to you, one hand perched on her hip.

“Don’t you think I’m gon need some help gettin’ it off?” With one raise of her brow, you were quick to your feet. You followed behind her, acting like the sinful shadow. No mojo bag could keep you from her.

She walked into the dressing room, waiting for you to get yourself situated. Another breath was taken from the atmosphere when your hands found the zipper again. “Lemme know if this hurt, Miss Annie.”

You made sure to not yank the zipper, keeping every moment more gentle than the last. You got it down to where she could pull it on her own, but she wanted you to do it. She led you to the water; she just needed you to drink.

And you did.

You swiftly unzipped the rest for her. “Um— Anythin’ else I can do for ya’?”

“Mm’, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, the sundress slung around her shoulders. Annie kept her modesty in check, holding it by a thread. “You always this sweet?” A chuckle left her lips, and she toyed with the beads on her necklace.

“Um… I dunno ma’am.”

She turned to face you, her stare seductive and dominant. “You’ve been staring at me like that the entire time I done been in here.”

Your throat went dry.

“Annie— I ain’t mean nothin’ by it.” Your eyes widened as she stated the obvious fact: you were staring. More than you should’ve. And if she slapped you across the face right now, you wouldn’t even be surprised.

“Ain’t nobody say I had a problem wit’ it.”

Annie’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your head so your eyes had nothing else to do but meet hers. "You gon' keep starin'," she hummed, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "or you gon' do somethin' 'bout it?"

Your breath hitched. You leaned into her warmth. The kiss was careful, you were getting a feel of the shape of her lips, something that you would never forget. But when she kissed you back, she gave you all the permission you needed.

Soon enough, your hands were resting on her waist. Her mouth opened just slightly and you sighed into it, near dizzy from how sweet she tasted. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish now." Annie rushed her words in between the sentences, hungry to get her lips back onto yours.

"I know the way of a woman." You became bold in a blink, her presence was intoxicating. Then you lowered down onto your knees, you looked up at her through your eyelashes.

"Can I show you?"

[nothoughtsjustfic]

Pretty Boy - L.JH

🧶Who: Lee Jihoon (Seventeen) x reader 🧶What: Fluff. Smut (18+). Established relationship. 🧶Word count: 4.6k 🧶Warnings: Jihoon’s habit of walking around half naked. Kind of sub Jihoon, but it’s not really a thing. He’s just a simp, really. They’re generally very much on equal grounds. Body worship (Jihoon receiving). Vague mentions of hickies/love bites (Jihoon receiving). Nipple play (Jihoon receiving). Oral (Jihoon receiving). Short mouth fucking moment. Hand job (Jihoon receiving). Jihoon cums on himself. It’s all very soft, really.  🧶Summary: “Sometimes, your boyfriend forgets how pretty he is. It's your job to remind him.”

Minors do NOT interact. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.

Masterlist

A/N- This was a very spur of the moment decision to write because I decided Jihoon needs a fic titled “Pretty Boy”. The cardigan mentioned is the one he wore during a God of Music live recording (I didn’t realise it’s actually a jumper until trying to find a picture of it, oops). Thank you to @lovetaroandtaemin for reading this over for me and assuring me that the smut isn’t shit due to my lack of practise these days 💗

After living with Lee Jihoon for two years now, and dating for another year before that, you’re used to the man shamelessly strutting around the apartment in as little clothing as possible. 

Often, you return home and find him lounging around in just his boxers. You’ve kind of become desensitised to his partial nudity at this point, even if he’s ridiculously attractive and favours tiny little boxers that leave nothing to the imagination. Sometimes, you can’t help but jump him when your hormones run wild, but mostly, you just appreciate the view and carry on with your life.

It's normal. 

What isn’t normal is for him to decide to add one of your creations to the mix. 

A few days ago, you gifted Jihoon a cardigan that you had spent months secretly crocheting for him; a difficult task when the man is always home if not working or at the gym, so you hadn’t gained many opportunities to lovingly create it. 

The cardigan is an amalgamation of colourful granny squares, attached together to be oversized on your boyfriend in the way you think makes him look so precious. All the colours against his skin look so pretty, even better than you imagined.

And Jihoon has been far more enthusiastic about the gift than you expected. That’s not to say you thought he’d be ungrateful, because you know Jihoon appreciates everything you give him, even the cheap keyring you won from an arcade game months ago. He especially adores everything you’ve handmade for him and looks after it all so carefully that you knew he’d love the cardigan too.

But you truly hadn’t expected the sheer joy and infatuation he’s shown for it. 

Every single day since you gave it to him, Jihoon has worn it. In fact, as soon as you gave it to him, he immediately pulled it onto his naked torso and curled up into a colourfully adorable little ball on the couch at your side. 

In retrospect, it may be your own fault for Jihoon’s latest habit. You had given him the cardigan when he was in nothing but his underwear, so he had first worn it with just his underwear and realised how soft the material is against his bare skin. 

So now, every single day, you return from work to find him wearing the cardigan with his usual loungewear. Or on the days you’re home before him, you get to witness his sheer determination to shower and get into his new favourite home attire: the cardigan and his boxers. His tiny, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination black boxers, so short that they don’t even peek out from the hem of the cardigan at the top of his thighs.

In fact, you can only catch glimpses of the black material through the holes in the cardigan and are supposed to act completely normal about this.

Clearly, Jihoon doesn’t think there’s any problem with it. He thinks he can just waltz around looking so fucking pretty without you losing your mind. 

You’d say he’s doing it on purpose and teasing you, but there’s not even the slightest hint of the usual mischievous glint he gets in his eyes, or the quirk of his lips from the start of the smirk he favours when he’s teasing you.

Today, he’s decided to make it even worse by tying his recently bleached hair up messily, to get it out of his face as he games on his laptop at your side on the couch. A few strands keep falling into his face, making him constantly have to try and tuck them behind his ears, but they’re just too short and only stay in place for a minute at most.

You know that he’s going to get frustrated in a minute, so you get up to go to the bedroom and grab your little bag of hair bands and clips and return to his side. He glances at you and smiles gratefully when he sees the pouch balanced on your legs before he focuses back on his game.

After picking out a couple of cute little flower clips, you place them neatly in his hair and earn an appreciative kiss on the inside of your wrist when he grabs your hand quickly as it retreats, just to squeeze gently and kiss your wrist, then let go.

Although your task is finished, you don’t move away. Don’t look away. Can’t look away. Jihoon is just so fucking pretty, and you’re utterly mesmerised.

At first, Jihoon doesn’t even realise that you’re staring at him, he’s too focused on his game, but then he happens to glance at you and catch you looking at him. Still, he doesn’t realise that you’ve been staring at him appreciatively for a handful of minutes and just gives you a little smile and a soft kiss before turning back to his game.

But now that he’s caught you once, he seems to be very aware of your gaze on him as less than a minute later, he peeks at you and raises a questioning eyebrow. “What?” he wonders. “I’m not even being loud.”

“Do I look pissed off?” you counter, raising your own eyebrow at him. 

He eyes you carefully, as if this is a trick question, before shaking his head a little as his expression begins to turn perplexed. “No.”

“Well then.”

“Right,” he murmurs and gives you one more bewildered look before turning back to his game. Though only seconds later, he’s looking back at you with a confused exhale that makes you snigger. “Okay, seriously, babe, what?” 

“Can’t I admire my pretty boyfriend?” 

“You’re literally insane,” he mutters, pink blooming over his cheeks as he looks back to his screen shyly. 

It always amazes you that even after three years together, Jihoon still gets shy when you call him pretty, or beautiful, or gorgeous. But something about “pretty” always gets to him. He’s never admitted it, but you know he loves it when you call him pretty; but only if you mean it with everything in you. Like you do now.

“For my pretty boyfriend, yeah,” you confirm and lean forward to kiss his cheek. His shoulders lift as he tries not to giggle shyly at the praise paired with the sweet kiss.  

“Ah, stop,” he complains weakly and gently nudges you backwards with his elbow, even as you whine and nuzzle under his jaw with your nose affectionately. “L-love,” he stammers, fingers fluttering over his keyboard. “I’m playing.”

“I’m not stopping you, pretty boy.” As soon as the petname is out of your lips, Jihoon whimpers softly and you know you’ve got him. “But, if you turn it off, I can show you just how fucking pretty you are to me.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out and doesn’t even bother turning he game off, just closes the lid of his laptop and moves it to the empty space on his left. 

“Let's go to bed. I want to lay you out and worship you,” you murmur against his skin. You feel his soft groan against your lips more than you hear it. 

Knowing that he’ll follow, you get up and head to the bedroom to set the bed up; pull back the covers and adjust the pillows to put yours right in the centre. 

Jihoon always prefers to lay his head on your pillow when you’re being intimate, so that he can fully immerse himself in you with your scent right by his face. It’s another thing he’s never admitted to, but you still know. You know him too well at this point to not notice these things about him.

Without a word, as soon as Jihoon is in the bedroom, he crawls up onto the bed and lays on his back to get comfortable in the centre of the bed, while you sit on the edge and watch him.

Once he’s still, you lean over with one hand resting gently on the centre of his chest and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Comfy, my love?” you check. He hums in confirmation and nods. “Good.” 

Satisfied with his position and comfort, you get onto the bed properly to kneel over him with a knee either side of his hips and work on undoing the buttons of the cardigan. 

When they’re all undone and you push the material aside to bare his torso to you, Jihoon starts to sit up ready to remove it, but you tut and gently push him back down. “You look so pretty in it, baby. Keep it on so you’re surrounded by my love, hm?” 

“It’s the cardigan that’s pretty,” he replies in a murmur, eyes darting down to look at the material pooling either side of his waist on the bed and still covering his arms. 

“Excuse you, Lee Jihoon, how dare you insinuate that you’re not leagues prettier!” you exclaim and pinch his nipple lightly, making him yelp and lift his hands to cover his always so sensitive nipples. 

“Hey!”

“Take it back!”

“You’re biased as my partner; you have to call me pretty!” he defends and bats your hands away when you reach towards his chest again.

“I called you pretty before we even started to date!” you remind and lean over him, planting your hands either side of his head. “Now, stop disrespecting the love of my life or we’re going to have issues, understand, Lee Jihoon?”

He softens at your words, your reminder of how intensely and utterly you love him. His eyes round out a little as his hands slip away from his chest. “C’mere,” he all but whispers as he reaches up to cup your face and gently pulls you into a kiss full of love and devotion; appreciation for you and an urge to show you just how much he adores you with his lips moving against yours. His tongue flits out to drag against yours slowly and spill soft moans into your mouth as his fingers press into your skin as if he wants nothing more than to imprint himself over every inch of you.

The kiss breaks with heavy breath and a handful of lingering pecks as neither of you really want to be apart; but you both need to breathe if you want to have the chance to live a long, happy, and healthy life together. Which, you both very much would love to do.

“My love?” he calls softly when you’ve both filled your lungs enough. You hum questioningly in response and lean up further to look down into his dark gaze. “Show me how pretty I am?” 

A gentle smile lifts your lips as you lean down and press a lingering kiss to his lips. “Happily, my pretty boy,” you hum appreciatively against his lips before starting your work.

Jihoon’s hands fall to the bed, splaying out and curling into the sheets under him as your lips start a well-travelled path over his jaw, down his neck, across his collar bones, and to his chest. 

You pass your adoration through your lips into his skin and know he can feel the intention based on the way his breath is already staggered. Little pants and puffs leave his parted lips as he tries to regulate his breathing when your love is filling his chest and making it hard to get a steady breath. But he’d never ask you to stop, would never want you to. He would choke on your love and still yearn for more. 

Jihoon doesn’t think he’s a greedy man generally, but when it comes to you and your love, he always wants more. He wants all you to fill him with your love until it spills out and puddles at his feet. He knows you’d scoop it back up and gently press it back into him as much as he wants. As much as he needs.

You’re everything he’s ever wanted in a person, even before he knew what he wanted. You’re everything he never knew he needed until the first time you did this; spent so long worshipping his body until he was a shivering mess on his bed, and you curled up at his side to hold him without asking or even wanting anything in return. 

He knew from that day that you’re it for him; the only person he wants to have in his bed. The only person he wants to spend his life with. 

You know how to lift him up, and how to hold him down on solid ground whenever he needs it. He tries his best to return that care and attention, and he hopes that he does a good job. He’s not very good with words and actions in day-to-day life, but he can lay here when you want him to, can let you show him how pretty you find him because he knows you genuinely mean it and need him to believe it too. 

He can do a lot of other things in bed too, things he knows you love, and he’s always willing to try out new things too. But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about how much Jihoon can fuck you into the mattress or use his mouth and hands to send you to another plane of existence. 

This is about showing Jihoon how pretty he truly is. 

Jihoon’s breath catches when your lips brush over his left nipple, fingers of your left-hand dance over his ribs to meet his other nipple and teasingly trace featherlight around the very edge. He whimpers quietly and wriggles until you apply more pressure and stop teasing; press your thumb to one nipple and drag your tongue over the other. 

He gasps and without even looking, you know he’s closed his eyes and has that little furrow in his eyebrows that he always gets when pleasure starts to build in his body.

As much as you love playing with Jihoon’s pretty nipples, you know he gets very sensitive and desperate to cum very quickly if you spend too long on them, and that’s not the aim of this today.

Slowly, you move your mouth down his torso; kissing, sucking, and licking every dip and rise of his well-toned body as you listen carefully to every breathless moan and pleasure fuelled hitch of breath coming from your boyfriend. You don’t need to pay such close attention to his breathing to know which areas are more sensitive, which areas cause him to twitch and grip the sheets tighter. But you like the noises he makes. They’re almost as pretty as he is.

When you reach the elastic of his boxers, Jihoon lets out a soft whimper, nearly desperate for you to remove the item and make him cum already. Yet, he doesn’t try to make you. 

He knows you’ll take good care of him and make it worth the wait; even if his impatience wants to make him stick his own hand in his boxers to wrap around his practically throbbing length. But he’ll wait. He’ll wait as long as you make him. It’s always worth the wait; you’ve never failed to make him see stars when you do this.

He isn’t entirely surprised when you tease your fingers along the edge of the elastic, drag your tongue against the dip in his hips before moving further down. But it does make him let out a little noise of complaint that you only laugh softly at, a single exhale of air against his skin as your lips twitch up in amusement before you get back to work.

Jihoon knows you won’t be satisfied until you’ve kissed over every patch of exposed skin, until you’ve tucked bite marks into the insides of his thighs just at the hem of his boxers where only your eyes and touch are granted the privilege of knowing. 

So, he waits as your lips trail his thighs.

He waits as your fingers wrap around the backs of his knees to lift his legs and allow you space to nip at the top of his calf to make his whole body twitch.

He waits as your tongue teasingly edges under the leg of his boxers to get at that tiny little hidden inch of extra skin.

He waits as your hands turn down his boxers little by little.

He waits as your mouth gives all the new skin thorough attention.

He waits as you toss his boxers aside and suck a collection of marks into the crease of his thigh while he pants and moans, hips moving and cock aching for your touch.

And finally, he’s rewarded.

Today, you don’t dance around it. Today, you think he’s really got the message. Today, the precum leaking from his cock is too pretty to resist and you lap at it shortly before abruptly taking the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Jihoon gasps sharply, body curling and shoulders coming off of the bed at the sudden wet, warmth wrap around his sensitive tip, before he drops back down with a string of curses, praises, and thanks. It makes you giggle, and the vibrations travel along his cock, where it’s sitting heavy on your tongue as you take him a little deeper, making him moan.

Finally, Jihoon loosens his grip of one hand from the sheets. His right hand unfurls to reach down and thread into your hair; to rest his palm flat on your head, even if his knuckles hurt from how tight he’s been gripping the bedding until now. 

“F-fuck,” he breathes out, hips canting up to slide more of his cock into your mouth. You adjust your position to make it easier on you to take him then hum, patting his hips encouragingly with both hands. It’s been three years of this, yet he still always checks, “You sure?” he pants, peering down at you. The flat look you give him makes him chuckle before he moves his hand from your hair to caress your cheek fondly. “Alright, love, remember to pinch me if it’s too much.” You hum in agreement to the rule put in place from the very first time Jihoon fucked your mouth, and then he starts moving his hips. 

Just like every time, Jihoon starts slowly, gradually moving his hips to drag his heavy cock over your tongue and tease the back of your throat without pressing into it. 

Back when you first got together, you had assumed he did it for your sake; but now you know that it’s mostly for him. He doesn’t want to get overwhelmed by going faster and not appreciate the feeling of your perfect little mouth welcoming his cock in so eagerly. 

The sight of your lips stretched taught around his thick cock, as he edges further into your mouth and hits your throat, makes Jihoon groan and move his hand from cupping your face and to the back of your head. 

He’s not pushing you, not holding you down or pulling your head to lead you. He’s just resting there, thumb randomly stroking against your hair because Jihoon can’t stop himself from rubbing his thumb against you whenever his hand is resting against any part of you. It’s pretty much ingrained in his very being at this point; to love you in every little way he can.

“That’s it, love,” he praises thickly, still watching the way his cock slides in and out of your mouth, even if it means he’s curled up a little, using far more muscles than necessary to fuck your mouth. You can feel his thick thighs contracting under your hands with every roll of his hips and see his abs tensed with the effort of keeping his head up high enough to watch. 

At times like this, ‘pretty’ doesn’t quite fit your boyfriend. He’s mind-numbingly hot and it makes you whimper a little. 

This is where Jihoon thrives; where he doesn’t question your comments because the man knows he’s hot. He works hard enough on his body to know and be confident in that. His mouth turns up at one side in a smug smirk, teeth peeking out his parted lips, but he doesn’t say a word and moves his lips a little harder. A little faster. A little deeper. 

The fact that he’s breaching your throat with every thrust tells you that this has all run away from you a bit. You were supposed to be showing Jihoon how pretty he is, but he’s just reminded you how ridiculously hot and muscular he is. 

Abruptly, you pull off of him, pressing both hands against his hips to force him back down onto the bed.

“Babe!” he exclaims in complaint, though when you wrap your hand around his dripping cock, he slumps against the mattress and drops his hands down to his sides, splaying out and letting his eyes flutter closed. 

“That’s it,” you approve and stroke your free hand over his thigh reverently, gently digging your fingers now and then to massage away the lingering tension from his efforts. “You’re very good at distracting me, pretty boy.”

“Y-you’re very good with- fuck,” he curses as your thumb passes over the tip of his cock and presses against his slit teasingly, before moving back down to work your hand up and down his slick length in the way you know he likes best. 

“I’m good with fuck, good to know,” you muse, and giggle when he shoots you an unimpressed look, but it goes, and he chuckles before motioning you to come to him. 

Obligingly, you lean over, grabbing his right hand as you go so that you can link your fingers together on the pillow beside his head as you hover over him. Jihoon reaches up to cup your jaw in his left hand and tug you into a deep kiss, his tongue dragging against yours and tasting the lingering flavour of his precum. He’s letting out continuous, soft, and low moans and groans as your hand continues to work over his length.

You know he has to be close, but he’s holding out, letting you bring him his orgasm at the speed you deem appropriate. It always made your heart swell knowing how much he trusts you to look after him in such a vulnerable and intimate way. If possible, you think it makes you fall in love with him a little more every time.

When his hands start to twitch and his kisses grow distracted, you know he’s teetering on the edge. It’s a sight you never want to miss, so you lean up enough to be able to look down at him, to see both his pretty, pleasure pinked face and leaking cock in one view. 

If possible, you’d frame a picture of Jihoon like this and hang it on the bedroom wall to look at whenever you want. But Jihoon had refused when you asked, so you have to make do with your memories and bring him to orgasm as often as he’ll allow you to be blessed with the visage. 

“Love,” Jihoon manages to get the petname out in warning amongst his panting and moaning, muscles starting to pull taut.

“I know, pretty boy. Show me,” you encourage. 

Jihoon nods mindlessly a few times before he abruptly stops breathing for a second, then moans long and low as his back arches and his climax hits him. You watch entranced as his cum lands over his exposed torso, painting his stomach and chest so prettily you hope you never forget this sight. 

His hair has half come out of the messy bun he’d put it in, and the clips are dangling from blonde strands beside his head, no longer keeping anything in place. His skin is splotchy; reds and pinks melting over his skin in no discernible pattern. His muscles are shuddering, trembling as pleasure courses through his body. He’s a mess. And he’s never looked prettier. 

Carefully, you drag your hand over his cock to work him through his orgasm before you let go, not wanting to overstimulate him. He’s already exhausted, and you know he can’t handle being overstimulated in these sessions. 

Knowing that he needs a moment to himself to gather himself, you press a kiss to his forehead before getting up to go to the bathroom and get a warm, damp cloth and a dry towel. Plus, a quick stop to the living room to grab his mostly full glass before you return.

He looks a little more like himself now and smiles tiredly at you as you place his glass down then climb up onto the bed to his side.

“How do you feel, my love?” you ask as you begin to use the damp washcloth to clean him gently. 

“Good, real good,” he assures as he puts his hand on your thigh to mindlessly stroke. “You always make me feel good.”

“I’m glad I’m doing my job as your partner right then,” you return, giving him a cheeky smile that he chuckles at. “Feel pretty now?”

“The prettiest,” he confirms, making you smile a little wider, truly happy with his response. Especially as you know he means it.

“You are,” you agree and quickly pat him dry before bundling the wet cloth inside the towel and tossing them in the vague direction of the washing hamper to deal with later. 

Once you’ve urged Jihoon to sit up enough to swallow down the remainder of his drink, you adjust the pillows back to normal and pull the blanket up over your bodies as you curl up against him. Jihoon hums happily as your head rests on his shoulder and his arms wrap around your body.

For a little while, you’re both quiet, contently enjoying just existing in one another’s bubble. At peace where you belong, tucked in each other’s loving embrace. You think that nothing could be better than this.

“I love you,” Jihoon says in a soft voice to not break the calm, fuzzy atmosphere, but his words are still so full of affection you can feel it overflowing and spreading over your skin. “With everything in me, I love you.”

It seems you were wrong. One thing could make this better and that’s your boyfriend speaking the depths of his adoration for you into the air and letting it settle over you both like a warm, cosy blanket.

“I love you just the same, Jihoon,” you promise and seal it with a kiss to his neck, where you can feel his pulse thrum under your lips and hope it will take the message right to his heart. You think it might, as Jihoon’s chest expands a little bigger as if his heart is momentarily swelling with the addition of your extra love, before it spreads throughout his body and he settles back down, holding you that bit tighter and pressing his own kiss to your head. 

You think that really, you will never find another who can make you feel the way Jihoon does. From the very first day you met, he stole your attention and over time, your heart, and a piece of your soul to blend with his own. 

Or perhaps, he always had a part, but you just didn’t know what you were missing until you met him, and he took the time and effort to show you what it means to find your other part. Your other half. Your soulmate.

You never believed in soulmates until Jihoon, always scoffed at the thought. But you think that if anyone was designed to complete your heart and soul, it’d be your pretty boy.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie, @svtiddiess, @codeinebelle

[stellamarielu]

remember yesterday when i said i wanted to write a self-indulgent fic about getting high with old man joel miller and then fucking each other stupid? yeah well here's a teeny tiny drabble i wrote to quench my thirst.

content: nsfw, 18+, joel miller x female reader, drug use, dirty talk, p in v sex, going for a joyride on old man joel miller oop

—

“Whatcha got there darlin’?” Joel’s voice was filled with apprehensive curiosity as he walked through the front door.

His eyes landed on you, haphazardly rolling a makeshift joint on the coffee table.

“Weed.” You giggled looking up at him with a hint of youthful deviance in your gaze— something about the uncertain expression on Joel’s face made you feel a bit like a kid getting in trouble.

There was a guy living in Jackson with a rather questionable stash of homegrown weed, and you’d somehow managed to get your hands on some.

Your one word response prompted a few more questions from him, but after a rather impressive effort to persuade him, Joel was agreeing to take one hit with you.

One hit lead to two, which lead to both of you passing the tiny little blunt back and forth as you both sat on the living room couch, your feet laying across his lap as he leaned back into the cushions.

“Now I remember why I did this so much in college.” He laughed— really truly laughed deep from his chest. You watched as he let the smoke leave his lungs through the chuckle.

You felt the room shift, everything moving around you like picturesque snapshots. Joel’s smile was lazily plastered on his face as he watched you sitting across from him, your serene expression matching his.

“It’s nice. Relaxing.” Your voice was a slow whisper as you watched the dim orange of the sun pour through the curtains and paint Joel’s features.

His hand came to rest on your leg that was propped up on his thigh, his touch trailing up your calf as he watched his fingertips trace along your soft skin.

It was an innocent act, throwing your legs over his, but your exposed thighs appeared in the form of an invitation as Joel let his hands find the warmth of your skin.

The gentle touches soon gave way to you straddling him; both of you naked from the waist down and your hips grinding against his.

Joel’s thumb came down between you, rubbing sloppy circles into your clit as you rocked onto him.

“Goddamn babygirl, y’feel so fuckin’ good.” His eyelids were heavy as he watched his hand work between your legs.

The fingertips of his other hand dug in at your hips. He savored every single moment as his brain went into complete overwhelm at all the different ways your body was on his; pure bliss spreading throughout him with every touch of skin.

“S’good at squeezin’ my cock like that darlin.”

His words sent you clenching even tighter, melting completely onto him.

“Oh babygirl, do tha’again.”

With a moan and a hum of content, your walls fluttered around him. The pulse causing Joel's head to fall back, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck- this pussy’s s’perfect baby.”

Joel was never this talkative when you had sex, but each of his dirty words fumbled over each other with unmatched affection as he delivered them through breathless whines.

The hazy murmurs continued to roll from his chest in gruff waves as he took his time with you.

Everything moving in slow motion as he whispered filthy things under his breath. Both of your bodies moving in sync on the living room couch with the late-afternoon sunlight shimmering in through the windows.

[duvetchico]

u shld write about yn ignoring karina (bc of some dumb arugment) and then ir becomes fluffy plspslslspsksks🥹✌️

fine, don't talk to me then

summary you and jimin get into a real argument over something small, but the hurt feelings spiral until you both end up saying shit you don’t mean.

genre angst (real but dumb) / fluff / slow softening

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you were fighting about something SO fucking stupid.

like actually so dumb you can’t even remember what started it. maybe it was the thing with the laundry—how jimin said she’d fold it and then left it on the bed so when you walked in, half your clothes were wrinkled and your hoodie was suffocating your cat.

and you were already cranky from work. and hungry. and her attitude was pissing you off.

and then she said it.

“you’re so dramatic all the time.”

with that tone.

so you said “fine. don’t talk to me then.”

and you meant it.

the only sound was your fork clinking against the plate. you’re eating dinner by yourself at the table while jimin sits on the couch—arms crossed, eyes on the tv, volume on low like she’s being passive aggressive even with netflix.

she hasn’t said a word in two hours.

she’s texting in the groupchat though. you know because your phone lights up.

ae🐍pa + a dyke

jimin someone tell y/n she’s a brat

minjeong oop

aeri what did u do this time

jimin i breathed incorrectly i guess

y/n don’t bring the groupchat into this you attention-seeking loser

ningning FIGHT FIGHT KISS FIGHT FIGHT

“oh,” she mutters. “now you wanna talk?”

you stand up. LOUDLY. take your plate to the sink like you’re starring in a drama. slam the faucet on. she laughs bitterly.

“you’re so extra.”

you whip around. “you’re acting like you did nothing wrong.”

“i did the laundry!”

“no, you folded it by turning it into a fucking mountain of wrinkles and then gave me attitude when i asked about it.”

“because you made it a big deal!”

“because you make me feel like a fucking burden when i ask you to do anything!”

…

jimin goes quiet. you freeze too.

you didn’t mean to say it like that. not with that much heat. but it came out anyway.

“…that’s not fair,” she says after a second. voice low now.

“i try. i do shit for you. i mess up sometimes but i’m trying.”

you swallow. you wanna say sorry. but your chest is tight.

she gets up and walks to the bedroom without another word. closes the door softly.

not a slam. not a yell.

just quiet.

later.

you stand outside the bedroom door holding her hoodie in your hands. she left it on the couch and you’ve been clutching it like a damn idiot for the last ten minutes.

you knock. once.

“…what.”

“can i come in?”

you open the door anyway. she’s lying on her side facing away from you.

you crawl onto the bed. sit there for a second.

“…i didn’t mean it. that way.”

she doesn’t look at you. but her hand finds yours.

“…i know.”

you lay down behind her. wrap your arm around her waist.

“…i love you. even when you suck at laundry.”

she exhales a tiny laugh. “and i love you. even when you yell like a mom on edge.”

you bury your face into her neck. “don’t shut me out next time.”

“don’t say i make you feel like a burden again.”

“…deal.”

she turns over and finally looks at you. her eyes are soft now. she brushes your cheek with her knuckles and kisses your nose.

“can we never fight again?”

“too bad. next time you piss me off i’m egging your skincare.”

you don’t even realize you’re falling asleep on her until your head sinks further into her stomach and she goes,

“…baby?”

and you’re like “hngh.”

because your mouth’s already smooshed into her hoodie and you’ve been laying on her like she’s a very expensive, limited edition, no longer in stock type of pillow.

her hand’s in your hair. gently scratching your scalp. her other one’s playing with your fingers, squeezing them like she’s making sure you’re still there. like she’s still scared you’re mad.

and she whispers, “still mad at me?”

and you just grunt and shake your head a little, not even looking up.

“only mad that your abs are too flat for this to be comfortable.”

“oh wow. my bad for being fit and sexy.”

you hum sleepily, “yeah. you should apologize to the less hot population.”

jimin scoffs. she grabs the hoodie that you’re drooling into and yanks it over your head to trap you inside.

“you’re so annoying.”

“and you love me.”

your voice is muffled now inside her clothes.

and for a moment it’s quiet again. the bad kind. and you almost pull away until you feel her hand press flat against your back. keeping you there.

“…i don’t like when we fight,” she says.

you turn your head. still half-buried in her hoodie.

“i know. me neither.”

and then, softly, “i felt like shit. the second you shut that door.”

her thumb brushes over your spine.

“i thought you were gonna stay mad forever.”

“bitch please,” you mutter. “you think i’d let you go to sleep without telling me goodnight? what am i, an animal?”

she laughs. soft and real. and then leans down to kiss your forehead.

“goodnight, dramatic animal.”

[esamastation]

wvyld: Desmond wakes up in Angelgard — to find a guy in chains who feels Very Evil (daemons) to the Eagle Sense, but also. uhhhh. you know. it's just — the chains are going through his flesh it's. yeaah he may have to go against his intuition with this one, this is no way to treat an eldritch abomination....

Guess what I didn't write? Any of that. I did however write Desmond in FFXV. :D

-

He sleeps the deep, deep sleep of the Earth. He dreams of mountains, of ravines, of endless pressure and crushing weight. He sleeps, and dreams, and his dreams have the weight of gravity, the drag of continental plates, the churning of magma and rattling of earthquakes. They're slow dreams but they're not peaceful.

They're also never enough to distract him from the weight still resting on his shoulders. The weight he can never put down. The heat of it pounds down on him, burning him, crushing him. Weight and heat are the same, when you really think about it. Mass makes gravity makes pressure makes fire makes explosion. Gravity makes stars. Makes planets. Makes earth. It's all the same.

There's always some weight upon him. That is his task and nature, as an Astral. A shitty gig, if there ever was one.

He breathes in deep and then falls deeper into slumber. Deep into memories of other worlds and other planets and man that once was and doesn't really matter anymore. The Meteor is heavy, heavy, heavy, burning, burning, burning. He sleeps and dreams deep, deep, deep.

And then someone Sings with the Voice of Stars and drags him from Beneath - and for the first time in eons, Awakens him.

It's not a pleasant feeling, to become aware once more under all the weight of the Cosmos' Rage.

"God of the Earth I beseech you!" A small voice calls out from somewhere below. "Enter into a covenant with the Chosen King so that he may reclaim the Stone and purge the Darkness from our Star!"

It takes a moment - a stretch and press of time dilation under weight of infinite gravity - to remember what speech is. What the little voice is saying makes no sense, even then. "WHAT," he says, with the Meteor roaring like hellfire in his ear, deafening him.

There's a little human somewhere near his feet, tiny, tiny thing, blond and pale and wearing white. She reminds him of something from eons ago.

"The Time of the Prophecy is at hand!" the human says, grand and commanding and barely audible. "The Darkness Eternal threatens our Star and only the King of Light may defeat it! To do that, he will have your power - you must enter into this covenant!"

The words make no sense. "WHAT KING?" he asks. "WHAT COVENANT? WHAT DARKNESS? THERE'S ONLY THIS DAMNED THING," he shifts under the weight of the Meteor. "AND THE ASSURED DESTRUCTION SHOULD I EVER PUT IT DOWN."

The little human wavers and he realises - his voice is too loud. He's shouting at her. His quietest voice is deafening to her. Even so, she keeps shouting back. "There are worse dangers now! Even now the Darkness grows stronger - every day, it claims more of our Star's Light. Without that Light, there is no Life, without Life, there is no future! The Meteor doesn't matter now - "

"THEN WHY THE FUCK AM I STILL HOLDING IT?" he asks sarcastically, and the little human is thrown back, faltering under his power. Oops. Poor thing. "WHAT IS THIS DARKNESS YOU FEAR SO MUCH, THEN? WHAT IS SO BAD THAT YOU'VE AWOKEN ME FROM DEEP SLEEP?"

The human struggles to her feet, using her little staff to prop herself up, and faces him with a stern look on her face. "It is the Scourge of Stars!" she says and lifts her staff. "I will Show you!"

And she does. She shows him a Disease. A plague that causes transformations and shadows, that infects flora and fauna and twists them into living ash. It makes monsters they call Daemons, and it has been coming up again and again for the last two thousand years. No one knows where it came from, but people have a Prophecy about it.

The Draconian made a Prophecy about it. Apparently that's what they call that guy now. And the little human - the Oracle? The Oracle tells it to him like he's supposed to know it. Like he's already part of it.

"I DON'T KNOW YOUR PROPHECY," the Archaean - that's what they call him now, apparently - answers. "I'VE NO PART IN IT. I WAS UNDER BURDEN BEFORE YOUR STARSCOURGE EVEN APPEARED. THE DRACONIAN'S WORDS, SPOKEN EONS HENCE, HOLD NO SWAY OVER ME."

The little human falters. "But - but the Cosmogony - the Prophecy says - "

The Archaean strains under the weight of the Meteor. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PROPHECY IS, LITTLE ONE? IT'S SOMEONE VOLUNTEERING SOMEONE ELSE FOR A TASK THEY THEMSELVES WILL NOT DO. THAT'S ALL."

The little human shakes her head. "No, no, it has to be the Chosen King, the Draconian said - "

"IF THE DRACONIAN REALLY WANTED THIS DARKNESS GONE, HE'D DO IT HIMSELF," the Archaean says, unamused. "HE CERTAINLY HAS THE POWER. JUST LOOK AT ME." He shrugs his shoulders and the Meteor upon them, sending tremors through the earth beneath his feet. "WHO DO YOU THINK CAST THIS THING UPON ME?"

The Oracle clutches on her staff, her eyes wide. "The Draconian sent the Meteor down upon us?" she asks, horrified, and falls to her knees. "W-what? No, that's not possible. I don't - that can't be."

Well. That seems rather telling and alarming.

The little Oracle can't take this conversation for long, it seems like - his voice is too much for her, as it tends to be for most humans. There's no way around it, though. He can't do much for her. The Archaean simply cannot put down his burdens, not for a long, long time, not until the half life of the damned thing runs its course. Until then, it's just him between the Meteor and Eos - and an explosion that would rock the whole solar system, if the two ever met.

He can, however, detach a small portion of himself to act as his avatar.

-

"Well, don't you look far less tiny from this angle, huh," the Messenger says, cracking his neck and getting used to being human sized again. "Hello, Oracle."

The Oracle stares at him, wide eyed. "You - you're the Archaean?"

"Small part of him. It's a bit of a long term gig, holding up the Meteor," the Messenger says and peers up at himself, standing tall as a mountain under the Meteor. Already his larger self is going back to slumber - much easier to bear the weight like that. "Six thousand years down," the Messenger says, shooting finger guns at himself. "Six million more to go."

"Y-you -" the Oracle stammers and then goes down into a bow. "My Lord, I am your humble servant - I beseech you to listen to me, for our blight is true and dire."

"I believe you believe that, and it probably is pretty bad," the Messenger says and motions to the Meteor. "But if that thing goes down, it will destroy this whole planet. Into itty bitty space dust," he adds, just to drive the point across. "So, no. There will be no Covenant. The Archaean will not move. Not for a long, long time."

The Oracle looks at him, stricken - her lips actually quiver. "B-but I foresaw - this is meant to happen - all the writings -" she trails away, staring at him. "Is it really impossible?"

"It really is. If it was possible to put down the Meteor, the Meteor would be down, trust me, and I'd not be here," the Messenger says and shakes his head. "I'm sorry - whatever the Draconian has been telling people, the Archaean has no part in it. Our hands are tied."

The Oracle looks at him like she's going to cry. "I - all my life I've been preparing - training for this moment - I was supposed to awaken all the Artrals for Noctis - I -" she stops, drawing a hitching breath. "It's all been for naught - the Darkness will win? Our star will be destroyed?"

"Okay, okay, let's back up a bit," the Messenger says with some alarm, lifting his hands soothingly to calm her. "Why don't you tell me about this terrible fate about to befall all of us, and we'll figure it out?"

So, she tells him. Faltering and stuttering, she tells him everything she knows.

It's a lot.

-

So maybe sleeping away the eons under the Meteor's weight wasn't the smartest idea. Turns out, he's missed a lot. Like, apparently, the Fall of Solheim? Which, in the human time frame, happened eons ago, of course - six thousand years is ancient time for humans. Since then, there's been other nations, empires, kingdoms - like the one they're currently in, the Kingdom of Lucis, the one the Draconian chose. Which has since fallen into ruin, because of war.

"So," the Messenger says. "There was a Chosen One who was supposed to be the first king of Lucis, but he got sick with this Starscourge and was betrayed, so he was made the Accursed instead and the Kings of Lucis descend from his brother, the usurper. And now the current last heir to the throne is supposed to kill his many, many times grand uncle to defeat the Scourge once and for all. With Astral's power and the Crystal."

The Oracle, now sitting down on a rocky ledge looking small and sad and hopeless, nods.

The Messenger rubs at his forehead. "And that didn't clue you in to the fact that Draconian is making this shit up as he goes along?"

The Oracle's shoulders slump. "Gods are fallible, I know," she says. "But I thought the Revelation of Bahamut was true. Everyone always said it was. Even the Kings of Lucis believe in it, and they're the closest to him."

"Sounds to me like nothing is true, really," the Messenger muses. "But okay. I have a question - what, exactly, is the Crystal you keep mentioning?"

The Oracle looks up, and sort of sputters at him. "It - what - how can you not - " she chokes out. "It's the Heart of our Star - "

"The heart of a Star is mostly hydrogen and helium and thermonuclear fusion under pressure," the Messenger says and folds his arms. "I've never heard of this Crystal of yours. Is it something the Draconian made, maybe?"

"I-it was gifted to mankind so that we may know lasting prosperity -" the Oracle says before faltering and frowning at her own knees, confused. "It gives powers to the Kings of Lucis. It has protected the Kingdom for centuries, and they have protected it. I don't…"

The Messenger scratches at his neck, not sure what to tell her. It sounds like a lot of stuff the Astrals can do. The Archaean could probably whip up a magical rock too, if he wasn't under a bit of pressure at the moment. Well, he could probably still do it.

Under pressure is how gems were made.

Bit beside the point, though.

The Oracle looks up at him, actual tears in her eyes. "Everything I have been told my whole life is a lie, isn't it?" she asks as the tears spill out. "The Revelation of Bahamut is a lie. The Draconian dwells in the Crystal, it's his chamber, his fortress and for two thousand years the Kings of Lucis have bled for its upkeep."

Ouch. "Don't know what to tell you, Lady, this is all news to me," the Messenger says awkwardly. "Maybe we should set the whole… existential horror aside for a moment. Tell me more about this Accursed."

-

Six thousand years he bore the weight of the Meteor just fine. Now that he's stepped away from it, this is what he gets from it - a tension headache.

"So this guy was a healer fighting this Scourge, he was the Chosen One, supposed to be the king, the First King of Lucis, this great magical nation to be…" the Messenger says, just to clarify, while rubbing at his temple. "And then he was betrayed, usurped, and kept prisoner and tortured by the Kings of Lucis for two thousand years."

The Oracle nods slowly.

The Messenger hums in understanding. "Yeah, I kind of see where he's coming from."

The Oracle winces. "Yes, same," she admits with a sigh and then continues her increasingly depressing explanation of all the things he'd missed.

It's getting late by the time he has the full picture. Time is relative when you're Ancient Astral Being, or whatever, but as a Messenger he experiences daylight the same as your regular humans and the sun is going down below the horizon. Which apparently means the Daemons of the Star Scourge are going to come out.

"Alrighty, I want to see these Daemons and the Scourge for myself," the Messenger says, stretching his arms. "I'm guessing the radiation from the Meteor is keeping them away from here?"

"The light, yes," the Oracle says, lifting her staff. "I have the power to keep them at bay. I can also create Havens, sacred ground that will repel them."

"Neat - don't do that just yet, though, I want to see them," the Messenger says. "After that we can hopefully figure out something that won't involve the Archaean's power."

"Right," the Oracle says, taking a slow breath to steel herself, preparing to lever herself back to her feet with her staff. "I will do all I can, even - even if I cannot fulfil my original duty. I will do everything I can to cure our star."

"That's the spirit," the Messenger says and holds out a hand to her. "By the way, never caught your name."

"Lunafreya - Lunafreya Nox Fleuret," the Oracle says and takes his hand. "And you, my lord - what can I call you?"

"Not your lord, for a start," the Messenger says and pulls her up and to her feet, thinking of a name. Oh, well, why fix what's not broken. "Call me Desmond. Now, what say you we get out of here Lunafreya?"

Lunafreya nods and follows him away from the crater. Behind them the Archaean stands still, steadfastly shouldering his stellar burden, like he always did. Desmond casts him a last look, shaking his head - the last six thousand years had not been kind to him. The Meteor's radiation really brought out the Isu in him too, it looks like. Awkward.

One of these days he would stop being such a sucker about world ending disasters. One of these days.

Not today though.

-

Lol. Lmao even.

Here you can see in real time my daily word limit coming at me as I pass it somewhere in the middle of this and the writing starts getting increasingly nonsensical as it goes on. Anyway. Desmond as the Archaean, just because the white streaks on Titan made me go 👀

Also we're just ignoring Gentiana's existence here entirely. And pretty much all sense and logic.

It's 2 a.m. I'm tired.

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

Can you make a long version of 'dangerous charmer'?

ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴍᴇʀ - ʜᴀɴ ᴊɪꜱᴜɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Helloo!!!! Im so sorry it take a very long time :(( I swear I already write it but I kept changing because I just have problem with my brain and I just feel the story is not good? I still feel it's not good but umm maybe it can be considered? please :(( Anyways, here's a long version of Dangerous Charmer. Enjoy

Warning: Contains themes of possessiveness, violence, and mafia-related content

---

Han Jisung was a mastermind.

Not just clever. Not just strategic.

No, he was terrifyingly brilliant, the kind of man who could dismantle an empire with a smile and a soft “Oops.” In the underworld, people spoke of him in whispers, like saying his name too loud would summon him. And if he did appear? You didn’t live to tell the tale.

To the world, Han Jisung was a ghost in designer suits, a storm in Gucci sunglasses.

But to you?

He was the man who bought three different types of milk because he could never remember which one you liked. The man who quietly learned to braid hair just so he could help when you had a bad wrist day. The man who didn’t sleep unless your side of the bed was warm.

He was chaos outside. But with you? He was comfort.

You were brushing your teeth one morning, still groggy and half-aware, when you noticed something on the mirror. A sticky note.

“You mumble in your sleep. It’s cute. I love you. - J 🖤

You laughed, toothpaste foam nearly spilling out. “This idiot,” you murmured, your heart fluttering.

He left notes like that sometimes. Sometimes they were sweet. Sometimes utterly dumb.

“You looked hot kicking me in your sleep last night.” “Bought you four cupcakes. Ate two. You’ll survive.” “I bribed the bakery lady to give you the warm pastries. Don’t ask.”

You swore he had the soul of a menace and the heart of a poet.

Later that day, Jisung slid an envelope across the kitchen counter, looking way too smug for a man wearing Hello Kitty slippers.

“Here,” he said.

You paused mid-sip of your coffee, eyeing the envelope like it was a trap. “What is it this time?”

“A gift.” He leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand like he already knew you were going to freak out.

You tore it open and froze. “This… this is a black card, Jisung.”

“Yup.”

You nearly choked. “This is... do you know how much money is on this?”

He grinned. “It’s infinite. Just like my love for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s so corny.”

“Corny and loaded,” he quipped. “Now take it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a kept woman, Jisung.”

He laughed. “You are kept. Just… also deeply loved and dangerously spoiled.”

You softened, biting your lip. “I don’t need money to feel loved.”

He walked around the counter, gently cupping your cheeks. “I know. That’s what makes you different. But I want to give you everything. Because this world is brutal. And money? It’s my sword. My shield. My power. And if it can make your life even one ounce safer or easier, then you’re going to take the damn card.”

You stared up at him, heart twisting. He wasn’t giving you a luxury. He was giving you protection in the only language his world understood.

“…Fine,” you whispered.

“Atta girl.” He kissed your forehead. “Go buy yourself a tank. Or ten cats. Or a tiny island. Surprise me.”

---

But Jisung didn’t protect you with money alone.

There was a night, cold and too quiet, when everything changed.

You’d gone out alone for five minutes. Five. You wanted to grab a snack from the corner store, thinking no one would notice. Jisung had been in a meeting, and you didn’t want to bother him.

Big mistake.

Someone followed you out.

You didn’t notice until a hand brushed your wrist. “Hey—got a second?”

You turned, startled, only for Jisung to appear out of nowhere. One second it was just you and the stranger. The next, Jisung had him slammed against the concrete wall, rage pouring off him in waves.

“You must have a death wish,” he said, low and cold.

The man panicked. “I—I wasn’t trying anything—!”

“You touched what’s mine,” Jisung growled, twisting the man’s arm just enough to make him cry out.

“Jisung!” You ran up, grabbing his shoulder. “Stop it! He didn’t do anything!”

His grip didn’t loosen.

“Jisung, look at me,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. Let him go.”

His jaw clenched. Then, with a reluctant grunt, he dropped the man, who scrambled off into the night like his life depended on it.

When you got home, Jisung didn’t say a word. He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes dark and unreadable. You sat beside him, hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You think I’m angry because you went out alone?” he asked quietly.

“…Aren’t you?”

He looked at you. “No. I’m angry at myself. For not protecting you better.”

“Jisung, I’m not helpless.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I won’t burn this city to the ground if someone dares to touch you.”

You reached over, taking his hand. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His throat bobbed. “Yes, I do. That’s how I keep you safe. I’m the villain, remember? Let me be the monster so you never have to be scared.”

You leaned your forehead against his. “I’m not scared of you.”

“I wish you were,” he whispered.

A week later, the man who touched you was gone.

No word. No body. Just… gone.

And you didn’t ask.

One evening, curled up on Jisung’s lap, you finally whispered, “He disappeared.”

He sipped his drink. “Yes.”

You hesitated. “Did you—”

He looked at you slowly. “I warned him.”

You swallowed, but didn’t press further.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He smiled against your cheek. “Keep me. Forever.”

---

That night, you had a nightmare.

You saw Jisung, bloodied, alone, walking through a dark hallway as people whispered behind him. You called his name, but he didn’t turn. You screamed, and still he kept walking until he vanished into the dark.

You woke with a start, breath ragged.

Jisung stirred beside you. “Baby?”

You couldn’t even answer. Just clung to him.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, no questions asked. “It was a dream. I’m here.”

You trembled. “I dreamed I lost you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I’ll always find you,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “Even if I have to tear the world apart.”

You buried your face in his chest. “Promise?”

He pulled you tighter. “I promise. No matter how dark it gets, I’ll never leave you behind.”

Han Jisung was a walking contradiction.

The man who played piano when he thought no one was listening. The man who bought a tiny kitten because he saw you smile at it once in a shop window. The man who wore blood like cologne, but flinched when you cried.

He was chaos wrapped in silk. A storm behind a smile.

But his love?

His love was unwavering. Fierce. Terrifying in its intensity, but pure in its purpose.

And if the world ever dared to take you from him?

Well.

It would burn.

---

Perm Tag : @m-325

[gothamite-rambler]

Bruce's baby (Jason's days in the League of Assassians and part time baby sitter)

I am writing a fanfiction about Jason Todd knowing about Damian Wayne's existence long before Bruce and his brothers did.

He chose not to tell him for a reason. After everything he had been through, he switched from a murderous plan of vengeance to a strategy of long-term revenge. This story chronicles Jason's journey as he navigates his role in Damian's life, aided by Talia, who does care for Jason, at least in her own way.

For the next eight years, Jason is the only Bat son who knows about Damian, helping to take care of him and calling him "akhi" until he eventually makes amends with Bruce. Around that time, Talia decides to introduce them to each other.

This will be fully posted on AO3 May or June, and you can find my other works in my masterlist. I'm posting the w.i.p on here as a continuing series here before moving it to AO3 in a different format. Enjoy it. It's lengthy, but settle in and have fun with it!

word count: 1792

fanfic type: script for now

Jason sipped tea while waiting for Talia, added extra sugar and then took another sip to taste it. Smiling with a nod he continued drinking it. Talia entered the room, cradling a sleeping baby against her hip. Jason tilted his head, eyes wide. Seeing Talia with a baby threw him off balance.

Jason (wide-eyed): Is that a baby?

Talia (nodding): Yes.

Jason (worried, standing out of his seat): Is that… your baby?

Talia (firmly): Yes.

Jason gasped, covering his mouth in horror as Talia's jaw clenched, aware of the direction this conversation was heading.

Jason (panicking): Oh my god, you did take advantage of me! Is it MY baby?!

Talia (composed): In your mind, maybe! In reality, we never had sex! I’ve said this over a hundred times! You trying to woo me was met with rejection! You were my student, close to my son before I had this one! I sure as hell wasn’t going to do that while you were underage and unhinged. What kind of person do you take me for?

Jason (bluntly): You… swear allegiance to your father at every turn, and I’ve seen how you’ve been with your obsession— oops, I mean, ex-husband. Excuse me for assuming the worst of you.

Talia (raising her voice): He was my ex-husband! Stupid annulment! And for the twenty-thousandth time, I did NOT have sex with you!

Suddenly, the baby sneezed, startling Talia. She turned him side to side, dipping him as if she were checking to see if the batteries in a toy were dead. The baby stretched his tiny hand to touch his mother’s nose.

Talia: Oh my habibi, I thought I scared you.

Returning the baby to her hip, Talia resumed speaking to Jason, who still looked incredibly confused.

Jason (jokingly): Then whose baby is it? Bruce's?

Jason chuckled, but Talia shot him an unamused glare. He tilted his head slightly, puzzled by her lack of laughter or clarification.

Talia (sighing): He is the father.

Jason's eyes widened in surprise, then he shook his head, hesitating to believe it.

Jason (doubtful): No, he’s not.

Talia (serious): He is.

Jason (refusing to believe Bruce folded): No… No, he’s not.

Talia (through gritted teeth): Yes. He. Is.

Jason: Bruce is a lot of things, and I don't care for him at the moment, but there's no way he laid down with you and conceived a child. That's a baby! You would've had to sex— gross thought, with him about a year ago.

Talia (flatly): That’s typically how conceiving a child works.

Jason (shaking his head): You’re serious… He can’t be the father. No way.

Talia held up her index finger, pulled out her phone, and dialed her father.

Talia (when he answers): Father, please confirm for Jason that the DNA test revealed Bruce is the father of our beloved child.

Ra's Al Ghul (sobbing): Stop reminding me of that! I only want to focus on him being an assassin, not related to that man!

Talia ended the call and looked at Jason smugly.

Talia: There you go.

Jason leaned forward, squinting to study the baby’s facial features. After a few seconds, his eyes widened again as he noticed the baby had the same resting angry face as Bruce.

Jason (stunned): You and him…had him? Oh my god. Oh my god, it actually happened! The supposed tough dark knight who never folds, folded for a booty call! Yes!

Jason began to chuckle, which quickly escalated into fits of laughter. He sat down, still laughing, while Talia tapped her foot impatiently.

Talia (offended): It was NOT a booty call! Our night of passion was unforgettable…especially since the condom did, in fact, break. Damn gas station contraceptives!

Jason (between laughs): You used the ones from the gas station? Hahaha! Wait, wait, who had the condom?

Talia: He…did. They were in his wallet.

Jason burst into laughter, throwing his head back in hysteria to the point where he had to cover his mouth. Talia, incensed, could only glare at him.

Jason (enjoying this): You're both relatively smart people; how did you mess up that badly?

Talia let out an exhausted exhale, refusing to respond.

Jason (correctly guessing, having been around these people for a long time): I get it—you don’t want to answer. Mind if I take a guess? No need to respond. I wasn’t around because of traveling and mercenary work, and he was more depressed than usual, and you just happened to be there at the right time. You two did the nasty. Then he had — can’t believe I’m saying this — post-nut clarity and decided this was it. You two would no longer be together, but oh no, you ended up pregnant. Did I miss anything?

Talia (her eyes shifting downward, debating if it was a mistake to bring the baby in): He… was always downtrodden, and we were on good terms at the time. Okay, not… good terms, but that first Robin wasn't around, and he needed consoling. I told him I might be pregnant, and he was excited, but knowing how he views my life, he'd want our child with him, so… I lied about a miscarriage.

Jason: Ah, okay, that makes sense. He seriously had sex with you—like, awake and everything?

Talia nodded, sucking her lips in as her brows furrowed in anger.

Jason: Wow! This is a lot hilarity to take in and— Hold up, you two had sex while I was planning to kill him and Joker? You have got to be kidding me! I- I I should be furious! Yet, I can't stop laughing.

Jason laughed harder, leaning back in his chair and covering his eyes, doubled over at the humorous situation.

Talia: Go ahead, let it out.

Jason nodded and threw his head back, laughing until he fell back in his chair. His feet kicked as he guffawed at the revelation. The little baby giggled for a moment, mostly at seeing someone else laugh. Talia held the baby, who had been quietly observing their banter, close to her face.

Talia: Big Brother Jacy doesn’t understand that you are the love child of a perfect pair.

Jason laughed harder, covering his eyes. The "perfect pair" description was deeply ironic, given everything he knew about both parents. After a minute, he finally composed himself, letting out a happy sigh at the new material to mock Bruce with.

Talia (seriously): Do not tell Bruce. He’s not ready to meet him yet.

Jason stood up and pushed in his chair but decided to stand instead. He wiped his brow; he hadn't laughed that hard in years.

Jason (grinning): Ah, yes, the miscarriage lie. You didn’t tell him about his son yet. That’s another smart choice from you. He's totally going to want to be with you after he finds that out you loon. Whew, I needed that. And no worries, I won’t tell him a thing.

Talia (deadpan): Jason, as much amusement as you find in this, I’m serious about keeping your mouth shut. If you tell him in any way, I have men who can make your death look like a suicide or render you a vegetable.

Jason patted Talia on the shoulder, unfazed by her threats to his second life. Talia's brows furrowed annoyed.

Jason (sincerely): Chill, Talia. The secret is safe with me until you’re ready to tell him. It’s the perfect revenge plan, and I could use some hush money.

He crossed his arms with a smirk. Talia glared at Jason, but after a few seconds, she knew he wasn't afraid of her in this situation.

Talia (rolling her eyes while cradling the baby): You’re going to find a way to tell him to get back at me regardless of the threats?

Jason: Oh yeah. I will meet God or Satan and have them send a message if I have to. I stopped fearing you a few years ago. I take cash payments and direct deposits. And when you do tell him, send me pictures or a video of his reaction.

Talia (aggravated sigh): You’re so unserious.

Jason: Thanks for the compliment. What’s the kid’s name, by the way?

Talia (pondering): I’ve been debating different names. Father wanted me to name him…Ra's Jr.? I would rather die than name him that. I eventually decided on a more american name, Damian. Damian Wayne for my cute wittle habibi.

She softly rubbed her son's cheeks with a fist, eliciting a giggle from the infant. Talia took a moment to stare at her son with something she rarely showed: motherly happiness. That stopped when she heard Jason chuckle again.

She ignored his judgmental smirk, returning to the present topic.

Talia (defensively): No judgment! I’ve always wanted a baby with Bruce. Never tell my father I showed that type of affection. He hasn't demonstrated it for a long time, and his head might explode seeing me give it to my child.

Jason (teasing): I might bring it up one day to piss him off.

Talia (warning): If you do—

Jason (interrupting): Yes, yes, you'll toss me into the river or whatever.

Talia: I- My word, I wanted to introduce you to Damian because technically you're brothers, yet you aggravated me. Be happy I see you as family regardless of your incorrected ill will toward Bruce. You're the only one I can say is his brother— unlike that…Nightwing.

Talia spat on the ground as if she had poison on her tongue. Jason coughed, wanting to alert Talia that he was actually on good terms with Dick, but her sneering lip displayed her animosity toward the hero.

Talia: Would you like to visit more and spend time with him? I need help raising him until I tell Bruce; my father isn't the best at parenting anymore.

Jason glanced at the baby resting his head against Talia's chest. The baby was cute, and unlike his parents, Jason didn’t have a vendetta or indifference toward him.

Jason: I’ve always wanted a younger brother. You are paying me, so sure, I’ll spend time with him. I can rub that in Bruce's face later.

Talia (raising her eyebrow): Not the healthiest mindset, but okay.

Jason: Oh right, because you're in a position to judge me. The woman who had sex with her ex-husband who hasn't had a stable relationship with a woman since I was a kid and then sired a child due to a broken gas station condom. Priceless!

Jason walked off, leaving Talia alone with her son. She groaned, raising an eyebrow in annoyance, but when she heard her baby yawn, she looked down at him and nuzzled her nose against his cheek.

Talia (softly): I don't care what he or anyone else has to say; you're my baby, and you’re so precious.

End of part 1

Jason's days in the league with baby Damian (pt. 2)

Jason's days in the league with baby Damian (pt. 3)

Part 4

[tacobacoyeet]

not the time | patrick zweig x reader, art donaldson x reader

a/n: few things to say. first of all, i got way too into writing this and i don't know if i like it or not yet, but we'll see. secondly, i gave up after i was done and decided not to proofread. oops! if you're like me and you like to listen to music while you read, i suggest loyalty by kendrick lamar ft. rihanna. yes, i'm linking it. finally, not related, but please send me requests or asks or whatever! just fill my inbox with literally anything!

warnings: SMUT 18+, cheating, cursing, everyone is messy, i'm still not entirely sure if this fully makes sense, not proofread!

It was just the four of you. You, Art, Patrick, and Tashi.

Not in some perfect, effortless way. Just the four of you… together. Training, sharing meals in the Stanford Athletics Dining Hall, fucking around, orbiting around each other in ways that weren’t always easy to define.

You were with Art, Tashi was with Patrick. That was just the way it was. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t complicated.

Patrick had always been technically better than Art. He had the trophies to prove it: from the little stuff back at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy to the Junior US Open win. He had the natural talent, the aggression, the game that always just looked effortless. But Art? Art was the workhorse. He stayed longer on the courts, pushed himself harder, chased an invisible finish line, constantly. That’s why he, unlike Patrick, had chosen to play college tennis before going pro. He was convinced he needed to be better, not that he was too good to have his name attached to a university.

Tashi? She was the untouchable one. The best of all of you, of everyone, really. She was destined for something bigger, something far beyond your little group and Stanford and all of the stupid, tangled emotions that none of you had the words for yet.

And then there was you. Stuck somewhere in the middle of it all.

You and Art had just happened. No grand declarations, no dramatic tension. You were together because it just made sense. You understood each other. The way you both trained like you had something to prove. The way you both felt like you had to fight for space in a world that didn’t quite want to give it to you.

Patrick and Tashi were different. They were volatile, all sharp edges and unspoken resentments. Their constant, tiny arguments were what made them who they were—small, stupid things that started over footwork critiques and ended with Patrick trying to sigh, suck it up, and apologize while Tashi kicked him out of her dorm. But they understood each other in a way that made sense, too. She was the only one who truly made him feel challenged. He was the only one who ever gave her the chance to get angry.

It should have been simple.

But sometimes, Art looked at Tashi in a way that made your chest tighten. Sometimes, when he spoke to her, his voice softened in a way it didn’t with you. And Patrick… he never said anything, but you could always feel the way he looked at you, like he was trying to burn you into his memory just so he could pretend he had you. 

You ignored it. Until you couldn’t, anymore.

---

“And now… your 2002, 2005, and 2006 NCAA Women’s Tennis Champions. Give it up for STANDFORD TENNIS!”

You and the rest of the team step onto the court, several of you waving to the crowd, smiling. Tashi doesn’t. It wasn’t abnormal for her to do that, but what was a little off was the way her eyes scanned the crowd for Patrick, gaze steely as she noticed the empty seat next to Art. Your boyfriend, Art, who was too busy frowning at his phone to look down and blow a kiss at you like he normally did at your matches. That’s when the feeling of impending doom started to fester in your gut. But you ignored it. Like you always did.

Not much later, you’re watching from the bench as Tashi absolutely demolishes Sally What’s-Her-Face from Pepperdine. She’s making it look easy, like she’s barely even thinking about it. But you know her better than that. She’s not thinking about it at all.

You can almost sense it before it happens—the way she doesn’t catch the barest hint of spin on the other girl’s ball until the last second, the way she tries to overcorrect mid-swing, the sickening snap that seems to echo around the court as she falls to the ground, clutching her knee and crying in a way that is entirely foreign for someone as stone-cold as Tashi Duncan.

You can feel the bile rising in your throat, the nausea in your stomach again. But before you can rush to confront your friend, your boyfriend is on the court, resting her head in his lap. You would’ve laughed at how stupid he looked hurdling over the net if your head wasn’t spinning so much. Where the hell is Patrick? You clench your fists, forcing yourself to breathe. 

Now is not the time.

---

Later that night, you’re standing in the corner of the sports therapy room. You may as well have not been, though. Tashi had Art. He sat by her side like an obedient little chihuahua, convinced he was being a guard dog when he really just looked fucking desperate. But you didn’t say anything. You just watched him. The way his jaw was clenched, his eyes trained on the ground like he had a million things to say to her but no clue how to say them.

After a while, Patrick appears in the doorway. You watch Tashi’s face harden as she sees him open his mouth to speak. 

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Out. Out. O—”

“Tashi, Tashi listen! Please! ”

“OUT!” You would’ve been taken aback by the anger in her voice if Art didn’t open his mouth next.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!”

You’re dumbfounded for a moment as you look at Art, in disbelief that he was even capable of portraying anger to that level. It wasn’t just anger—it was something else. Something cold and dangerous in Art’s voice that you had never heard before. Patrick looks around the room, eyes wide. And then he swallows, jaw tight, before he turns and walks away.

You, ever the pacifist, always the one to smooth things over, couldn’t stop yourself from following him. Patrick might have been a lot of things— arrogant, reckless, a complete pain in the ass— but you had never seen him like that before. So… defeated.

He was already halfway down the hall when you caught up.

"Patrick."

He didn’t stop.

"Patrick, slow down—"

"Don’t." His voice was low, rough.

You reach for his arm. He jerks away.

"I don’t need the fucking pity, okay?" He turned to you then, eyes flashing. "I already got my ass handed to me in there, I don’t need you coming out here to make me feel worse."

"I’m not trying to make you feel worse," you said softly.

"Then what the fuck do you want?"

"I just—" You hesitate. You didn’t even know what you wanted. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Patrick let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"Yeah? That’s fucking rich, coming from you."

Your stomach twisted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Patrick exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. Then, after a long, charged pause—

"Forget it."

But you didn’t want to forget it.

"No. Say it."

Patrick’s jaw clenches. He takes a step closer, the air between you charged, suffocating.

“You never even noticed, did you?” he hisses.

You inhaled sharply, throat tight. Of course you fucking noticed.

"Patrick—"

"No, fuck it." He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I’m supposed to be with Tashi, you’re supposed to be with Art, but it was never really like that, was it?"

The words settled between you, heavy and true.

Because you had felt it. That unspoken pull, the lingering stares, the what-ifs that neither of you had ever dared to touch. But now was not the time.

“Patrick, you can’t just—”

“No.”

And then suddenly, you weren’t thinking at all. It was instinct, impulse, desperation. One second, you were standing there, breath shallow, and the next—

You were kissing him.

Or maybe he was kissing you.

You didn’t know who moved first. All you knew was the way his hands grabbed at you, like he was starving, like he had been waiting for this for a lifetime. The way his lips crushed against yours, deep and desperate, stealing every thought from your mind and every breath from your lungs. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. He wasn’t careful. And after that? The idea of going back was nothing but a childish fantasy.

---

12 years later, that moment is what’s replaying in your mind as you stare out the window, watching the clouds unleash a torrential downpour that might be the only natural phenomenon that could replicate the turmoil in your brain. The rain slams against the hotel window, drowning out the distant hum of the city. The room is too small, too dimly lit, but you don’t mind. You’ve stayed in worse.

Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees. His hair is damp from the shower, his skin still flushed from running drills to prepare for the first round of the challenger. He hasn’t looked at you since he walked in.

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. You’re so fucking tired.

"Are you just gonna sit there all night?" you ask, trying to keep your voice even.

Nothing.

You swallow hard. Try again.

"Patrick."

"What?" His voice is clipped, irritated.

"Talk to me."

"About what?" He finally lifts his head, his eyes shadowed. "About how you’re the only reason we can afford this fucking room?"

The words cut, sharp and deliberate.

You stare at him, the exhaustion settling into your bones.

"I have never—"

"You don’t have to say it," he mutters, shaking his head. "I see it every time you sign another contract. Every time you win a match. Every time you pay for something I should be paying for."

Your stomach tightens. His failures are eating him alive, and instead of facing them, he’s turned them into a weapon—aimed at you.

"I have never once thrown that in your face," you say, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" Patrick’s laugh is hollow. "Then why do I feel like you’re the only reason I have a roof over my head?"

You freeze. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. It’s not like this is the first argument. It may as well have been the thousandth. It starts with something small. It always does. A forgotten errand, a passive-aggressive comment, a new pack of cigarettes. Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Sick of sitting down, apologizing, letting it happen.

"Maybe because you won’t let me be anything but the enemy," you whisper.

Patrick blinks, caught off guard, but you don’t wait for his response.

You turn sharply, grab your jacket, and storm toward the door.

"Where the hell are you going?" he calls after you.

You don’t answer. You just go.

---

The rain is relentless, soaking you through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you can’t be there anymore. The lighted sign of the Best Western you had bought a room in flickers behind you as you walk further away. You’re not sure how long you’re walking, but soon enough, there are more cars, more buildings, more streetlights. After a while, the metallic gold of the Ritz-Carlton sign catches your eye, the white light from behind the glass doors illuminating a figure standing beneath the awning. 

You can’t help but groan internally at your luck as your eyes lock with those unmistakable, piercing baby blues. Art fucking Donaldson. He’s leaning against a pillar, cigarette between his fingers, the ember burning bright in the pitch-black night. It’s a habit that Tashi always used to chastise Patrick for. You can’t help but wonder when Art picked it up. If that’s the only thing he’s been doing behind Tashi’s back. 

You stop in your tracks, your chest rising and falling far too fast. He exhales, smoke clouding his face for a moment as he watches you. And then—

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your stomach twists. You weren’t expecting to see him at a shitty little challenger like this one. He was supposed to be a big star. A ‘Game Changer’. He was supposed to be way past playing matches like this one, New Rochelle in the middle of Dumbfuck, Nowhere. Phil’s Tire-Town, or something. It’s not like Patrick was good enough for anything better, but Art sure as hell was. Or at least, he was supposed to be.

“Where’s Tashi?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

Art closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling as he rubs a hand over his jaw. “Not here.”

That’s all he says. But it’s enough. 

Your heart is beating far faster than it should be. Your hands are shaking. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold, the walk, or him.

“I hate you,” you hiss. But he sees through you instantly. 

“Then tell me you don’t still think about me.”

You can’t. He knows you can’t. His eyes bore into you. Normally, you’d shrink under his gaze. He’s seeing far deeper into you than you want him to. But maybe the flare in confidence from your argument with Patrick is what’s supporting you. Maybe it’s the ringing in your ears, the pain behind Art’s eyes, or the burning of your skin despite the fierce cold. You’re not sure. But it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a beat.

And then suddenly, you’re on him.

Or maybe he’s on you. You don’t know who moves first, only that one second you’re standing there, fists clenched, and the next you’re colliding—his hands in your hair, yours fisting his hoodie, mouths crashing together like neither of you can breathe without this.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s twelve fucking years of resentment and longing and need colliding all at once.

Art groans against your mouth, pressing you back against the cool brick of the pillar, hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to prove something. You arch into him, gasping when his lips move to your jaw, then your throat, teeth scraping against your pulse.

"You gonna regret this in the morning?" he mutters, voice rough.

"Shut up," you breathe, dragging him back up to your lips.

He doesn’t argue.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding under your soaked shirt, fingers tracing the dip of your spine. Yours slip under his hoodie, pushing it up, needing to feel him, needing to remind yourself that this is real.

You don’t stop.

Not when you sneak your way up to his hotel room, avoiding the other patrons. Not when you're in the elevator and he's sucking hickeys into your neck that you'll have to hide from Patrick. Not when he lifts you, dropping you onto the mattress, not when he crawls over you, pressing you into the sheets, not when his hands slide between your thighs, gripping, teasing, pulling a whimper from your throat.

Not even when he pauses, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s trying to convince himself this is a mistake.

"Tell me to stop," he rasps.

You don’t.

You won’t.

Instead, you drag him down, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, whispering his name like a prayer. It takes barely a moment for both of you to bare yourselves to each other, clothes tossed around the room without a second thought. Art doesn't waste time. He wasted the last 12 years. He wasn't going to waste another minute.

Nothing about this is gentle. He’s biting his way across your collarbone, up the column of your throat, behind your ear. Your fingers are tangled in his silky, golden locks, tugging at them in tandem with the rhythm of the soft gasps and moans he’s drawing from you. His hair is short, now. For a split second, you mourn the messy mop of curls that graced his head 12 years ago, but your thoughts are quickly drawn away when he’s grabbing your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact with him. 

“Last chance,” he pants. “Tell me to stop now, and we leave like this never happened.”

You glare at him, gripping his hair a little tighter. “Is that what you want? To spend the rest of your life trying to forget about me? About Patrick? Trying to forget how you decided the puppy crush you had on Tashi was more important than your best fucking friend?” 

His face hardens at your whispered remarks, each word pushing the knife deeper into his chest. But he wasn’t that stupid. Not anymore. “No,” he frowns. “Fuck, no. I’m never letting you go again.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod anyway. “Okay, then.” 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting him to feel like after 12 years. He used to be soft, always drawing a line before he ever got too rough with you. But being a lapdog for this long had resulted in far too many pent-up emotions, and you were on the receiving end of them. 

It almost gave you whiplash, the contrast of his actions. He fucked into you with an animalistic pace, hand squeezing your throat just enough, but his lips were by your ear, face nestled against your neck as he whispered praises and sweet nothings in your ear. 

“You’re perfect. You always were. Should’ve been mine.”

It’s hard for you to focus on his words because you’re too focused on how his free hand has made its way down to your core, the pads of his middle and ring finger rubbing your clit with so much speed that you’re convinced he’s on drugs. Maybe he was hiding that from Tashi too.

You’re so lost in the sensations that you almost miss it. Almost. You wish you had.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

It makes your eyes fly open. The last thing you wanted to feel right now was guilt, and you knew that if he was feeling it, then it was only a matter of time before he projected enough for it to infect you too.

“Absolutely not,” you growl. “Shut your stupid mouth and keep fucking me.”

He listens. He thrusts his hips harder, faster, breathy moans of your name falling off of his lips with the ragged beauty of a waterfall. He moves his hand off your throat and into your hair, tugging with enough force to rip a cry from you. You’re so close, way faster than you wanted to be. But he won’t have it.

“Art,” you whimper. “Art, please, I’m so close, I—”

“No, baby, hold on. Just a little longer, please. You deserve it.”

He wanted to prolong your pleasure, give you the well-built orgasm you deserved. It was the least he could do, after all. If you wouldn’t let him apologize with his words, then he would make it apparent with his actions. Besides, he wasn’t sure if this would be the last time he’d ever have you beneath him. He had to make it count. And he did.

Soon enough, he’s fucking you through your orgasm, a hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries. God, he’d do anything to hear those noises every night, in his own bed at home, loud enough to make you go hoarse. But that would have to wait. For tonight, he’d take you just as you are. The fact that you were there, that you were really there was more than enough for him. He’d worry about the bits and pieces of it all at another time.

A few hours later, you sneak back into your hotel room. Patrick is dead asleep, his snores filling the small room. You don’t bother to cover Art’s hickeys. Patrick could use the reminder that you could do better. If he wanted to assume everything you did for him was from a place of pity and arrogance, then so be it. There was no reason for you to put effort into trying to pacify him anymore.

---

A couple of days later, the sun shines brightly down on the court of the Phil’s Tire Town Challenger. You make your way into the stands, heading for your usual front and center seat—and that’s when you see her. Honestly, you should’ve expected it. Tashi was Art’s coach, after all. Of course she’d sit in the spot with the best vantage point of the action.

She turns her head, her chocolate eyes locking with yours. That’s when you catch a glimpse of the small reddish-purple splotches just peeking out from the pristine white collar of her button-down dress. You can’t help the way the corners of your mouth curve up into the barest hint of a smirk. She glances down for a split second, clearly noticing the not-yet-faded mark that lingers on your collarbone, not entirely hidden by your clothes. Her eyes shoot back up to yours, a matching expression of mutual agreement on her features as you take the seat next to her.

Neither of you say anything. For now, both of you return your eyes to the court as Art and Patrick get announced, walking onto the court. They both look up at the stands. Patrick’s the first to acknowledge you and Tashi sitting next to each other. A Cheshire cat grin crawls its way onto his face, and he turns his head back to look at Art, who meets his gaze with a simple upward twitch of his lips.

Tashi’s fingers brush your hand as she grips the armrest. Your eyes meet again, both of your gazes charged with a little bit of electricity and a whole lot of sex. There’s a statement hanging in the air between you: ‘Yeah, I fucked your husband.’ There’s nothing particularly malicious about it— far from it, honestly. It’s more like an opening to a contract. A trade agreement. But, you’ll hash out the details later. 

Now was not the time.

[jarofstyles]

The Heart Of The Woods

Hi my loves! I wanted to give you guys a peek into our grumpy mountain manrry! He’s different to some that I’ve written before but I think you’ll like him if you give him a chance

Read the series ( 9 parts ongoing) and 220+ exclusive writings on our Patreon!

WC- 1.4k

Warnings- tiny bit of rejection, asshole h

He hadn’t been sure what he was thinking.

Hiring a housekeeper had not been on his agenda, but it put his mum at ease. Being far from her, up in his large cabin in the middle of the mountain, she had said she worried a lot about not only his well being, but about him overworking himself. His days started early, working on splitting wood, emails, driving down to deliver it, and all of that. His group of employees that worked on the lot not too far from his own place up the mountain were his main source of socialization and even they knew not to bug him too much.

Harry preferred to be left alone.

So why hire a housekeeper? It sounded okay at the time. Someone to keep the fire stoked and the house warm so he could come home and not have the house be cold for him and his animals, someone to cook and clean and… another body in the house. Make it less lonely. Maple was a good companion, Ash was too, but a dog and a cat didn’t replace human connection. Perhaps that’s why he had found himself feeling more irritated lately.

Watching the car pull in, he had to wonder how she could fit her belongings into such a small vehicle. Weren't women supposed to have a lot of stuff? The question was answered as she stepped out of the car, light wash jeans clinging to her thighs and pink sweater hanging on her form as she waved up to him. "Hi!" she grinned a tad bit too brightly for his comfort, jogging up to the wraparound porch. "I’m so sorry l'm a little late. I got lost at the turn- the split in the road? and I didn't have good service to call and let you know. I usually try and do that.”

She was rambling.

He grumbled, wiping his hands on his work pants. “Late's fine. I didn’t have any plans today, just don’t make a habit of it.” Glancing at her car, then back at her, he gave her a little bit of a look. “You got everything you need?” He wasn’t the best at socializing, famously, but she wasn’t aware of that yet considering their talk had mainly consisted of emails. It would be something she quickly found out.

“Oh!” Her chuckle was nervous as the man stood tall above her on the wooden porch, making her look up a bit at him. “Uh, yeah. I.. I kinda had to get out of my place in a hurry, so this worked out.” She smiled up at him before looking back to her car. “Did you want me to grab my stuff now or did you want me to do it after you give me the run down of what you want me to do?”

He sighed, stepping aside to let her pass. “Follow me.” He led her inside, shutting the door behind her. It was weird feeling someone else in his space. It had been a long time since he’d heard footsteps other than his own or his pets in the hall, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it yet. Leading her down the wooden hall, he brought her towards the main part of the house- a large step down living room he mentally referred to as the den. The stone fireplace was lit with the fire going already as he gestured to a chair by it. “Sit.”

Y/N was distracted a little by the skylight- and then the view outside. It was absolutely gorgeous. The whole place was. She had slightly underestimated it despite the size of the place when she had applied to work eyes but she would make it work. At least the view was great. She could see that there was a deck outside, the view of the mountains sprawling behind them sort of blowing her away. The awe only lasted a few moments though, when she heard him clear his throat. Oops. “Sorry.” She smiled nervously. “The view distracted me. You’ve got a beautiful home.”

He grunted, not really used to compliments. Small talk wasn’t his thing. He sat down in his recliner, stretching his legs out in front of him before resting his hands on his knees. “So, as your employer, I expect you t’keep this place clean. Cook meals, do laundry, that sort of thing.” He paused, looking at her critically. “M’not home most of the day, and when I am I’m usually in my workshop. It’s the building out to the side that you saw.” He clasped his hands together. “We don’t need to have a ton of interaction. I need you to keep the fire stoked, maybe feed Ash for me if I get back late. I don’t have a lot of rules, but I ask you to respect my space.”

“Uh, alright.” She nodded, taking out her phone to take notes. “I figured the normal house stuff. I…” Her body felt the cringe as she went to ask it. “I haven’t really stoked a fire longer than it’s taken to do a bonfire while camping so, if there’s some sort of magic you know to keep it going longer I’d love to know it.” The girl didn’t want to fuck it up. The man worked with wood. The last thing she wanted to do was waste it.

It did make her a little unsettled to hear the other part, though. “Um, and what do you mean exactly by not needing to interact? Like, you don’t want to see or hear from me?”

Harry paused, his gaze sharpening a little on the girl. He was used to being alone. He liked being alone. He didn’t want to come home to some sort of chatty roommate. “I mean exactly that.” He said gruffly.

“Oh.” She replied quietly, swallowing the lump on her throat. Her gaze averted when his sharpened on hers, looking towards her lap. He was a little intimidating and she felt embarrassed for some reason- but logically she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. Didn’t mean her body knew that, though.

“O-Okay. I’ll make sure to give you your space.” Her head nodded, convincing herself it would be good for her. Maybe akin to rejection therapy. She had hoped for something a little different, but this was the escape she had needed- she couldn’t complain. “Can you tell me what kind of foods you like, or don’t, so I can make what you’ll eat?”

Harry grunted, his expression relaxing slightly at the mention of food. He hated being bothered with small talk, but food was something he could appreciate- it was part of her job, anyways. He could talk abojt that. “I like meat and potatoes. Steak, roast chicken, mashed potatoes, that sort of thing. Don’t bother with fancy shit. Just straightforward, hearty food.”

He paused, thinking for a moment before continuing. “And coffee. Black coffee. None of that fancy latte crap. Just straight up coffee.” He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “That’s all you need to know for now. You can start preparing dinner and I’ll be back later.”

“Oh! I… are you sure?” She stood up too, following him. “Where should I put my things?” Part of her felt a little nervous she had fucked up with how fast he seemed to want to get out of there, but she didn’t know what she could have done to offend him. Was this just the way he was? Probably. She shouldn’t take it personally- but part of her did, just a bit. “I don’t know which room I should set my things up in.”

Harry turned around, his expression still stern. “You can set up in the spare room down the hall. It’s the first door on the right.” He pointed down the hallway before continuing. “I don’t need any help with my things. Just worry about your own shit for now.”

Her eyes fell down towards the floor, nodding at his words. It must just be the way he was, she concluded. He didn’t bother saying goodbye as she heard the door close, the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the den the only sound until the start of his pickup was muffled outside.

Who the hell was this man? And what had she gotten herself into?

[whitecompri]

can we have more dad hedgies please 😭

i dont really have an idea i just want something either really cute or angsty 😞🙏

Daddy Playtime

Check Out: Daddy Daycare

Pairing: Sonic x Reader; Shadow x Reader; Silver x Reader; Scourge x Reader.

Genre: Comedy

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Light Swearing

Synopsis: The hedgehogs have to spend more time with their daughters, but this time, they hope it will be more peaceful.

A/N: Thank you for the request! I was in doubt before if I would do a continuation for the first part, so thank you for asking, it gave me motivation to write this part.

Sonic

He had already survived an entire day with his daughter, so spending a few more minutes playing with the little one wouldn’t be that bad. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

Sonic sat on the floor in his daughter’s room, his only job being to spend some quality time with her while you cleaned the house and took care of daily chores.

“So, kiddo, what are we gonna do?” He crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees, watching curiously as she searched through the drawers.

“Found it!” She exclaimed, approaching the older blue hedgehog with a pink box.

“What’s that?” Sonic raised an eyebrow.

“Makeup! We’re playing beauty salon today!” She opened the box, revealing various shades of makeup, tons of different lipsticks, and multiple brushes for every type of application.

Sonic’s smile faded as he stared in shock at the box.

“...You don’t wanna play something else? I dunno, Monopoly?” He shrank into himself, hoping the idea would convince her. Holding his breath, he waited for her response.

“Nah.” His ears drooped to the sides, already growing worried about what she was about to do to his handsome face.

“Painting my face? Ahhh, I don’t know, kiddo, I’m more of a ‘speed and action’ guy than a ‘beauty salon’ guy…” He scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the door as if planning a secret escape.

“It’ll be fun.” His daughter grinned mischievously.

She sat in front of him, rummaging through the box, looking for a specific lipstick color.

“Do you want a color, Dad?”

“Blue?”

“It has to be a different color, or it won’t show up.”

“I’d rather it not show up.”

“Dad!” She pouted, lifting a lipstick she had chosen. “Orange should suit you.”

The little hedgehog reached out, grabbing his cheek to hold him in place. Sonic shut his eyes from the tight grip.

Frowning in deep concentration, she started applying the lipstick with a slightly shaky hand. Sonic even held his breath, fearing what she was doing. Her hand accidentally strayed downward, immediately making him panic.

“Oops… But it’s okay, I’ll just put a bit more here to cover it up.”

“This stuff washes out with water, right?”

“It’s waterproof lipstick.”

“What?” He flinched in horror.

“Dad, stay still! You made me mess up again!” She pulled him back into place, focusing on her work.

“Are we done?”

“No, now we need eyeshadow and glitter.” She turned to the box, grabbing a tiny jar of glitter and an eyeshadow brush.

She loaded the brush with shimmering silver eyeshadow, then turned to him.

“Close your eyes, Dad.” He shut them tightly as she started rubbing the brush over his eyelids, layering on the makeup. He coughed lightly at the amount of powder she applied.

Once she was satisfied, she grabbed the jar of multicolored glitter, sprinkling it over his quills bit by bit. And finally, she picked up a mascara tube, twisting it open and carefully applying it to his eyelashes.

At last, what felt like an eternity for Sonic ended within a few minutes.

“All done, Dad! You look beautiful!” She stood up, admiring her work.

“I’m already naturally handsome…” He stood up too, walking over to the mirror. When his eyes met his reflection, he jumped back.

“I’ve got more mascara on than Rouge now…”

The orange lipstick was completely smudged and uneven, making his muzzle look more like a circus clown’s mouth. The silver eyeshadow on his eyelids was ridiculously overdone, reaching almost up to his forehead. His eyelashes were so long they nearly bothered him when he blinked. And to top it all off, his quills sparkled under the light from the absurd amount of glitter.

“Did you like it, Dad? I think I’ll be a makeup artist when I grow up!”

“Yeah… Maybe a circus will hire you to do the clowns’ makeup.”

The little hedgehog playfully punched his arm.

Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open.

“Sonic, dinner is almost rea—” Your eyes widened at the scene. “What happened here?”

Sonic shrugged, flashing a lopsided grin.

“I think I’m ready to compete for Miss Universe.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter at the state he was in.

“Hey, I heard that laugh… You’re totally crushing on my new look, aren’t you?” He smirked, his silver eyeshadow gleaming even more as his glitter-covered quills shimmered.

Shadow

After the incidents with his Chaos Emerald, Shadow decided to hide it in better places where only he could find it—he wanted to avoid being teleported against his will.

So now, instead of chasing his daughter all over the city trying to stop her from playing with Chaos Control, he was sitting on the rug in her room, surrounded by toys.

She grabbed another box from the corner of the room, bringing it closer. Opening it, she pulled out several dolls. Shadow crossed his arms, watching. He wasn’t the type to play like this, but you needed some peace and quiet to clean the house, and since he was free at the moment, he took the opportunity to spend some time with his little girl.

He just didn’t know how quickly things were about to spiral out of control.

“Here, Daddy, you’re gonna have these.” She grabbed a doll, a toy car, and a dinosaur, placing them in his hands. Shadow raised an eyebrow, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do with them.

Shadow held the doll, staring at its plastic face with narrowed eyes. He meticulously examined the toy, trying to see if it did anything interesting, but it was just a regular doll.

He let out a heavy sigh. “Now what?”

But then, he froze, completely motionless, as his daughter brought a tiara to him and placed it on his head.

“There, Daddy, now you’re the queen.” He furrowed his brow.

“Queen?”

“Yeah, you’re the queen now. Take your dinosaur and put it in this farm here.” She pointed to a fenced area with other animals.

Shadow looked at the plastic dinosaur, thinking for a moment. That dinosaur was obviously a carnivore.

“If I put it there, it’s going to eat all the farm animals.” He tried to engage in the game. She pouted, looking at the animals thoughtfully.

“Well, it needs to eat somehow, right? You can leave it there.” Shadow, somewhat surprised, complied, placing the toy in the designated area.

“Daddy, now there’s going to be a party here. You need to get your Barbie ready for the ball.”

He looked at the doll in his hands, confused about how exactly he was supposed to do that.

He watched as she grabbed a toy brush and started combing her doll’s hair. Shadow ran a hand over his own quills, wondering if he really had to go through with this.

Then, he reached for the small brush and awkwardly began brushing his doll’s hair, doing it quickly and clumsily.

“Daddy, now you have to say that Barbie is going to the ball.”

Shadow looked at her, completely bewildered.

“I’d rather not...”

“Please, Daddy.”

Shadow sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“...Barbie is going to the ball.” He closed his eyes as his daughter giggled—at this point, she was probably doing it on purpose.

“Oh no, Daddy, too bad! You got arrested.”

His eyes shot open, focusing on his daughter, who was now holding a police car, placing it right in front of his doll.

“...What?” He raised an eyebrow.

The little hedgehog took the doll from his hands and put it inside a box, which was apparently supposed to be a prison. Shadow remained still for a few moments, trying to comprehend what was happening.

“Daddy, your dinosaur invaded the prison and saved you!”

“What kind of game is this, anyway?” He asked, crossing his arms as he watched her place the doll on top of the dinosaur, making them both escape the imaginary prison.

At that moment, her bedroom door slowly opened, drawing both of their attention to it.

Your eyes immediately landed on Shadow—with the tiara still on his head. You raised an eyebrow at him. The hedgehog’s eyes widened in realization, remembering he was still wearing it. Before anyone could blink, his hand shot up, snatching the tiara off his head and placing it on the floor.

“Daddy, you can’t take off your crown! You’re the queen!” His daughter protested.

You chuckled.

“Queen, huh?” You leaned against the doorframe, teasing the black hedgehog.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on for a while now, too.”

“But Daddy, the queen is going to get arrested again if she doesn’t wear the tiara!”

Shadow let out a deep, defeated sigh. He grabbed the tiara, placed it back on his head, and crossed his arms—completely resigned.

Silver

After almost witnessing the complete destruction of his living room, Silver felt much happier and more comfortable being back to spending some relaxed quality time with his daughter.

He sat on the floor, placing colored pencils and sheets of paper around him. The little hedgehog approached, bringing markers and paints.

“Here, Daddy, you’re going to use these pens.” She grabbed a few markers and handed them to him.

“Thanks, sweetheart!” He accepted the markers, picking up a sheet of paper to start drawing.

For him, it was a peaceful and fun activity—perfect for spending time together.

Silver scribbled and sketched, drawing a simple landscape with mountains, some trees, and the sun shining above. He smiled to himself at the result, excited to see what his daughter had created.

“Look at my drawing, Daddy!” She turned the paper toward him. The hedgehog looked eagerly, curious about what she had drawn—until he froze, furrowing his brow as he tried to make sense of the image.

He placed a hand on his chin, scratching it thoughtfully.

“Uh... What is this?” He pointed at a dark blue figure, a scribble that was hard to decipher.

“A squid with a sword!”

Silver nodded as if he understood.

“And this one?”

“A bee dragon.”

He raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out how something that looked like a yellow-painted rat could be a bee dragon—but he quickly gave up trying to rationalize it.

“Well, it looks great, sweetheart. Keep it up.” He ruffled her quills playfully.

“I’m going to use the paints now, Daddy.” She turned to grab the paints. “Hmm, I’m missing a color.” She looked at her desk, spotting the paint she needed.

Using her psychokinesis, the small paint jar started floating toward them. However, just as it passed over Silver’s head, the jar tipped over, spilling paint all over his quills.

Silver flinched and froze as he felt the cold paint land on his head. But once he realized it was just paint, he relaxed. The hedgehog grabbed a clean piece of paper, instinctively trying to wipe it off.

“Daddy, wiping it will only make it worse. It’s already all over your quills.” The little one stood up, looking at the mess of paint now covering his head.

“It’s okay, I can wash it later. Actually, since I’m already messy, why don’t we just get even messier?” He reached for another jar of paint, dipping a brush deep into the colorful liquid.

“Good idea, Daddy! We can make lots of paintings this way!” She copied him, grabbing some brushes and mixing colors together.

Getting into the spirit of the game, Silver poured some paint onto a piece of paper, spreading it around with his hands. The little hedgehog giggled at the sight and grabbed another color, mixing it with what he had already spread.

Within minutes, the once-organized room was covered in sheets of paper painted in every way imaginable. The atmosphere was filled with cheerful laughter.

Silver and his daughter stood side by side, both covered in paint, proudly admiring their work.

“Daddy, our masterpiece looks amazing!” she said proudly.

“It really does. Great job, sweetheart.” He crossed his arms, his quills puffing up in satisfaction.

The door beside them slowly began to open.

“Looks like you two had fun in here.” You observed them with a small smile. Then, your eyes scanned the colorful mess covering the floor, and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, Mommy! First, we drew, and then we made a masterpiece.” The little one giggled, hugging Silver’s leg. He gently placed a hand on her head.

“I’ll clean everything up, don’t worry.” The hedgehog reassured you about the mess.

“It’s alright. Keep having fun. I love the masterpiece my two artists created.”

Silver scratched the back of his head at your words, letting out a small chuckle.

“Daddy, can we make another masterpiece?”

“Of course we can, sweetheart.” He immediately grabbed fresh sheets of paper, ready to start another round of creative fun with his daughter.

Scourge

He sat down with difficulty on the tiny pink children's chair at his daughters' play table, watching as the two little troublemakers approached him. Scourge had spent the entire day trying to escape them, but it hadn't worked. In the end, he had no choice but to spend time with them while you rested.

The green hedgehog crossed his arms, watching as the older one flashed a mischievous grin at him, while the green-furred younger one, still sucking on her pacifier and toddling unsteadily, carried a gray box.

"A’right, what’s the deal? Spit it out, kid."

“Dad, we want to paint your nails.”

Scourge’s eyes widened in shock.

"Pfft, yeah, like I’m really gonna sit here n’ let ya paint me up like some kinda princess." He laughed, adjusting his sunglasses on his head.

“If you don’t let us, I’m gonna tell Mom that you didn’t want to spend time with us!” She crossed her arms, staring him down challengingly.

The threat made Scourge’s eyes momentarily widen before he muttered something under his breath.

"Tch… aight, fine." He sighed, placing his hands on the table.

The older one giggled excitedly, pulling up a stool for herself, placing the box on the table, and then lifting her little sister into an empty chair.

She picked out a few colors and lined them up in front of her father. The youngest simply watched with her big blue eyes. She reached for his hand, holding it firmly as she grabbed a bright hot pink nail polish and began carefully applying it.

Scourge’s ears drooped back.

"This is freakin’ humiliatin’…"

“Dad, hold still, or I’ll mess it up.”

He sighed.

"Y’all ain’t got a better color? Green, black, purple, somethin’ that don’t make me look like a damn cupcake?" He propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

“I have those, but I want hot pink.”

"Y’all are havin’ a real good time watchin’ yer old man suffer, huh?" Scourge huffed, but he had to admit, his daughter was surprisingly skilled at painting nails, despite the strong smell of nail polish irritating his nose.

A few minutes later, she finished painting both of his hands. Scourge scowled at his pink nails before shifting his focus to his older daughter, who was now setting up tiny teacups and a plastic teapot on the table. She placed a few stuffed animals on the remaining chairs.

The green hedgehog watched curiously as she worked. Then she picked up the teapot and ran out of the room, returning shortly with it full—probably with something to drink.

Scourge crossed his arms, observing with interest as she arranged everything. But his eyes widened when she placed a folded piece of paper in the center of the table with bold, messy handwriting that read "Gang Meeting."

She then took her seat.

"The hell is this?" Scourge glanced at her, confused.

“Tea party!” she answered cheerfully.

"Wait—since when did tea parties turn into gang meetin’s?" he asked incredulously.

“We need to talk and decide what to do about the gang on the other street…” His daughter gave him a serious look.

"A’right, this gang stuff’s gettin’ a little outta hand now."

She grabbed the teapot and poured some of the liquid into all the teacups.

"Yo, what the hell did ya put in here?" He picked up his tiny cup, squinting at the liquid inside.

“I took one of your energy drinks, Dad.”

Scourge’s eyes widened in horror. He immediately lunged forward, snatching the cups away before they could take a sip.

"Since when did y’all get old enough for this kinda junk?" He narrowed his eyes, pouring the liquid back into the teapot and keeping it far away from them.

“Dad, you’re the boss of the gang. Shouldn’t we give them a little scare?” She crossed her arms.

"What kinda nonsense y’all talkin’ ‘bout now?" He raised an eyebrow. The youngest cooed softly, locking eyes with her father.

“See? Even my sister agrees we need to teach them a lesson. I say we throw rotten eggs at their leader’s house!”

Scourge blinked once, then twice, before a slow smirk crept onto his face.

"…Y’know what? That actually don’t sound half bad. A’right, lemme hear the details." He leaned back in his tiny chair, now fully invested, taking a sip from his cup before refilling it with more energy drink.

At that moment, the bedroom door slowly creaked open.

Your eyes landed inside, and you raised an eyebrow at the scene before you.

There sat Scourge—way too relaxed in a chair that was far too small for him—his nails painted bright pink as he delicately held a tiny teacup, pinky raised, sipping the liquid inside. His youngest daughter, still sucking on her pacifier, focused entirely on him, while the older one chatted excitedly.

“…What are you all up to in here?” You crossed your arms.

Scourge wobbled in his seat, nearly toppling over, and choked on his drink, coughing as he pounded a fist against his chest.

“It’s okay, Mommy! Daddy was just playing tea party with us!” the older one said innocently.

Scourge cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket collar.

"Yeah, yeah, that’s it—just havin’ a lil’ tea party with these tiny monsters." A single bead of sweat rolled down his face.

Your eyes flicked down to his hands.

“Nice nails. The color suits you…” you teased.

Scourge stood up and sauntered over to you, grabbing your waist and pulling you close.

"Babe, I just got my pride stomped on by my own kids… don’t ya think I deserve a lil’ somethin’ for my troubles?" He rested his forehead against yours.

“Of course. Your compensation will be washing the dishes after dinner.”

He groaned in frustration but quickly leaned in and stole a brief kiss from your lips.

“Ugh, Dad,” the older one gagged. “You could’ve done that somewhere else.”

"Aw, c’mon, what’s the big deal? I can’t even show yer mom a lil’ love?"

She folded her arms with a huff.

"An’ y’all better get used to it, ‘cause I’m gonna kiss yer mom whenever the hell I want. An’ if ya whine too much, no more sneakin’ cookies from the pantry."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the look of utter betrayal on your daughter’s face while the younger one giggled softly.

[keeryhours]

don’t forget (you’re mine) - gator tillman

Gator Tillman x female reader

Masterlist

Gator Tillman Masterlist

1k Celebration Masterlist

Summary:

Gator interrupts a night out with your friends.

1k celebration prompt - “If you make me pull over, I swear you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

Warnings:

Smut (18+), unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), restraints, sex in the police cruiser, dirty talk, reader calls Gator “daddy”

Word Count: 2k

A/N:

I’m so excited how many of you guys requested Gator for the celebration! I love writing him! You can still join in and celebrate with me here 🍾 :) My blurbs for my blurb celebration keep ending up being too long, oops

The flashing lights and pulsing music of the club filled the atmosphere around you. You wore a black top with a tiny little skirt and a sash that said Maid of Honor. It was your best friend’s bachelorette party, and you had gone all out.

“You’re the love of my life,” your best friend, Leah, drunkenly said as she draped herself over you. “I should ditch Tom and marry you instead.”

“Yes, you should,” you agreed with a giggle.

“I would be better for you than Gator,” she continued. “Gator doesn’t treat you right.”

You pursed your lips. You didn’t really want to talk about Gator right now, not when you were supposed to be having fun. “I know you would, babe.”

“Come dance with me?” Leah asked, suddenly standing and pulling you to join her. “I wanna dance.”

You laughed as she dragged you out of your seat and started climbing onto a table. “Come up with me!”

You climbed up with her, the two of you dancing together on the small tabletop. Your other friends laughed and took pictures on their cell phones, posting to their stories.

“What’s going on here?”

The unwelcome voice boomed from behind you, and you immediately groaned. You turned to find Gator standing there, wearing his cargo pants with sheriff vest and his sunglasses pushed up on his head.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “A little birdie told me you were out tonight, causing a public disturbance.”

You just stared at him. “Gator, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t look that way t’me,” he said. “Looks like you’re havin’ a little too much fun.”

“Is that against the law now, officer?” You taunted him, climbing down from the table.

“Are you talking back to an officer of the law?” Gator asked, his expression utterly serious. You couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

“Yeah, I am,” you decided to push him. “What are you going to do about- hey!”

Gator grabbed your arms and twisted you around, slapping the cold handcuffs around your wrists. You were speechless as your friends watched Gator arrest you, pulling you up to stand. “You can come with me then, mama.”

“Gator, this is fucking ridiculous,” you protested as he began marching you out of the club. “No one complained. You just wanted to come be the center of attention.”

Gator didn’t answer. He opened the back door of his SUV police cruiser and pushed you inside. “Are you being serious right now??” You called through the door once he’d shut you in.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, driving out of the parking lot of the club. You watched the lights fade in the mirror, leaving your friends (and fun) behind.

“You are such a dick,” you grumbled. Gator tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. “Does it make you feel big and powerful, coming and ruining Leah’s party? Did it make you feel like a winner?”

“Jus’ doing my job. Like I said, I got a call you were causing a public disturbance-“

“Bullshit! No one called you!”

“So I came right away to see what was going on.” He held his hands up. “And what do I find? You, dancing on a table in that tiny little skirt.”

So that’s what this was about. “Yeah? You had a problem with my outfit?”

“Like I said, I’m just doing my job-“

“I bet you were mad I wasn’t wearing it for you,” you teased. “I bet I wouldn’t have been in trouble if I were with you, with your hand underneath it.”

Gator tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s inappropriate-“

“Oh, come on, Gator,” your voice dropped an octave, your tone sultry. “You tellin’ me you don’t like it?”

“I don’t like you whorin’ yourself around in it at the club, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t you like seeing me in it though?” You tilted your head to the side, your boobs pushed forward from the way the cuffs held your hands behind your back. “Bet you wish you could hike it up and fuck me in it, don’t you?”

Gator gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything.

“You jealous that the others got to see what’s yours?” You were practically purring into his ear. “You know this pussy belongs to you, daddy. It’s yours to fuck whenever you want.”

Gator let out an involuntary groan, his fingers digging into the leather of the steering wheel. “Stop.”

“I’m so wet and I can’t even touch myself,” you pouted. “Can’t stop thinking about your big cock, how it barely fits, how you pull me back onto it every time you fuck me…”

Gator slammed his hand onto the wheel. “You’re pushin’ me, baby. If you make me pull over, I swear you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

A smirk grew across your lips. “I’ll be so good for you if you pull over.”

“If I pull over, it ain’t gonna be about what you want. It’ll be me taking what I need from you, and you letting daddy do whatever he wants. Understood?”

You clenched your legs together, the throbbing between them becoming unbearable. “Yes, daddy.”

Gator pulled the vehicle over to the side of the lone road, kicking up dirt into a large cloud. He killed the engine and hopped out of the car, and next thing you knew, he was opening the back door and manhandling you until you were bent over the seat with your ass in the air.

You felt Gator’s hands over your smooth thighs, teasing the ache between your legs. You wanted him, needed him. You needed to feel his thick length splitting you open, the way he would spear you on his cock again and again until you couldn’t take it anymore. That was why you kept coming back.

He pushed your little skirt up around your hips, your panties being forcibly ripped down your thighs. Before you could even process it his mouth was attached to your cunt, tongue lapping at your folds as he moaned against you. You cried out, body lurching forward but Gator held you steady.

“Fuck, tastes so good,” he groaned. “I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on your pussy since I saw you tonight. Tiny little skirt leavin’ nothing to the imagination. You’re such a little slut.” His palm came down against your ass, leaving a bright red hand print.

He buried his face in your pussy, eating it like a man starved. Maybe he had been starving for it, unable to stay away from you tonight, drawn to you like a siren. Maybe you couldn’t stay mad at him when he was making you feel this good.

He rubbed a hand over his throbbing erection in his cargo pants, the taste of you only getting him going even more. When he pulled away he pulled your hips, your body halfway hanging out of the SUV with him right behind you.

“You talk so damn much,” he said, and you could hear him unbuckling his belt as he spoke. “Yet you have nothin’ smart to say when my face is buried in your cunt.”

You whined, missing the feeling of him where you needed him the most. You didn’t wait long before you felt the head of his cock tracing through your folds, collecting your wetness on his length. As if you could ever forget how big he is (and boy does he let it affect his ego), you’re certainly reminded of it now as he prepares to fuck you.

“No condom tonight, baby,” he said, and you felt the tip of him slipping inside your pulsing cunt. “Need ta feel every inch of you around my cock. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You hated that he knew that. That he could read you like a book, could tell you’d been aching for his cock, aching for him to fuck you raw. “Gator,” you cried out, your handcuffed hands grasping onto each other for some semblance of leverage.

Gator thrusted into you hard, burying himself in to the hilt. You nearly screamed at the sudden feeling, and you heard Gator chuckle behind you. “Did ya forget how big it is?” He teased. “How deep it fills you up?”

How could you? It was all you thought about when you were apart.

He began pounding into you at a brutal pace, hands gripping bruises onto your hips as he pulled your body against his to meet every thrust. You were powerless to do anything but let him fuck you the way he wanted, just like he’d promised.

“Bet you wish I’d take the cuffs off, huh?” He continued teasing you, even when he was panting from how hard he was fucking you. “Bet you wish you could touch yourself. But you’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you? You don’t get touched unless I say you do.”

You whimpered, his cock absolutely fucking you stupid. Your head was laid against the leather seat, drool dripping onto the interior as you took everything Gator was giving you.

“Shit, I’m fuckin’ you dumb, aren’t I?” He laughed. “You sure are taking it like a good little cockslut. Is that all you’re good for, baby?” You whined in response, but that wasn’t good enough for Gator, who slapped your ass hard again, making you jump. “Use your words, slut.”

“Yes, daddy,” you moaned. “‘s all I’m good for, just taking your cock.”

“Yeah?” He asked, speeding up his thrusts. Sweat dripped down his neck beneath his shirt and police vest. “Just mine?”

“Just yours,” you promised him. He wasn’t sure if you were being honest, but hearing it was enough for him.

“This pussy belongs to me,” he said. “Make sure you fuckin’ know it. I ever catch you with some other asshole, I ever catch you dressing like a slut again, this is what happens. I will cuff you and take you somewhere to fuck you stupid until you get it through your head that your pussy belongs to me.”

His words alone had you reaching your peak, and fast. Your pussy clenched around his dick, and he huffed a cocky laugh. “I can feel ya squeezin’ my dick, baby. Gonna cum just from letting daddy fuck you?”

You whined again, and when Gator reached around to start rubbing circles on your clit, your body nearly combusted on the spot. “Oh my god,” you moaned, whole body trembling.

“You got somethin’ to say?” He taunted right in your ear, his movements on your clit slowing. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

“Thank you, daddy,” you moaned. “Please, please let me cum.”

“You think you deserve that?” Gator laid his head on your back, his own breathing becoming strained. “You think you deserve to cum?”

“Yes, please,” you moaned, begged. You needed this.

Gator’s tongue darted out, licking the skin of your back with a moan. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. I’ll let you cum around my cock. Go on, baby, let go f’me.”

He bit down on your skin and your eyes went wide as stars exploded before them, loud, uninhibited moans spilling from your lips as he pounded into you the last couple times before stilling, shooting ropes of his spend deep inside you as he groaned and said your name again and again. Neither of you could move at first, both trying to compose yourselves.

Finally Gator pulled out, tucking himself back away. He pulled your skirt back down for you, but you could feel his release dripping down your inner thighs. He pulled the key from his belt and unlocked the handcuffs, removing them.

“Do you want a ride home?” He asked sheepishly. “You can, uh, ride up front.”

You blushed, climbing out of the back. “Yeah, sure.”

When Gator pulled up outside your house, he turned the car off. He looked at you expectantly, which almost had you rolling your eyes and turning him down.

“Oh, come on. We both know you’re spending the night.”

[sageyxbabey]

Hospital Food | COD x Reader

MDNI

Summary: Your ex-husband (the biological father of your daughter) shows up when said daughter is admitted to hospital. Your current partner (and your daughter) put him in his place.

aka: stupid man gets verbally wrecked by a 17-year-old girl and a SAS soldier. Inspired by the time my stepdad and i roasted my bio dad.

For @the-californicationist 's Nameless Challenge! This means you have to guess which of the delicious war criminals I'm writing about below. (This has inspired a series, so you'll find out who I was thinking of when the second one comes out. ;) )

WC: ~700 words (oops, forgive me cali)

Pairing: f!reader x tf141 member (but who? 👀)

Your ex-husband stood at the foot of his biological daughter’s hospital bed, watching her tap salt out of the little sachet onto a piece of buttered bread. His face was full of condescension, and you knew yours was full of barely contained disgust as you stared at him. God damn the child support agreement that required you to tell him when she was admitted to a hospital. At least you had otherwise full custody of her, you’re sure your ex would’ve been murdered by now if you’d been forced to see him semi-regularly – either by you or your wonderful (deadly, military-trained) partner who hated the man in front of you almost as much as you did.

God, you wish he was here right now. Unfortunately, he was wonderful enough to have gone down to the cafeteria in search of lunch for the both of you – and something sweet to sneak back in for your little girl. He spoiled her rotten, and it made you love him more every time he did. 

“That’s a lot of salt,” your ex rumbled. If looks could kill, the stare your 17-year-old daughter levelled him with would’ve evaporated him where he stood.

“Yes. It is,” she spoke. 

Tap tap tap, she resumed shaking the sachet.

“They put salt in bread when they make it. White bread is about 3% salt,” he said. As if there was some important point your daughter was missing.

“I know. I’ve made bread before.”

Tap tap tap.

It was taking every fibre of your being not to laugh with sheer joy and vindication as your daughter, the blood of your ex-husband, so casually eviscerated him in the middle of this tiny white room.

“Which is to say, you don’t need to be adding salt to it.” You didn’t think the man could sound any whinier. You were about to step in, but your daughter let out a deep sigh beyond her years (definitely picked up from the soldier who shared your home) and threw the empty salt packet onto the bed tray.

“Tell me, why shouldn’t I eat that much salt?” Her arms crossed in front of her, your ex-husband looked to you for help. He would get none.

“Because… it makes your body retain fluid and raises blood pressure–”

“Correct. I am in this hospital because I have low blood pressure caused by a low volume of fluid in my blood. They give me the salt packet on purpose. I am prescribed literal salt tablets,” she shook the bottle in the man’s face, “because I need to raise my blood pressure up to normal levels.”

Silence. Blinking.

“So I am going to eat this bread because it is what the doctor ordered.” Her head snapped to you, with a chaotic glint in her eye only teenage girls could possess. The next words out of her mouth would stay with you until your dying breath;

“Hey, Mum. When’s Dad coming back?”

You could not fight the grin that spread across your face, the elation jumping in your stomach. A quick glance at your ex-husband’s sour face made it clear that your daughter’s point had struck true – You are not welcome here. I do not need you. I have a real father where you failed.

You opened your mouth to reply, “He’s–”

“Right here, love!” The warm, gravelly voice of your partner filled the room, your daughter’s eyes lighting up with his presence. He stopped to press a tender kiss against your cheek, passing you a toasted sandwich, before he made his way to stand over the shoulder of your precious daughter.

“And I got you something special,” he whispered playfully, “Don’t tell the nurse.” He pulled a poppy seed muffin out of the bag he was holding and placed it on the bed tray in front of her. 

“Sorry mate, who are you?” Your partner turned and cocked his head at your ex. 

Your man knew exactly who the snivelling creature across from him was. Your boyfriend was just deciding to be a little shit, and it was one of the sexiest things you’d ever seen him do. 

“Dad, this is Marcus. You know, the man who got Mum pregnant with me?” Your daughter’s voice was poorly disguised venom. 

“Oh, right! Of course. I suppose I should thank you for your part in creating my wonderful daughter.” He stretched a hand out to your ex-husband who, for once in his life, made the smart choice to shake it and give some poor excuse for why he was needed elsewhere.

As soon as he was out the door, you had your arms around your lover, pressing endless kisses to his cheek as your daughter laughed. 

“Did you hear what I said, Dad?” 

Your partner leaned down to hug the girl – his girl – tightly. He grinned.

“Every fucking word.”

----------

I LOVE MY STEPDAD SO MUCH HE'S MY REAL DAD and my mother and he are truly couple goals. I was on the phone with him the other day when I asked if he remembered this happening. he let out the most fatherly cackle of pure, shit-stirring joy I've ever heard. It was magnificent.

forgot the TAGLIST: @frogtowne @teenagellamaangel @universitypenguin