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ms-demeanor · 2 days

Note

You posted about adhd and I was hoping to follow up to clarify something. I’ve explained to my partner a million times about how the borderline-hoarding mess of his space is very mentally draining to me, and he understands but we’ve both essentially accepted he won’t clean his mess because he can’t because of his adhd. You’re saying he’s actually being a shit head?

This isn't necessarily an issue of him being a shithead, but it also isn't a sustainable situation. It's not good for you and there's a level of clutter that's probably not good for him either.

Large bastard is a lot more clutter-y than I am. The solution we've come to is trying to keep our messes at least isolated from one another; he can have his messes and I can have mine, but he can have those messes in his spaces, not all over the place. Sometimes those messes migrate, and that's when it's important for him to make the effort to rein them in rather than trying and failing to make a daily effort to keep our entire shared space tidy.

I think when you say "we've both essentially accepted he won't clean his mess" what I'm hearing is resignation; you're not happy about this but you don't know what to do so you've thrown up your hands and he feels helpless and unsure of what to do to improve the situation. This is the kind of "it's fine" that isn't really fine.

I think it would be worthwhile for you to each separately think about the mess and talk about it together. Are there areas that YOU *need* to have not-messy? Both for utility and your mental health? Are there areas where you can tolerate more mess than otherwise? Are there areas that are going to be harder for him to keep the mess out of than others? Are there things he doesn't *know* about cleaning up the mess?

I'm obviously a big "communication communication communication" person so I'm going to recommend a lot of talking about stuff, which is probably going to mean a lot of thinking about and interrogating stuff. I'm going to say "talk to him about why the mess bothers you" which means you also have to really articulate to yourself why the mess bothers you (for instance I'm not actually *bothered* by a messy kitchen, but I know it's going to reflect badly on us - and me specifically b/c of presumed gender roles - if someone pops by and the kitchen is a disaster, AND a messy kitchen is going to be harder to use). Genuinely, sometimes knowing *why* something is a problem might make it easier for someone with ADHD to do something. And it's not that he doesn't care that it upsets you, it's just that "Oh if I don't wash my breakfast dishes Anon won't have clear counterspace to make lunch" might be stickier in his brain (and less hard to look at emotionally) than "this thing I forget to do upsets my partner so I should do it."

For the record, I think that people with ADHD should read up on Demand Avoidance and see if it might explain some of the issues that they have in their day-to-day life; I've seen some really unfortunate situations with friends where trying to do things that their partner needed became the subject of demand avoidance. *I* have experienced negative outcomes of demand avoidance. The solution to that, however, isn't to stop making attempts to do the thing OR to simply try harder to do as they're asked/told (which reinforces the demand), it's to work on setting up a situation where the partners' needs are not interpreted as a demand. This is fuck-off difficult and requires a lot of patience and care and many attempts to succeed and will be different for each person and relationship.

(Also for the record demand avoidance isn't *super* strongly linked to ADHD and it's not a definitive symptom; like Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, it is something that occurs in some number of people with ADHD and can be a useful lens through which to examine various behaviors; you don't need to have DA or RSD to have ADHD, and having DA or RSD also doesn't invalidate your diagnosis; they're symptoms. For me, DA often feels like "if I don't look at it, it can't get me" - If I ignore all the messages I've got they aren't real and don't have real consequences so I'll just ignore my texts. If I don't look at the vendor email about the order, the problem with the order isn't real and it won't get added to my task list. If I don't look at the requests in my inbox I can't let people down when I don't do them. It's a self-protective coping mechanism but it's *maladaptive* and I can't just ignore the vendor email or all my texts. I need to work on a way of doing the stuff that I'm avoiding in a way that makes it less stressful and doesn't hurt the people relying on me. That takes a lot of effort, personal insight, trial and error, and )

But before I dive into specifics I want to be really really clear about one thing: sometimes people are simply incompatible. Sometimes one person has such a low tolerance for "mess" and the other person has such a high threshold for "mess" that it can't be reconciled. It sucks that this can end up being a thing that people break up over, but it is MUCH better to acknowledge incompatibility as early as possible instead of spending years and years building resentment.

There used to be a great forum called MiL's Anonymous that I spent a lot of time on. It had a lot of people in a lot of difficult situations struggling to get by and hold their relationships together. The question that was used as a litmus test to approach each situation was simple: If you knew today that everything about living with this person would be the same in five years, would you stay?

Because you can't control your partner. You can't control the future. You can only control yourself and your proximity to situations that are harmful to you. If you knew, 100%, that things wouldn't get better in five years, would you be okay with staying in this relationship? If the answer is "no," then that's that. Don't worry about questions of whether or not your boyfriend is a shithead, start the process of ending the relationship because there's a good chance the situation is going to be exactly the same in five years.

If the answer is "yes," and you'd stay in the relationship regardless of whether or not things changed, then it's time to take actions to improve your life within the context of the relationship.

(No judgement on that yes or no, btw. If you would hate living like this for another five years, and you would feel like you'd wasted your time and hadn't done the things you wanted to with your life, get out. Bail. Go. It will be better for you and better for your partner if you split instead of spending half a decade building resentments and and problems that you'll have to spend another half a decade healing from.)

Also, a note: you describe your boyfriend's mess as borderline hoarding - is the issue *mess* or is the issue *clutter*? I have friends who are very tidy, but whose homes are very cluttered. They like things, they have many things, they keep many things around, but their houses are always clean and well-dusted and orderly, just with a tremendous amount of *stuff.* I am addressing all of this as though the issue is mess, not clutter. If your boyfriend's situation is clutter (the space is busy and packed with things but it is functional and clean) and your issue isn't with *mess* (things out of place, things not having a place, things that need to be cleaned up gathering in stacks, falling behind on regular chores like laundry and dishes and taking out the trash) then you definitely need to assess whether or not you are compatible.

For instance here's a room that is messy but not cluttered compared to a room that is cluttered but not messy:

That first room is a *mess* but it would be very easy to clean up in under an hour. The second room is fairly tidy, but would take significant effort to pare down and declutter. BOTH of these can be difficult to live with but the second one is not dangerous or threatening to anyone's health. (The second one is QUITE cluttered and if every room in a house looks like this it can be overwhelming to live with; this is actually harder to deal with in a relationship than the first one in a lot of ways. I don't have a lot of advice for what to do if your partner is a high degree of tidy-but-cluttered because I don't actually think it's a problem or wrong to have thousands of books or bins full of lego or a million kitchen appliances as long as you have the space and can keep it safe and well-maintained; this is a really significant compatibility issue)

Okay, all that out of the way, here's the hard work.

Talk about this shit

Talk to your partner and define "mess." Make sure you are on the same page about what you mean when you're talking about what a messy room looks like versus what a tidy room looks like. Gather reference pictures. DRAW reference pictures.

Explain not just that the mess upsets you, but *why* and *how* it upsets you. In this context don't think of it as your boyfriend's mess, think of it as an unpleasant roommate. Discuss this using "I-statements". "When I have to pick up laundry all over the apartment, I feel like a parent more than a partner." "When there are piles of miniatures all over the table, I feel like I don't have anywhere to do things I'm interested in." "When there are dishes in the sink, I feel frustrated because I have to clean before I can feed myself."

Discuss, frankly and openly, whether he knows how to clean. I'm not trying to make excuses for him here but a lot of people with ADHD have a lot of stress and avoidance around cleaning because they spent a lot of time getting yelled at for not knowing how to clean properly.

Discuss your needs, be firm about what you require but willing to compromise. You *need* some spaces to be clean, and some spaces may be harder for him to keep clean than others. It may be MUCH harder for him to keep a bedroom tidy than it is to keep a kitchen tidy; if you need a clean and empty bedroom with everything put away and he simply cannot do that, that is a compatibility issue. But perhaps you need *your* side of the bedroom to be very orderly and can tolerate a moderate level of mess and clutter on his side. Maybe you're really really bothered by a messy kitchen, but it doesn't bug you if the dining table is covered with projects and papers. Figure out something more workable than "his mess goes everywhere and i live with it because he's incapable of cleaning" because he probably is not incapable of cleaning and you deserve to have places in your home that are comfortable for you.

Reduce friction for cleaning

Sometimes the problem isn't cleaning, the problem is the many many steps before cleaning, or not knowing where something should go when you are done cleaning. One of the absolute best things I've done for myself for cleaning my space is getting a broom holder and mounting the broom to the wall. Sweeping is now essentially thoughtless. I don't have to find the broom or pull it out from a pile of fans or go scrounging around for a dustpan it's right there on the wall, frictionless. So here are some ways to reduce the barriers to cleaning:

Make sure you and your partner both know how to use your cleaning supplies and know where those supplies are. When I switched dishwasher soap I had to re-show Large Bastard where I was storing it and how it was used, because to him what happened was the dishwasher tabs just vanished one day and he didn't know what I was putting in the machine or the process I used. He sometimes puts tools away in places that I can't see (he's more than a foot taller than me) so sometimes I can't get started on a maintenance project until he shows me where he put the battery pack for the drill.

Consider making a how-to chart to or having him make a how-to chart to keep someplace accessible so he can reference it while cleaning. Goblin.Tools Magic ToDo is great for this. Basically a lot of the time people with ADHD have trouble knowing what to do from step to step even if they've done something before, so having a step by step guide can make it easier (I have notebooks full of step-by-step guides for everything from paying for my tuition to removing licenses for my customers to weeding my yard)

Remove obstacles; don't keep cleaning chemicals in the garage in a box that's behind a stack of parts, keep them in the room you'll be cleaning. Don't keep the cleaning supplies that you use to clean the bathroom in the kitchen. Sometimes this means buying two bottles of bleach solution and two scrubbers and two sets of cleaning gloves but having fewer steps (fetch the windex, fetch the paper towels, fetch the gloves) is often the key to getting things done (open under-sink cabinet and grab windex, gloves, and paper towels that are there instead of in the kitchen).

This sort of overlaps with the next category, which is:

Create Dump Zones

One thing that I've found that seems very different between people with ADHD cleaning and neurotypical people cleaning is that neurotypical people are good at getting to a point where the cleaning is "done." They have checked off their tasks and they have finished and it is over. There are *SOME* chores that are like this (taking out the trash is a binary state, the trash has been taken out or it has not) and some chores are perpetual (horrid cursed dishes) but I think with people with ADHD, some chores that are binary for neurotypicals are actually perpetual chores. For instance "clean off the counter" is not a one and done for me. "Clean off the counter" may involve a three day reorganization project. "Clean off the counter" does not mean "wipe down the tile and put dishes away" it means assessing whether or not I need to make vegetable stock and bleaching three tea containers and reconsidering whether or not the sharps container should live somewhere else and going through the mail and figuring out what needs to be responded to and taking out the recycling and on and on and on.

We have had company at the house for the last two weeks, so I asked large bastard to clean off the dining room table, which is largely a project zone for him. Cleaning off the dining room table meant putting away his meds (and since he's a transplant patient that involves a 30 gallon rubbermade tote), throwing away some trash, and totally reorganizing his workshop. It also incidentally involved picking up a table from facebook marketplace and moving my plants, which has now involved moving my former plant rack outside (moving buckets, finding and organizing planters and gardening tools) and taking the former table to the thrift store (not done yet) and cleaning the rug that was under the former table. So "either the table is clean, or it isn't" isn't really true for us.

HOWEVER "hang on we can't eat until the table is clear so let's drive to Pico Rivera to get that console table right now" isn't a workable plan, so you create dumpzones as areas of holding between the start and the finish of the chore.

A dump zone can be a laundry basket. It can be a craft bin. It can be a back room or under your bed. It is a place to put things that you are going to deal with later because if you deal with them now it is going to derail the thing you are actually trying to do, which is set the table for dinner.

Dump zones are vital to cleaning with ADHD and I recommend them for day-to-day cleaning as well. The day-to-day dump zones might be more for you than for your boyfriend. For instance, Large Bastard works with bullets and he sheds bullets all over the house. I used to get stressed when I found bullets when I was cleaning because are these work bullets? Are these recreational bullets? Are they in testing? Do they need to be pulled? Do they go in the workshop or the office or the garage or does he need these today so they have to stay on the counter? And the answer now is "that's not my problem naughty bullets go in the jar." Which is perfectly sensible because he gets to say "mystery yarn goes in the bin" and "art supplies go in the bucket."

I feel helpless when cleaning a lot of the time. I'm frustrated and lost and I don't know where stuff goes and everything I pick up spins off into three projects in my head and every step feels like a wall to scale. Dump zones help me with that when there's pressure or a reason for cleaning beyond day to day home maintenance. People are coming over? The bedroom is a dump zone, I'll deal with that later. I'm just cleaning up because I need to? Okay I can find a permanent home for this new dish soap.

AS A VERY IMPORTANT COROLLARY TO THIS:

Active projects do not go in dump zones while you or your partner are cleaning. This may mean designating a project sanctuary area like a corner of the table or one particular chair in your main room where a project can be placed so as not to be disturbed. (if my current crochet project ends up in the yarn bin, that may mean that I don't pick the project up for another three months, it lives on the windowsill behind the couch because that's where it'll get worked on)

Do not put things away for your partner, put them in the dump zone for your partner. Your partner has to be the one to put their own stuff away in a way that works for them. I tend to find that this naturally puts a limit on the time stuff sits in the dump zone, because eventually you'll go "hey where's my thing?" and will put stuff away. If that doesn't happen, it's still generally better to have stuff in a dump zone than all over the home.

Do not decide you know what things go together from your partner's stuff and try to "put like things together." The neurotypical urge to put like things together is the mindkiller(j/k). You do not know which things are "similar" in your partner's organization schema and attempting to organize things on your own is going to end up with all of the things "organized" being functionally lost forever from your partner's perspective. Large Bastard's mom would do this and it was infuriating, she'd say "oh I put all the electronics stuff in one box" and she would mean soldering irons, transistors, ham radios, HDMI cables, and cellphone chargers. We are *still* going through boxes of stuff that she "tidied up" when he was hospitalized in 2020 and 2021.

To prevent the need for quite so many dump zones over time, you can work on setting up landing zones and "homes" for projects and tools.

Landing Zones

Landing zones are places where things go when you come inside from doing various things. Sometimes your landing zone only needs to be a tray for your wallet and keys, sometimes your landing zone needs to be a place to take off muddy boots and put a trowel and gloves down before you shower.

To make an effective landing zone, consider what behaviors you're trying to minimize and whether the people using it are ACTUALLY going to use it. For instance I was tired of the corner of my hearth getting cluttered with random junk so I hung up some hooks and put a shelf and a basket there and it became a really effective landing zone for my bag and keys and the mail, but it was VERY ineffective for Large Bastard because it's by a door that isn't the primary door he uses to enter the house. As a result I always know where my keys and bag are but he has trouble finding his keys and wallet. He tends to enter the house through our bedroom and has an overloaded valet next to the door and that's usually where his wallet ends up. Mounting a shelf to the wall above the valet and putting a basket and a hook on it will be a better place for his stuff to land. It's not that he's not using the first zone because he doesn't know that it's there, or because he doesn't care about lost time when I'm searching for my car keys after he borrows them, he's not using it because it's not by the door he uses. That's all.

I have a landing space for when I come in for gardening that's different than the one when I come in from grocery shopping. I have a landing space for when I walk into the dining room instead of the kitchen when I get home.

Landing spaces prevent stuff from piling up all over the place because they are a limited functional space that should be used frequently. Mail ONLY goes in the landing zone. If you have mystery mail or if you're not sure it's safe to toss, you put it in the landing zone. You can't let the mail get piled up too high or you won't have a space for your keys. You can't let the change in your wallet tray get too deep or your wallet is going to slide off, etc., but you also don't just put change on the coffee table or your nightstand because the landing zone is right there.

Homes for items are just what they sound like. They're the place the item goes. It lives there. My meds live on my nightstand. You would not believe how poorly I did with taking my meds on my vacation because they weren't on my nightstand. A while back large bastard lost one of his sets of sorted meds and we tore the house up looking for them because he couldn't find them in his nightstand, which is where they live. *I* found them in his nightstand because I emptied out the entire top drawer (he had only looked on the top layer) and found them underneath a radio and a hammock. Even though they were *hidden* they were in their home, so they were findable. I recently needed ink for an art class. Art supplies live in a dresser by my desk. Ink lives in the art bin or the top left drawer. The ink was not in either of these places (it was on a cabinet in the dining room behind a teacup) so it took me weeks to find it.

Sometimes the reason that ADHD spaces are so messy is because objects have been assigned homes in places that are visible and if they get moved they get lost. This is a genuinely difficult problem that requires a lot of effort to solve and can involve a lot of trial and error for creating a tidy living space. For some people, open shelving and visible storage might be a good solution. For some people, assigning a VERY clear home and inculcating that location by habit is the only way to clean up a space. For some people one very cluttered corner to at least isolate the chaos does the trick (for me and large bastard open shelving doesn't work because anything in one place for too long becomes invisible; that means that I rely on assigning things homes and large bastard relies on having contained chaos and a general idea of where to search but what that DOES NOT mean is that he is clean or tidy. His spaces look like an explosion. But he can mostly find his stuff and do what he needs to do and as long as that's limited to specific places in shared spaces I can live with it; the dining room table can be a disaster, the kitchen cannot).

People organize things differently. It often takes a while for neurotypical adults to settle into an organizational style that works for them and ADHD adults may need to settle into a new system every few months for it to continue working. The cleanup and declutter is most likely going to be a permanent project that is always going to demand some level of attention from everyone in a shared space, but "my ADHD means I can't do it" is not really going to fly. Maybe his ADHD means that he can't keep his space tidy, but it doesn't mean you can't move stuff from shared spaces into dump zones or that he can't do stuff around the house.

If he's insisting that his ADHD means that he can't clean it is possible that he's not being a shithead, he just feels helpless and doesn't know where to start and has adopted the belief that he's a useless piece of shit who can't even keep a tidy space like a grownup because he's internalized a lot of shitty attitudes (hello, my internal monologue about keeping a clean house). But it's also possible that he's just being a shithead.

It's something that's worthwhile to investigate with him. If he's unwilling to make an attempt, then he's being a shithead.

It is also not your responsibility to rehabilitate another person. If he wants to clean and it's something he feels bad about and needs some help and support with the way that someone might need help or support for learning to use a mobility aid, that is fine but you don't have to be the one who gives him that support if it's detrimental to your health, and you don't have to be the one to teach him that stuff if it's not something you're capable of. And if he is NOT interested in working on making your shared living space more accessible for you, that is not your suitcase to unpack and you just have to ask yourself the question from the start: would I stay with this person if I knew the situation was never going to change?

IDK, I'm sure a lot of this reads like "anon you must take on the emotional labor of training your partner to be an adult" but it's really meant to be more of a way of assessing yourself and your relationship. If you created landing zones do you think he'd use them? Would he get angry if you assigned a laundry basket as a dump zone for his stuff while you tidy the living room? Is living with him long-term going to be comfortable for you if nothing changes? Do you have enough of a shared definition of "mess" that you're at least in the ballpark for what counts as a clean house?

anyway good luck, and a reminder to folks that I'm compiling a bunch of adhd resources and other information on my personal website, ms-demeanor.com. It's coming along slowly but it will eventually include stuff like ADHD cleaning tips and how to tackle a hoard, so maybe keep your eye on that space.

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vbecker10 · 23 hours

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I Don't Hate You

Pairing: Loki x female reader (y/n)

Summary: You've worked at SHIELD for years and you were severely injured by Loki when he escaped from his cell on the helicarrier. It's been a year since the attack on NY and one day you finally cross paths with Loki after a month of him actively avoiding you.

Warning: Loki being upset, Loki feeling guilty, Loki feeling like he deserves to be hated, brief mentions of Loki's torture, previous injury caused by Loki... this will have a fluffy end, promise 💚

You shift positions to get more comfortable on the couch then turn the page of your book. I might be able read this whole book tonight, you think excitedly. The Tower was quiet which was a rare occurrence, the whole team decided to go out for drinks so you have the library to yourself. After a moment, you turn the next page but suddenly you feel as if you aren't alone.

Looking up, you see Loki standing in the doorway as if he is frozen with anxiety. He briefly makes eye contact with you and turns to leave.

"Wait," you sit up, closing your book in your lap. "You can stay," you offer and he turns back to face you. "There's plenty of space," you gesture towards the other empty couch.

"I wouldn't want to disturb you," he says, shaking his head as he remains halfway between the hall and the room.

You sigh quietly, that's the first thing he's said to you in the month since you've been back from medical leave. Loki had become almost an expert in avoiding you, the closest you had come to being in the same room with him was during a briefing last week. As soon as you took your seat at the table, he excused himself and left.

He nods in response to your offer to join you but doesn't say anything. He quietly makes his way over to the large bookcases that line the wall and begins to search for a book. You try to focus on where you left off in yours but you can't seem to take your eyes off him. He seems so nervous around you and although you aren't sure what you expected from him, this wasn't it.

He selects a book and walks to the far end of the other couch, glancing towards you as he sits. You both quickly look away from each other and try to settle into your books. After a few minutes of silence he sighs and closes the book. You pretend to continue reading as you watch him return his book and begin the process of selecting one again.

"Can't decide what to read?" you ask after a moment.

He turns, his expression clearing showing that he doesn't expect you to speak to him. He shrugs, "I've read all of these..." He looks at the book he is currently holding, "Some more then a few times."

"Oh," you look at the tall, full shelves. There must be four hundred books in this room. "Wow," you react honestly.

"I read quickly," he offers a simple explanation.

"Why don't you get new ones?" you ask as if the solution is obvious.

He puts the book he is holding away and looks down at the ground, "I'm not permitted to leave the Tower unless its for a mission." He pulls a seemingly random book from the shelf and walks over to the closest seat on the other couch this time.

"Right, I forgot I guess," you suddenly feel awkward for suggesting it.

Loki was given strick orders not to leave the Tower after an incident a few months before you returned from medical leave. He had gone to a small Cafe with his brother in the morning and ended up on the news a few hours later. According to the reports you watched from rehab, he had been on line waiting for his order when a woman who lost her husband during his attack on NYC came in. She walked over to him and started screaming that he was a monster and should be rotting in a cell on whatever planet he came from. Thor tried to defuse the situation while Loki remained completely silent. Her rant finally ended when she threw some bystanders coffee at him and he left.

The two of you sit in silence for a minute then you suddenly get an idea. "Oh," you say and he looks up from the book he has no interest in.

"I think I have something that can help," you tell him. You limp slowly towards him as you unlock your phone. Sitting next to him, you feel self conscious when he shifts away from you, his eyes fixed on the metal brace supporting your leg.

His jaw tightens and his body tenses as he rubs his hands slowly together. You clear your throat, hoping to distract him from your injury and it works. He looks at you, "Here," you hand him your phone.

"What is this?" he asks.

"Its the New York Public Library," you tell him, "Well, their website at least."

He looks at you a bit confused. "What am I supposed to do with this? I'm not allowed to go to the library," he says.

"You don't need to go," you tell him with a smile. "They can bring the books here."

"I wonder why no one told you about this. They've had this for years," you say.

His eyes fill with excitement at the thought of being able to get new books. You explain the book delivery program then show him how to search for books by author, title or genre. His smile spreads as you sign him up for a library card then sit back to watch him scroll through a long list of poets.

The smile leaves his face and he admits, "I never told anyone that I had run out of books."

"Why not?" you ask.

"No one would care," he answers instantly.

When you don't say anything, he looks up from your phone and briefly makes eye contact with you. "I don't understand why you of all people would care enough to help me, to be honest. I have done nothing to deserve even the smallest kindness from you," he says as his eyes fall to your injured leg again. The joy you had seen on his face moments ago has faded completely and in a low voice he says, "I nearly killed you."

With a sigh, he nods, "I remember everyone I've hurt... or killed."

You're caught off guard by the sudden shift in topics but say, "I thought you remembered me."

"Can we just talk for a minute?" you ask, standing with him.

You gently reach out and touch his knee, causing him to jump at the sudden contact. "I'm sorry," he says as soon as you touch him. "I should go," he tells you and he gets up.

He shakes his head. "I'm not supposed to be alone with you," he admits. "Fury wants me as far from my..." he clears his throat, "victims as possible while I am here."

He looks torn about what to do but finally nods and sits down heavily. You sit next to him again but he doesn't look at you, his eyes are fixed on his hands. His knee shakes nervously and you realize he's waiting for you to lash out at him as so many people have in the wake of the attack.

"I- I didn't realize he did that," you say in shock. "I thought you were just avoiding me because of... well because of what happened."

He shrugs but doesn't respond, giving you the feeling that he might still have distanced himself from you even if he wasn't ordered to do so.

You bite your lip and say, "I'm sure Fury means well but... I just want to talk to you. If that's okay with you?"

You had imagined this moment so many times over the last year. What you would say to him and how he would react. You look at him even as he avoids looking at you and say, "I just want to to know, I don't hate you for what happened."

He shakes his head as if he doesn't believe you and says, "You should hate me, everyone does."

"I don't," you tell him simply.

He finally looks at you, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity in his eyes, "How could you not after what I did to you and so many others?"

You sigh and admit, "I used to hate you."

"But... but not anymore?" he asks.

You take a deep breath, this is the part you practiced telling him most often. "When I was in the hospital, I did hate you. I hated you more then I ever thought I could possibly hate another person. I wanted you to feel the pain and fear you inflicted on me when you were escaping. I wanted you to suffer after every surgery, after every fall I had in rehab, after every doctor told me I would never walk without some sort of brace," you tell him honestly and he nods as if he agrees with you.

You pause for a moment and wait for him to look at you again, "It was truly exhausting."

He doesn't say anything but he keeps eye contact with you. "It took so much energy to hate to," you tell him. "It was draining me."

"A few months after my first surgery, I had some of the agents I'm friends with being over your case files and I watched all your news interviews," you continue to explain.

"Why?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

"I wanted to know if you were as evil as everyone said, if you were really a monster from another world who deserved to be hated," you tell him.

"I am a monster," he says, his eyes lowering to the ground in front of him.

His body tenses as soon as you mention Thanos's name. His eyes widen in fear and he says, "What do you know about- how could you know that? My SHIELD files doesn't contain any information about him."

"No," you tell him, touching his arm lightly and he looks up at you slowly. "You're not a monster, you're a victim of Thanos."

You fidget nervously at his reaction and say, "I... I found the restricted files SHIELD has about you, the ones with your interview-"

He gets up suddenly, his voice laced emotion but you are unsure if he is angry, hurt or embarrassed, "You read that?"

You nod, "I'm sorry-"

"No one was supposed to be able to access that. Fury said it would be sealed, that was why I agreed to tell my brother what happened," he says as he paces. He turns to face you and you can see he is holding back tears, "You shouldn't have read that. I don't want anyone to know what he did to me."

You had read all twenty six pages of the typed transcripts and listened to hours of Loki detailing his torture to Thor. He spoke about being physically hurt but also about being mentally broken by the mad titan. He lost track of time, unsure if weeks, months or years had passed while he was under Thanos's control. By the time you finished listening to his account of what happened, you had lost every ounce of hate you once harbored for him. He was more a victim than anyone.

You take a step towards him and he takes a step back, shaking his head. You reach for his hand and he lets you hold it without pulling away. "Loki," he looks at you, the first tear running down his cheek. "I'm sorry Thanos tortured you," you tell him honestly.

He shakes his head as if he can't accept your words.

You take another step towards him, still holding his hand in yours. "I'm sorry he hurt you," you say again and this time he doesn't move away from you.

"No one..." he tries to take a deep breath, "No one has ever said that to me before."

Now it's your turn to be shocked, "Not even your brother?"

He shakes his head and without thinking, you wrap your arms around him tightly. His whole body stiffens in response at first but slowly, he lifts his arms to hug you back and his body relaxes against yours. He rests his head on your shoulder and you rub his back gently.

You hold him until he slowly pulls away. Taking his hand again, you lead him back to the couch.

"You didn't deserve anything that he did to you," you tell him. When he looks at you, you can't help but raise your hand, wiping a tear from his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into your soft touch.

He opens his eyes after a moment and quietly says, "Thank you Y/N. I'm so tired of everyone hating me. I never thought anyone would ever try to understand what happened to me."

You smile at him and quickly kiss his cheek, which is a surprise to both of you. "What was that for?" he asks, a small laugh escapes him.

He smiles and nods, "Can you do it again?"

"I don't know," you admit with a nervous giggle, "I just... It felt like something I should do. I'm sorry, was that okay?"

You smile and kiss his cheek again, "Is that making you feeling better?"

"For the first time in a very long time, yes," he says.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did 💚💚

@soubi001 @michelleleewise @harlequin-hangout @ace-of-gay @xorpsbane @mochie85 @sheris532 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @kkdvkyya @animnerd @peaches1958 @peachyjinx @lokiandbuckysdoll @winterfrostlovetriangle @high-functioning-lokipath @winniewings @pics-and-fanfics @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @lokisgoodgirl @mischief2sarawr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @lulubelle814 @crimson25 @goblingirlsarah @janineb86 @simone818283 @tonystank8 @im-briana-stan @foxherder @chantsdemarins @catsladen @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @lokidokieokie @dragonmurray @honeydew3064 @malfoycassimalfoy @kneelingformyloki @newtomofgods @jiyascepter @eleniblue

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 11 hours

Text

the pro

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby.

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored.

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days.

Art Donaldson.

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage.

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine.

“We’ll start with the basics.”

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go.

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.”

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him.

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you.

But you’ll have to find a way to thank you. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace.

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.”

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days.

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches.

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?”

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?”

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit.

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.”

“Lily?”

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.”

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.”

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?”

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?”

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.”

“...He seems to be pretty busy.”

“He is.”

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?”

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound.

“It shows, you know,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.”

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm.

“Just good?” He plies.

“The best. A real pro.”

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little.

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat.

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?”

“She’s killing it.”

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it.

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.”

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds.

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.”

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.”

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.”

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him.

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw.

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap.

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies.

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud.

It spurs you to lunge a little too far.

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side.

“What hurts?”

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left.

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.”

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle.

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand.

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?”

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort.

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns.

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.”

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips.

“Of course.”

“How’s the ankle?”

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again.

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks.

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.”

“Good enough to walk on?”

Hardly.

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again?

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up.

I invited Art.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all.

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days.

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely.

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room.

“Almost ready in here?” He asks.

“All set!”

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile.

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds.

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests.

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself.

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves.

“Wanted to come say hi.”

“Well. Hi.”

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet.

“Thanks for the invite.”

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours.

“He isn’t taking care of you.”

“My ankle is fine.”

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down.

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh.

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip.

“Condom?” He asks.

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.”

“Sssh.”

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip.

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—”

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.”

“Art—”

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?”

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm.

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties.

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from his still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room.

“Can I see you?”

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him.

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.

“Where?”

“I’ll send an address.”

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk.

“...You regret it?” He asks.

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do.

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck.

“Is this Lily?” You ask.

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.”

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully.

“Art?”

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer.

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.”

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.”

When he fucks you, he presses close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up.

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

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#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #the pro

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turtletaubwrites · 3 days

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 13

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 5318

Ao3 Link

Summary: You get to work on party planning, but your disagreement about the budget leads to some uncomfortable questions.

Author's Note: I am unwell. If it wasn’t allergy season, I’d roll down a hill, and lie in the grass for a while 😅

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Smut, Established Relationship, Manipulation, Humiliation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Overstimulation, Hair-Pulling, Degradation, Unprotected Sex (stay safe out there), Bondage, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Gangbang, Brat Handling, Vaginal Fingering, PIV Sex, Creampie, Large Cock, Cunnilingus, Punishment, Orgasm Control, Multiple Orgasms, Dom Mihawk, Dom Crocodile, Switch(?) Buggy, Death Threats, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

“If you’d listened to miss Y/N before, she might still be yours,” Crocodile scoffed, shoving Buggy into a chair at a small desk by the door, leaving him close, but not too close. “This is your one chance to prove you’re not a complete idiot. Don’t fuck it up.”

“You got it, boss,” Buggy chirped, sneaking a wink in your direction while you fought a smile.

“Here you are, darling,” Mihawk interrupted, setting your notebook in front of you, along with a transponder snail. “I trust that you’ll behave on your calls today? I’d hate to have to come up with some sort of punishment if you try to–”

“She won’t try anything, huh, sweetheart?” Crocodile rasped. Goosebumps crawled over your skin as the back of that golden hook lifted your chin, drawing your eyes to his. “You’re our girl now, right?”

“I am,” you agreed, breathless as the truth left your lips. He tugged on a bit of your hair, that look of ownership sending warmth through you.

I’m theirs.

Humming at the thought, you laid out your notes, and went to work.

“This event will be expensive,” you warned, adding to the list of items needed to throw a party fit for the pompous guests you knew too well. The guest list was small, but you knew it would grow as the clients you'd called today gossiped amongst their privileged circles, and you hadn't even made it through your list yet.

“I already sent Galdino to meet with the backer you secured. That should provide more than enough funding,” Mihawk noted, looking at you over the top of his book.

“Besides, they’re not here for caviar,” Crocodile huffed from his desk on the other side of the large room, “they’re here to pay for murder. I think that’ll be enough of a thrill for them.”

You cleared your throat, scribbling on the corner of a page.

“Do you disagree?”

How did he get here so fast?

Mihawk laughed at the little yelp you let out when Crocodile pulled the list from your shaky hands.

“They want a show,” Buggy’s head declared as it floated between you and the larger man, his jazz hands floating beside his face. He gave a quiet huff as Crocodile used the notebook to swat him away like a fly.

“I’ll listen to your recommendations, sweetheart. Tell me why you think I’m wrong.”

Mihawk joined him in front of your desk, the two of them towering over you while Buggy started pacing.

I wonder if I’ll ever stop being afraid of them. I wonder if that’s why I want to stay.

Shaking off the fear, and the flush to your cheeks, you straightened before answering with a steady voice.

“I’ve known most of these people for years. They want thrills, but only if they’ll be safe, and only if it’ll be good for their bank accounts in the long run. We need to convince them that they’ll gain more than they give by funding us.” You couldn’t read the emotions behind their sharp-eyed stares, but you pulled yourself through.

“We need to sell the product, and we need to be desirable. If we don’t look just as wealthy as they are, they won’t think we’re worth the air we breathe, let alone their precious berry,” you ended on a sharp note, swallowing a scowl.

Mihawk leaned over the desk, holding your jaw while he stared at the hint of a snarl on your lips.

“My sweet, little rabbit doesn't seem to think highly of her old clients. This entire plan relies on these wealthy contacts being loyal to you, Y/N. You didn’t exaggerate their trust in you, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” you breathed, your jaw clenching beneath his fingers. “As long as I keep being useful to them, they’ll keep pretending they care about me.”

Ice filled the room from the pressure of your words, nausea coiling in your stomach.

“I’m good at what I do,” you coughed, Mihawk's fingers letting you pull away while you took a breath. “They’ll listen to me, but we need to put on a show.”

“Good thing you’ve got the flashiest showman around,” Buggy crowed, floating pieces of him over your desk again, shielding you from the cold stares of the other men.

“Buzz off, clown,” Crocodile snapped, resting his hook on your desk with a low, metallic thunk. “Sweet girl, do you think we’re liars?”

“Wha– n-no. I didn’t–”

“Skittish, little rabbit,” Mihawk purred, shouldering past Buggy’s now solid form to trail a finger down your cheek. “Why would you ever need to worry? You have so many uses.”

“Don’t start with that shit, swordsman,” Crocodile growled, moving beside you to trap you between them.

“Didn’t you hear that hatred on her tongue, sandman? Aren’t you curious if our little rabbit carries that same venom for us?”

Buggy’s frantic eyes found yours around Mihawk’s side, but your golden-eyed lover returned his fingers to your jaw, pressing in.

“Do you hate us for using you, darling?”

He released your face at Crocodile’s looming threat, but his predator’s gaze still held you frozen.

A large hand across your shoulder blades relaxed you for just a moment, until that deep voice warmed your neck.

“Answer him, sweetheart.”

“Of course she doesn’t hate you, she’s–” Buggy started, going silent at the vicious glare Mihawk sent his way.

Tension grew with every second until you found your voice again.

“I don’t hate you. I want to be here,” you laughed, a strange joy moving through you as you shook yourself. “You threatened to kill me, but I still trust you more than I trust any of those leeches.”

Lightheadedness came in a wave, your body buzzing as you looked back and forth at their frightening faces.

Fuck. Why did I say all that? Why didn’t I keep it professional?

You let out a sigh of relief as Crocodile's hand rubbed up and down your spine, and Mihawk lifted your knuckles to his lips. That gentle kiss felt overpowering, and he hummed when a soft noise left your throat.

“I think that’s enough work for today, don’t you, Crocodile?”

“Why don’t we take our dinner in the banquet hall tonight,” he suggested, tapping his hook on a blank notepad on your desk. “You can show us how to prepare it for a party of leeches.”

“Or we could just enjoy all the new tables to fuck you on,” Mihawk laughed, pulling you out of the chair to carry you.

They bickered about who would be going first along the way, laughing at Buggy’s attempt to claim a turn.

“Go order the food,” Crocodile snorted, gesturing down the hall. “Stop being a fucking nuisance, and you might get to watch.”

You directed them to the large dining hall, giggling as Mihawk laid you across the head table. The room was already set up well, a small stage at one end, the head table stretched along a connecting wall, and round tables scattered across the floor. Once you had a more complete RSVP list, you’d be able to make a decent seating chart.

You propped yourself up on an elbow, your brow creasing a bit as you thought of which guests would need to feel extra special, and be seated the closest to your lovers.

“I’m amazed that little mind of yours can focus on work,” Mihawk teased, tapping his fingers against your forehead. You threw your head back with a moan as he snuck a hand up your skirt. He rubbed his knuckles over your clit through your panties, already damp from the feel of his skin while he’d carried you. “When this little cunt is always so fucking hungry.”

“Dinner is served,” Buggy interrupted your moan, crashing through the doors with a rolling cart of food, the sliver-domed covers glinting under the lights. The tray slammed into a chair as he stared between your spread legs, his hands flying to catch the wine bottle and glasses just in time.

“Too bad,” Mihawk sighed as he licked the taste of you off his fingers. “I was about to have dessert first.”

Too many conflicting feelings flowed through your mind while you ate in this opulent room, drifting you away from the conversation as visions of fake smiles and expensive clothes danced through the hall.

Gloved fingers on your knee snapped you back.

Buggy made a show of eating the last few bites off his plate, not meeting your gaze as your lips parted from his risky touch.

What are you doing?

So far your sweet clown had done nothing but try to protect you from these men, but now his fingers were teasing up your thigh under the table.

You wanted to let him, your mind starting to race through every possibility, every reaction.

Mihawk snatched that wayward hand from your lap before you had a chance to think, and you yelped when he slammed it on the table.

“We decide when our girl gets to play with her toys.”

“Right, of course,” Buggy squeaked, his ears going red while Mihawk crushed his hand against the wood. “Sorry, boss, I was just feeling handsy! Ha, w-won’t happen again!”

Buggy’s tense giggle at the word handsy tore a laugh from you, and he managed to steal his hand back while Mihawk stood, his chair scraping across the floor.

“Time for dessert,” he threatened, wicked fingers pulling you up by your hair. He dragged you away from the plates before tossing you on the edge of the table. Taking a seat between your legs, he gripped your ankles while you panted, trying to gain your bearings.

But you couldn’t gain your bearings, Crocodile’s lips crashing onto yours taking you over. He sat beside you, a satisfied noise leaving his throat at your desperate reaching for him.

“Since you’re feeling so handsy, why don’t you pin hers down?”

Buggy hesitated for a moment, but pulled up a chair on your other side before his floating hands pressed your wrists into the wooden table above your head. Even though this was exactly where you wanted to be, being restrained and surrounded on three sides had you resisting against his hold.

“You look so pretty like this, sweetheart,” Crocodile purred, tracing the side of his hook along your struggling arms, the barest scrape of the sharp point making you gasp.

“He’s right, such a tasty little rabbit in our trap,” Mihawk agreed, speeding your pulse as he pulled your panties down your legs. He dropped them onto Buggy’s lap, bringing a whimper from those painted lips. “Try not to come in your little pillowcase this time, and you might get to do more than hold her down.”

Buggy met your gaze, the need in his darkened eyes making your breath hitch.

He’s never looked at me like this before.

Your lovely clown, the Warlord of the Sea that had rescued you from your boring life. He'd taken you to new highs, given you more pleasure than you’d ever known. Before they came, he had looked at you like he wanted to eat you, to take you, to keep you.

But the look on his face when he watched these other men have their way with you was something else.

He fucking loves this.

Before you could smile at the thought, a wicked tongue dragged through your folds, circling around your clit before plunging inside you. You filled the air with Mihawk’s name as he devoured you, until Crocodile’s fingers muffled your moans, making you tear up while he smirked at your stuffed mouth.

“Do you mind? I prefer a little music with my meals.”

Mihawk smeared his face along your inner thigh, and you shivered at the feel of his wet facial hair teasing your skin. Crocodile huffed a laugh, but pulled his fingers out of your mouth. He lifted the fabric of your top, tearing more of the clothes that Buggy had bought for you into shreds before playing with your breasts.

So many sounds left your throat as they teased you, Buggy’s hands gripping hard while you writhed for them.

Predators toying with their prey.

“Please,” you begged, earning a laugh vibrating through your core as Mihawk kept going. You were already twitching before his long fingers entered you, Crocodile’s hook tracing dangerously down the side of your body.

“Fuck, Mihawk, I’m so–”

“Close,” he taunted, pulling away from you. Crocodile gave a disgruntled noise, but followed suit, taking his hand away from your chest. He left his hook though, the point resting lightly below your ribs while he looked toward the man between your legs.

“I think we were close to something earlier,” Mihawk continued, his fingers playing along your thighs while you squirmed with need. “Close to learning more about our precious numbers girl.”

The loss of that almost release had you whimpering, but his words fell over you like a weight.

“She’s been good, hawk-eyes. Don’t be so mean,” Crocodile smiled, brushing a bit of hair from your face.

“You know I’m going to make her scream, but my curiosity has been piqued. I just have to know,” he threatened, pressing his fingers into you. You moaned when he found that spot, but he tortured you, the touch too slow for relief. “Tell me, darling. Why do you carry such contempt for these wealthy clients of yours? You told us that your life was boring, but you snarled like a beast. Did we take in a monster instead of a sweet, little rabbit?”

He attacked you then, his free hand on your clit while his fingers brought you close again. You couldn’t answer through desperate moans, and the sobs that followed as he cut you off again.

“Please, sir. Please,” you choked out, shaking with need.

“Why do you hate them, Y/N?”

Your name on Mihawk’s lips always seemed to wake you, and you tried to calm your breathing before struggling for an answer.

“They’re terrible people,” you gasped, faltering at Crocodile’s low chuckle. “They don’t care about anything besides staying rich, and impressing the same circle of vapid families with how much berry they can waste on stupid, pretentious bullshit. They’re so fucking obsessed with status, they’d throw someone to the wolves just for the slim chance of their inbred blood marrying into the Celestial Dragons.”

Your body had forgotten its need, seething as the words raged through you. These were thoughts you fought to ignore, useless, meaningless thoughts that could do nothing but piss you off.

Buggy released one of your wrists, cradling your cheek as his thumb gently stroked back and forth. You looked away from the confusion and concern in his eyes, embarrassment filling you like bile.

As if he felt your shift, Mihawk lowered your legs, coming to sit on the table beside Crocodile, and you clamped your eyes shut against the force of their stares.

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be,” Crocodile rasped, rubbing his hand along your arm. “I’m glad my sweet girl has some fire in her.”

“I agree,” the swordsman interrupted as he laid his still-wet fingers on your side, “but this seems personal. Why do you hate them so much, pet. Tell the truth.”

“I just… I’ve been surrounded by these people for years. They trust me with their money, and their money comes with secrets. I see what they do with all the wealth I help them grow, and I see what they don’t do. But even with all that berry, and all that selfishness, they are still so fucking boring.”

A wicked laugh left your throat, and you found yourself smiling as you looked into three sets of eyes. You melted for them, letting the heat of your need for them pour from you.

“But you promised that I wouldn’t be bored with you,” your voice came out in a purr, and you relished as all three faces filled with hunger when you writhed for them.

Mihawk jutted forward to pinch your pouting lip, something new and dangerous flashing in his eyes.

“Are you trying to manipulate us,” he dared, tilting his head as he scanned your face. “Did you already forget who owns you?”

“No,” you gasped, lifting your neck as he tugged your lip further.

“Mihawk, back–”

“Can you believe what a dirty slut your sweet girl is,” he taunted, his free hand tracing up your thigh while you held your breath. “She just tried to use her body to distract us. You really loved being called a whore, didn’t you?”

You fell back when he released your lip, moaning as he yanked your hips toward the edge of the table. Your legs dangled off the side, and you tried to slide off to stand until he ordered Buggy to pin your wrists down again.

Buggy’s brows creased as he hesitated for a moment, a small line of worry etched into his face paint. Yet he obeyed, leaving you to glance up at Crocodile, imploring him for forgiveness that you weren’t sure you wanted. Your eyes fluttered closed when he leaned down, kissing your temple.

“It’s true, isn’t it,” he asked, his husky voice overwhelming you. The point of his hook ghosted across your chest, forcing you to slow your breathing. “I promised all you gotta do is tell me what you want, and I’ll take care of you, but you still don’t believe me? Manipulation is real fuckin' close to lying, brat.”

“P-please, I–”

“You’d better watch your fucking mouth,” he threatened, his hook pressing into the side of your neck. “You’re gonna take what we give you, and then you’re gonna tell us the truth. Don’t make me show you what I do to liars, girl.”

Nodding stretched your throat against that sharp point, so you whispered your compliance. He withdrew the threat as Mihawk’s evil laughter moved closer.

“I’m not so forgiving,” the other man smirked as he lifted your legs over his shoulders. You barely had time to meet his golden eyes before he shoved his cock into you, laughing through your screams.

“Using your body against me,” Mihawk scoffed as he grabbed at your chest, pinching one of your nipples while he pounded into you. “I’ll show you what it means to be used, rabbit. You get to be a real whore tonight.”

The acoustics in the banquet hall were incredible, your screams of pleasure flying through the room as you came on his brutal cock.

“What a spoiled little cunt. I wonder how many rounds you can take? Would you still like a turn, clown?”

Buggy coughed, looking up from the sight of your pussy taking all that abuse.

“Wha–”

“Did you ever call her a slut? Did you ever fuck her like the desperate whore she is right now?”

“No, I…”

“Mihawk–” Crocodile leaned in, pressing his hand down on your chest. The swordsman never stopped fucking you, and you had to fight to pay attention.

“She earned this, sandman, and I think we should give our toy a treat. He’s been so good at holding her down, and keeping his mouth shut while I ruin his pretty star’s pretty little cunt. Let me play. I know you’re enjoying it.”

“… Fine. Only because she deserves this punishment. You hear that, brat,” he rasped, grabbing your face to watch you wither under his silver glare. “You try something like this again, and I’ll let twisted hawkeye pick your punishment.”

He pushed away just as another orgasm was ripped from you, your body clenching around Mihawk’s while he dug his nails into your hips.

“Hardly a punishment. You’re nothing but a slutty little hole, aren’t you,” he jeered, rolling into you until your eyes rolled back. “Alright clown, if you still want to stick your dick into this comeslut, you need to follow my instructions. Do you still want to fuck her?”

Buggy looked down at you with wide eyes, and you couldn’t tell if he’d noticed your nod of consent as Mihawk slammed into you, but either way, he whispered, “yes.”

“Good toy,” Mihawk praised, his breath heavy as his thrusts started to stagger. “As soon as I’m done, you’re going to fuck my come into her. You’re going to call her a whore, and you’re going to fuck her like one. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Buggy rasped, squeezing your wrists twice before taking his hands back to undress. Crocodile caught both of your hands in his. His eyebrow lifted just a tad, and you closed your eyes, knowing a smile would be on your lips if you weren’t making so many ungodly noises.

Your safe word crossed your mind. All of your lovers knew it.

But you weren’t even close to needing it.

I’m such a slut.

You almost laughed to yourself, until you felt Mihawk start to twitch inside you.

“Look at my happy little whore. Just wait, darling. You’ll be crying soon enough,” he laughed before groaning, shoving his cock so fucking deep while he filled you. The heat of him made your eyes roll back, and you weren’t ready when they switched.

Buggy’s needy moan arched your back. The feel of him sinking into your messy cunt after everything that had happened felt insane, electric. You met his gaze, his blown out eyes hardly human as he followed Mihawk’s lead, fucking into you like an animal.

“Tell her what she is, toy,” Mihawk ordered softly, smirking at you over Buggy’s shoulder.

“You’re…” Buggy started, his head tilting back as his breath sped through him.

“You’d better not come before you tell her what a slut she is. And you’d better act like you mean it.”

Your sweet clown looked frantic as Mihawk’s dangerous fingers danced over his shoulders.

“You’re such a slut,” Buggy tried again, his soft voice making you moan. His bottom lip scraped through his teeth while he watched you react to him, and you cried out his name as he fucked you harder.

“You like this, don’t you,” he asked, voice gaining confidence with each word, with each thrust until you were screaming. “You like being a flashy little whore, huh? Like making me watch your pussy get fucking wrecked everyday?”

“Fuck, yes, Buggy, please.”

“Gods, Y/N, you feel so fucking good baby–…”

“She’s not good, she’s a dirty fucking hole to fill,” Mihawk growled, gripping Buggy’s hair while he whimpered. “Tell her what she is, and you can come inside her right now.”

“F-fuck, you’re a dirty slut. You filthy fucking whore. Fuck, I’m–”

That twitching, throbbing cock filled you and filled you, it felt like it just kept going. Just a few more of those desperate, overstimulated thrusts of his would have sent you over the edge again. You hadn’t even noticed when Mihawk took over pinning your wrists before Buggy was pulled away, and large, ringed fingers played in the mess he’d left.

Crocodile’s eyes burned into you as he scooped come out of your used cunt, rubbing it along his shaft before pressing the tip of him to your entrance. You squirmed away, stopping your movement too late.

“Get her on the floor, clown. I don’t wanna break the table giving this brat what she deserves.”

Your limbs were loose as the other man got you to the ground, spreading your legs for Crocodile as he lined himself up, grabbing your hip to hold you in place.

“This is nothing, sweetheart,” he threatened, bullying his massive cock into you, the other men’s come being forced out to make room. A satisfied hum vibrated through him at your pathetic little whimpers. “You need to know how fucking serious I am.”

“Okay,” you breathed, eyes stinging with tears as he shoved himself all the way in.

“If I ever find out you lied to me,” he growled, filling you again and again as he started thrusting, “you’re not gonna like the punishment you get. I don’t care how sweet, how pretty, or how fucking useful you are, you’re gonna be hurting. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes,” you whined, the pain almost tipping to pleasure before he got mean, fucking you into the floor.

“Yes, what, brat?”

“Daddy, yes da–”

“Fuck,” he moaned, drowned out by your screams.

Crocodile didn’t stop, fucking you as your body shook, fucking you until your tongue hung loose, the hint of drool at the corner of your lips.

“I’m gonna fill this bratty little pussy up, then you’re gonna be a good girl and tell the truth, because we can do this all night. Are you gonna be a good girl, or are we gonna have to keep taking turns ‘til your pretty little cunt starts crying?”

“I’ll be good, daddy. So good–”

“Mm, just like that. Fuck, you take my come so well…”

He filled you impossibly full, come spilling down the sides of his cock onto your already sticky thighs. Then he left you empty, but not cold, sliding down your body to press soft kisses to your neck and shoulder.

“You really are smitten, aren’t you, Croc?”

Mihawk’s taunt sent tension through the larger man’s body, and you held your breath while those silver gray eyes poured over your features.

“We’ve got a good girl here,” he countered, brushing hair from your face. “As long as she’s not a liar.”

“Yes, yes,” the swordsman tutted, “let’s get our girl cleaned up so she can tell us all about that hatred in her heart.”

The afterglow dwindled quickly at those words, but soon Mihawk was wrapping you in a tablecloth, lifting you into his arms. He hummed again when you let your head rest against his shoulder, tilting his face to leave a kiss on the top of your head. That little touch brought all your relaxation back, even from the frightening man that held you.

Buggy snuck a quick kiss to your cheek while everyone got a turn under the hot water, and sleepiness hit you hard as Mihawk wrapped a towel around you. You’d watched him shave while the shower warmed up, and now you stood on the fluffy bath mat, swaying while you stared at him in the large mirror. Crocodile had left, and Buggy hovered near the door, but you were caught on the swordsman.

“What’s that?”

You stepped closer, but pulled your hand back before picking up the dark glass bottle he’d titled into his palm. Those unreadable golden eyes flicked to you while he dragged his fingers over his jaw, spreading that incredible smelling liquid through his facial hair.

“You tell me, bloodhound,” he smirked, holding his palm in front of your face.

“Fuck, that smells so good.”

“Of course it does,” he chuckled, “what do you think is in–”

“Play your sniffing game tomorrow,” Crocodile grumbled through the door. “If our girl doesn't tell us the truth, we're gonna have a second round, and I’d like to get some sleep tonight.”

“Better not make daddy angry,” Mihawk warned in a hushed voice, nibbling on your ear before pushing you toward the door. “Better not make me angry either, rabbit. You know I can read you like a book.”

Shivering, you moved past Buggy’s wide eyes, glad to have him there. Mihawk guided you to sit against the headboard while the three of them sat around the edges of the bed, surrounding you again.

Silence strangled you, and you were about to crawl out of your skin until they all started speaking at once. The others conceded, leaving Mihawk to lean forward, touching your ankle as he spoke.

“Tell us the real reason why you hate your wealthy clients, hate wealthy people in general? There’s something personal, and we need to know before you invite a whole slew of them to our lovely home. Can’t have you poisoning all the people who might give us berry now, can we?”

“I’m sure I’m not the only person who thinks rich people are trash,” you laughed awkwardly, yelping as his long fingers dug into your skin. “I'm s-sorry, it's just a joke…”

“Answer the question,” Crocodile ordered. His voice was empty, leaving your mind to fill in the terrifying blanks of what he had in store for you if you failed him.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you sighed, covering your face with your hands while you tried to pull your thoughts together. You opened your eyes to catch Buggy’s soft, worried smile, and you knew his hands would be comforting you right now if he thought they’d allow it.

“I grew up with money, alright,” you spilled out, sounding more annoyed than you’d meant to.

Dead silence was finally killed by Mihawk’s derisive laughter.

“No wonder she’s such a brat, Crocodile. We’ve got a spoiled, little rich girl on our hands.”

“Shut up!”

Clamping your hands over your mouth too late, your eyes darted between all of their shocked faces. Buggy’s head had lifted a couple of inches off his neck, as if the force of his eyebrows raising had pulled it into the air. You bit your lip hard to keep from releasing panicked laughter. Crocodile moved closer, mirroring Mihawk with his hand on your leg.

“Tell us why you’re angry,” he soothed, rubbing his thumb along your skin. “But you need to stop making us dig for it, sweetheart. I’m not known for my patience.”

Blinking away stupid tears before they could fall, you nodded, letting your head fall back against the headboard before trying to speak. When the words finally came, it was like an echo through an empty room, your eyes almost unfocused as you told the boring tale.

“Family was rich. I grew up in those circles with all the parties, and galas, and expectations. I didn’t like it then either. But my dad died…”

Emotion swelled through the emptiness, and you had to swallow it down to steady your voice again. One of Buggy’s hands flew to yours, and no one stopped you from holding it.

“We stopped being rich. All those friends and neighbors stopped seeing us as real people. Even the parts of my family that are still rich treated us… They wanted us to beg for their help. To roll over, and let them– Fuck!”

They were all frozen through your frustrated yell. Buggy’s hand floated anxiously at your side after you’d dropped it to throw your hands into the air, digging your nails into your palms as anger rocked you.

Why am I doing this? I’m such a fucking idiot.

Your scolding thoughts couldn’t stop the wave of rage as it pushed through you.

“I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about them. How badly are you gonna hurt me tonight if I don’t tell you anything else? Why don't I save you some time, because I will take a lot of punishment if we can just fucking drop it.”

The ringing in your ears seemed to last for hours until your labored breathing started to calm. Blue, gold, and silver eyes pierced through your body like vicious jewelry, clinging to your skin as you tried to disappear. You went unfocused again, staring vaguely toward the crown moulding as you awaited whatever pain they might inflict.

Almost at once, the three of them crawled forward, and you held your breath as they settled around you, their warm hands smoothing over your body. Mihawk and Crocodile brought their lips to your skin, Mihawk’s trailing down your neck while you twitched and whined. Crocodile kissed your temple before breathing along your ear.

“We promised to take care of you, Y/N. Want us to take care of somebody for you?”

“Hm,” you asked, a headache forming from the onslaught of emotions.

“You’re ours, little rabbit. If you'd like someone to die, all you have to do is point the way.”

“Just tell me who, sweetheart. Daddy’ll gut them for you.”

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

a/n: I honestly thought we'd never get to the reader's back story what with all the fuckin' 😅

Part 14

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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dalliancekay · 1 day

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We've been talking for millions of years

Aziraphale was clearly taken by Angel!Crowley from the moment he met him. I think the 6000 years could be read as when the whole human breeding thing starts. Even God says there's been many nice days in the Garden. How many? The count didn't start until the day they left Eden I think. When we meet Aziraphale and Angel!Crowley in Before the Beginning, Earth was still an idea in the works. And the War didn't happen. Or Crowley surely would have been more cautious. So I hope they have met and talked and Crowley grumbled about how unfair it all was.

And Aziraphale tried to placate him that it will all work out somehow, there’s a Plan. And they kept meeting, Crowley showing Aziraphale the prettiest corners of the universe, Aziraphale telling Crowley exciting developments re: Earth.

I wouldn’t try to guess at how far their relationship has gone… maybe relationships of the kind we know now weren’t invented yet and still, these two loved each other without knowing anything about it. After all, no other angels seem to have ANY relationships of any kind. Apart from higher or lower levels of condescension towards each other.

Then the Great War came and tore them apart. After knowing each other for millions of years and their close more-than-friendship, their world falls apart. After all, Crowley tried to do the right thing. And Aziraphale did too but it wasn’t to be. Yet. But. Their story wasn’t finished yet.

Aziraphale is relieved when he’s sent down to Earth to guard the brand new humans from the demons he has heard that the damned angels have been turned into. He’s a bit fearful about the whole thing but glad to be away and keen, if a bit anxious to see the project he’s discussed/worked on for so long.

Crowley hates Hell. He hates it cos it’s not what he wanted or what he thought he was joining. He has been lied to. He’s not regretting his decision to turn his back on Heaven, no. He still thinks they’ve made too many crappy decisions. But he despises what the Rebellion became.

When Beelzebub asks for a volunteer to go up to the new planet and tempt the fresh innocent human couple into joining them, he volunteers, even if only to escape the claustrophobic walls and the mess nobody ever clears up.

Tempting comes easy to him. He imagines talking to his lost friend. ‘But why wouldn’t you try fruit from this one tree. What’s the problem with knowing things anyway? Wouldn’t you want to decide by yourself Eve? And Eve does make a decision.

Crowley’s worried now. Not for himself. He’s without hope but did he hurt humans by doing this. He didn’t mean to. He doesn’t really want them to go to Hell. Or Heaven for that matter. He only thinks they should be free to make their own choices. If only he had someone to talk to.

He spotted a distant angel earlier. Reminded him of, of… the light hair...anyway. They held a flaming sword but surely he can dodge that if needs be. He could just try for a simple chat. He has no idea how demons are talked about in Heaven. But he guesses the angel might just try to smite him. Worth the risk. Everything feels so raw and strange here. Maybe stealing a bit of familiarity will help him settle his nerves.

He decides to slither over and ask how the angel feels about what’s been done. Will they be furious. Hurt? Guilty? Oh. It’s him. It’s too late now. Always too late. It’s him. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. It is HIS angel. What is he going to do. FUCK! Well. No better way to find out. He could just tease him like the old times. What's the worst that can happen.

Shitfuck but he smells good. These new senses will take a while to get used to: “Well that went down like a lead balloon.” A lead balloon? Whatthefuck even is that. Oh for Someone's sake.

Aziraphale’s standing on top of the Garden wall, squeezing his fingers with worry - what exactly has happened. What has possessed him to give away his sword. Did he disappoint God? Heaven? It doesn’t FEEL wrong to help them. If only he had someone to talk to.

Another angel? What. A snake? Oh. Oh. They are changing. Could it be? His heart will surely explode into million pieces…!!!! A lead balloon?!? “Sorry what was that?” Does he remember me? I think he does. I think he does. He’s here. As lovely as always.

I’ll keep him safe. Safe. I will keep him safe this time.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #aziraphale my beloved #good omens thoughts #before the beginning #garden of eden #good omens eden #kaypost

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twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 1 day

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/twistedwonderlandimaginesblog/747760908602900480/heeeeeyyy-so-ive-been-reading-some-of-the-so-hcs?source=share

Wait this was actually so cute 😭✨️ Would it be okay to ask for a similar prompt with Leona and Ruggie and their s/o's?

Leona Kingscholar:

Leona has always thought it silly to judge an opponent from the outside, even if he had to acknowledge that was how the world worked. He knew them being smaller might have a disadvantage visually but it could also help by catching future opponents off-guard, making them regret their decision before it's too late. He cared most about his kid’s keeping a sharp mind, something that wasn’t correlated with the size of their body or their muscles. It does irritate him that there are whispers about his ‘runt’ and it’s quickly known to not utter a word about it anywhere he might be in earshot.

Leona isn’t the best at consoling, normally wanting his kid to keep their head held high to show their insults weren’t bothering them. They were royalty, at least, a status most of those bullies didn’t have. And even if they were a fellow royal, he could bet they were ten times as smart as someone who could be boiled down to a spoiled rich kid.

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie has also always been ‘the little guy’. He didn’t get taken advantage of because he attached himself to those with power, running errands for them and in exchange earning their protection (which was normally unintentional). There had always been a secret dangerous side to him as well, as he needed a backup plan for when he got cornered, so he’d pass this knowledge onto his child. There was always a way to make things head in your favor even if you didn’t have all the muscle, and in the end, there would always be someone bigger, making adapting to the environment the best skill to focus on.

Ruggie doesn’t think he should let it bother him, but normally admitting you are what the bully is saying throws them off. So what if he’s shorter and smaller than them? What’s their point? It’s a little harder if they end up in Savanaclaw’s dorm full of athletic students but Ruggie believed they could prove themselves by other means. There’s always more than one way to solve a problem, after all.

#Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #TWST Imagines #TWST x Reader #Leona Kingscholar #Ruggie Bucchi #Leona Kingscholar x Reader #Ruggie Bucchi x Reader

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minkyungseokie · 2 days

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第二章 | Moving and Meeting the Boss

warnings; age gap love(R: 23, S:39, T: 50), gxg, throuple, controversial age gaps, random German and Scottish pet names, topics of eating that aren't ED related, but might be triggering to some, DeepL translated languages. Untranslated Chinese, French, and other languages

note; okay! second chapter is now ready. I might start another series based on driver x reader x wag. I sort of rushed through this. I also changed a couple of things

She now contracted meningitis during her F2 days and that was the reason for her leaving, but she told people it was the lack of funds

There has something to do with eating, but it's not an ED

The eating thing is based off of a very adorable mukbang YouTuber named Tzuyang. I also never been to Monaco, so Idk how everything works

Realized she should have a last name since she's Felix's sister

note2; please give me requests for moodboards, blurbs, smaus, or anything else you want for this series. Or just request anything as long as you read my rules and how to request thing

fc; imleslie(Y/n), xavier serrano(Aaron Antognelli), blanca soler(Chiara Lorenzi)

Come Talk to Me | Driven by Destiny Masterlist

Autosports Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Toto Masterlist

I do not give anyone permission to change, copy, or put my work on any other platform. It will only be on top, so if you see it, please report it. Or let me know.

DO NOT ask me to update this story. I'll update when I can.

Anyway, only accepting 10 more people to be tagged

Buckle up! This is a long one!!!!!!!!

(My god, Susie is so fucking pretty that I might actually cry)

In the now packed-up house, Y/n gazed around. "Are you all packed up?" Her brother asked as he crossed his arms next to her. Chan sighed, "I'm going to miss coming over to your house and hanging out," he said, looking around the house. With a soft smile that showed off her sharp teeth, Y/n looked at her brother, "He'll miss popping by my house during random times when the homeless orphans don't have work to do and mooching off me until he needs to go home to Korea." Y/n teased, pinching his freckled cheeks.

Chan giggled at Felix's expression and looked away, clearing his throat when Felix's glare turned to him. The long-haired male slapped his sister's hand away gently and tried to keep his scowl before giving up and breaking out into smiles as laughs filled the room. "For real though, I am going to miss you." Felix said, opening his arms for Y/n to enter, "Aw, I'm going to miss you too, but you can come visit me anytime you want in Monaco." Y/n offered, pulling back.

"You too, Channie. You and the rest of the derelict unparented are free to come visit me in Monaco when you want." Y/n said, opening her arms up to the shorter male. "Why does this feel like I'm sending my little sister off?" Chan asked, gladly accepting the hug that was offered, "You are basically family, mate." Felix assured, wrapping his arms around both his sister and his best friend. The group continued to hug until there was a loud honk heard in front of the house, "Well, I guess we should get this stuff into the truck." Y/n said, letting go of the two singers to grab one of the nearest boxes.

Y/n lugged the box to the truck where a mover stood, ready to grab the box from her hands and put it in the truck, "I'll take that, sir." The worker offered. Y/n froze and stared at the mover, "Excuse me?" Y/n asked, "Oh? Did I say something wrong?" The worker questioned, looking at Y/n with a raised eyebrow, "I am not a man. Please don't assume because I have masculine features." Y/n said, steeling her nerves. Y/n wasn't a confrontational person, but over the years, resentment had built up enough for her to tell someone off when they called her a man.

Her boobs were prominent enough for people to know that she wasn't a man and she was wearing a sports bra with flannel, how the hell did the man assume she was one as well? "I'm sorry, I didn't know--" "I think you did know, but it's whatever. Don't do it again." Y/n huffed, turning around and walking away.

Y/n entered the home again and grabbed a box aggressively, huffing dramatically. Felix and Chan shared looks before putting the boxes they had in their possession down, "Hey, what's wrong?" Chan questioned.

Y/n shook her head, taking deep breaths to calm herself down. She sometimes felt like it was irrational of her to get so upset by someone assuming she was a man, but at the same time, anyone would get upset by being called the wrong gender.

Y/n squared her shoulders and picked up another box before turning to look at the two with a smile, "It's nothing, mate. Just a bit of an annoyance." Y/n then turned and walked out with the box in her hands.

The trio made their way back and forth until all the boxes were in the truck. Now, they stood on the lawn watching as the movers grabbed the furniture and loaded it onto the truck, "Y'know, we're actually going to miss you." Chan spoke up, continuing to watch the movers work. "I know. That's why I said you're free to visit me in Monaco. I'll also try to visit you and in Seoul whenever I can." Y/n assured, throwing her arms around each of the boy's shoulders and giving them an awkward side hug.

"We know. We'll try to visit when we can too." Felix said, laying his head on her arm with Changbin following suit, "We're done, ma'am. We'll be taking this to the sea freight now unless there is something else you need." The mover looked at the tall half-Asian with a pointed look, asking if there was anything she needed or if were they good.

"You're good to go. Thank you." Y/n said, nodding at the mover. The trio watched as the movers packed up and drove away, "What time do you leave?" Felix asked after a few moments of silence, "Three o'clock in the morning. Seeing as my insomnia is so bad that I can't fall asleep, I'll probably be up and out by two. Do you mind dropping my keys off at the realtor office safe drop box? I won't be able to do it since I leave at three." Y/n said.

"Yeah, we can do that. We'll be dropping you off anyway." Chan nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

"Yah, wake up. It's two." Felix hissed as if there were others in the house.

Y/n groaned and swatted Felix's hands away before turning onto her side and snuggling into the blankets, "Y/n, it's time to wake up." Chan said, joining Felix at the side of the hotel bed Y/n was sleeping in. The two put their hands on her and looked at each other, nodding before violently shaking Y/n back and forth.

"搞什么鬼?!" Y/n yelled in Chinese after being woken up so violently, turning to stare at her brothers with wide eyes, "Sorry, you wouldn't wake up, so we decided to shake you until you woke up." Chan snickered, signing as he spoke, looking away as Y/n glared at him and Felix.

Y/n sighed and threw the blankets off of her body, "Jesus, dude. You could've kept trying to wake me up gently." The dark-haired woman scowled, reaching over to grab the external part of her cochlear implant and the hearing aid for her other ear. Felix grabbed the hearing aid and helped her put it into her ear, "When are you getting your other cochlear?" Felix questioned, making sure the volume was on the level Y/n always kept it on.

"I get the second implant after I start my new job. I'll have to tell the boss about it as soon I do the interview. Especially since I forgot to tell her about my lack of hearing." Y/n mumbled, looking at Chan and Felix from the side since she knew that they would be giving her judgy looks.

Y/n turned to see that they were indeed giving her disappointed looks as if she wasn't taller than Chan, older than Felix, and more intimidating than the both of them combined. "Stop looking at me like that! I was trying to get the application in as fast as I could. I simply just...forgot to put it on my application." Y/n explained, looking down and scratching her cheek. When she looked back up, they were still looking at her with disappointment, "Stop looking at me like you're my parents and I just got caught smoking a fat one....or something cause I wouldn't know how they would look at me." Y/n quickly added the second part and gave the two boys a awkward smile.

Felix and Chan sighed in unison, "Okay, well, I guess we can't really be that upset with you since you'll be telling her face-to-face. Get up and get ready. Felix picked out some clothes for you to wear." Chan said, pointing to the end of the bed where some clothes were laid out for her, Y/n sighed, running a hand through her thick hair, "Okay, whatever. Please move out of the way."

Chan stepped back as Y/n swung her long legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet onto the floor, grabbing the clothes and studying them before going to the bathroom to get changed while Felix and Chan checked to make sure that everything was properly packed. Y/n exited the bathroom wearing a pair of high waisted brown trousers, a white collared button down with a brown, beige and white sweater vest one top.

Y/n sat down on the bed and picked up the socks that were sitting on the bed, putting them on while Felix and Chan continued to talk, "Y/n, do you want to get some McDonald's on the way or something?" Felix asked.

"I just want a coffee and a bagel honestly. We can get something from the bagel shop nearby. I heard they have some good bagels and coffee." Y/n suggested, putting on her boots and grabbing the glasses that were on the nightstand next to the bed. "I'm down." Chan said, looking to Felix, "I'm okay with that." The blonde shrugged, grabbing Y/n's suitcase and pulling it out into the hallway.

Y/n stood up and looked around, making sure that she had left nothing on the ground

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Y/n turned and looked at her brother as she got ready to board the plane, "Okay, so you'll call when you've landed in Monaco, right?" Felix inquired, holding her wrists lightly. Y/n rolled her eyes and chuckled, "I promise that I'll call you as soon as I get to my new home in Monaco. Don't worry about me. Just make sure that you take care of yourself. All of you." Y/n gave a pointed look at Chan.

"What? Why'd you look at me like that?" Chan chuckled nervously, "I'm telling you to take care of yourself. You tend not to do that." Y/n joked, looking him in the side. Chan jumped away as if he was shocked and held his side, "No promises, but I'll try."

"Flight 35 A is now boarding."

Y/n looked over at where people were beginning to line up, "Alright, it seems I've got to go." The girl pointed behind her with a thumb. Felix pulled his sister into a hug and laid his head on her shoulder, "You better call me when you land. I'll fly to Monaco myself if you don't." He said voice muffled into her sweater vest.

"Okay, let go. I have to board." Y/n groaned, pushing the blonde away from her playfully, "See you, Y/n." Chan said, giving the girl a quick hug. Y/n grabbed her carry-on and boarded the plane, "Make sure the other Stray Animals are around when I call. I want to talk to all of you." Y/n spoke.

After a long flight, of which she slept through most, she hopped off the flight feeling groggy and completely disoriented. To be quite honest, she just wanted to go to sleep in a bed with thick blankets and the fan blasting on her face so she didn't overheat while sleeping. The thing was, she wouldn't be able to meet up with the person who sold her the house until the next day because the offices were closed and her stuff wouldn't arrive until the next day either, so she had to get a hotel for the night.

Y/n groaned as she rolled her neck, attempting to massage the stiffness out of her shoulder and neck as she entered the Uber, "Uh, Hôtel Fairmont Monte Carlo, s'il vous plaît." Y/n spoke in a tired and dull tone.

The driver nodded and pulled off. Y/n pulled out her phone and pressed on the contact of the one person she knew would be up. It was 9:41 PM in Monaco, which meant it was 4:41 AM in Seoul currently and there was one person she could guarantee would be up at that time.

Chan.

Y/n pulled out a pair of headphones with a large-diameter ear cup that completely encloses her ear and audio processor and put them on. Y/n looked out the window while the phone rang, "Hey! You're in Monaco, I'm guessing." Chan said as his face popped up on the screen. "Yeah, I'm in an Uber right now. I'm heading to the hotel." Y/n mumbled, mouth stretching into a little yawn.

"Oh, yeah. Your stuff isn't there yet, is it?" Chan asked, looking at something off to the side, "No, it'll be arriving tomorrow afternoon. I'll be contacting Mrs. Wolff tomorrow as well to schedule the interview. The jet lag was going to be a bitch." Y/n sighed, leaning against the window. "Yeah, it is. What time is it there?" Chan questioned, "It's, uh, 9:43 PM." Y/n answered, dragging her eyes away from the fogged-up window to the face on her phone.

"Have you eaten?" Chan questioned, "No, not yet. Have you?" Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I ate some ramen earlier. I'm just snacking on some honey butter chips right now." Chan responded, lifting the yellow bag to the screen.

Y/n opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted by the driver, "Madame, nous sommes arrivés à votre destination."

Y/n looked out the window and saw they were indeed in front of the luxury hotel, "D'accord, merci, monsieur. Je vous souhaite une excellente soirée. Sorry, Chan. I have to go. Tell Lixie and the others to text me when they can." Y/n said, exiting the car.

"Okay, I will. Have a good night." Chan said, "Have a good day, mate." Y/n said before hanging up. Y/n pocketed her phone and grabbed her items from the trunk. She waved at the driver in thanks and made her way into the hotel. It was a random one that she picked out and it was probably way too luxurious for a one-night stay, but it was the closest to where her new home would be and she was way too tired to find an even cheaper hotel.

She checked in and paid for the room, trudging up the stairs in a slumped-over position. As soon as she found her room, she stood up and unlocked it as if she was being followed by someone and had to enter quickly. Y/n threw the door open and closed, dropping her bags where she stood before making her way to the bed and getting in

Y/n woke up the next day and immediately ordered an Uber. Her items would be arriving today and she already slept in pretty late. Y/n's dark brown eyes swept the room until they landed on the digital clock on the dresser. It was 2:52 PM. The truck with her stuff would be there around four and the realtor would be there around 3:00, so she had to get going pretty quickly. Luckily, her Uber was on its way and she would be at her new address in no time.

Honk!

Y/n's head snapped up once she had heard the honking of the horn. She could only assume that they were there for her and the chime from her phone telling her that her ride has arrived only confirmed her suspicion. Y/n quickly gathered her items and sped and walked out of the front of the building with her hand up in a wave to show that it was her who had ordered the Uber. Y/n pulled up the trunk after the driver had opened it from the inside of the car.

Y/n put her suitcase and carry-on bag into the trunk and closed it, rushing to get to the backseat and get into the car. "Bonjour, Monsieur. Monaco, La Condamine, 98000 Monaco, s'il vous plaît." Y/n said breathily, pulling her phone out of the bag she had and opening the notes app. Seeing as she would have to move all of her stuff in, of course with the help of the moving pros, and there were some other things she needed to do through the day, she decided that it would be a good idea to make a to-do list.

To do for today and tomorrow

Move my stuff into the house

Rearrange everything to my liking

Unpack everything

Go grocery shopping

Call Mrs. Wolff back

Y/n reread the list over and over to see if anything else came to mind, but when nothing did, she pocketed her phone again and stared out the window. Monaco was a truly gorgeous place and she could see herself living out the rest of her life in this beautiful country.

She could definitely see herself finding a man or woman, who would most definitely be an F1 fan seeing as the country basically lived and breathed F1, finding a much better home, settling down, and having a family.

It wasn't something she wanted anytime soon since she was still pretty young, but it was something she could see happening when she was ready.

Actually, now that Y/n thought about it, and as the car passed by the water, she doesn't think any house, which was actually one of those apartments where you have a whole floor to yourself, would be better than the one she got. It cost an arm and a leg to get and she would be able to afford it after she finally started the PA position.

The flat included three bedrooms, one bathroom, two shower rooms, one separate toilet and a kitchen. In total, it has four rooms. Two underground parking spaces provide space for any vehicles and a balcony that overlooked the water. It that high street, city center, bus station, and shopping center all within 500 m, so it was well situated.

Y/n sighed and closed her eyes. This was the start of her new life. While she was is Monaco, she was going to be a different person then what she was in Australia. Gone is the shy, antisocial, introverted girl that lived in Sydney and in is the girl who is still the same thing, but trying to be more confident.

"Pardonnez-moi, madame. Nous sommes arrivés." The driver announced, "Hm? Oh, merci beaucoup." Y/n thanked as she exited the car. She waited until the driver popped the trunk and then grabbed her things, "Merci encore, madame. J'espère que vous passerez une excellente soirée."

The driver gave Y/n a smile, "C'est très gentil de votre part. J'espère que vous passerez également une excellente soirée." She responded before driving off, giving Y/n a wave as she drove off.

"Miss Lee?" A voice with a thick accent called out from behind her. Y/n whirled around to face a tall man with dark, curly hair, a chisled jaw, and broad shoulders. It was the realtor, "Ah, Mr. Tomatis. How are you doing today?" Y/n greeted, looking to the side so she didn't make eye contact. "I am well. Listen, I would love to stay and talk with you, but I have an important showing to do, so here's your keys. Enjoy your new home." Mr. Tomatis gently place the keys into her hands before walking off.

"Oh-kay. Guess it's time to check out the new place in person." Y/n took a deep breath, trilling as she exhaled. The girl made her way into the building until she reached her floor. Y/n put the key into the door and unlocked it, "Home sweet home, I guess. Once I step through this door, my new life officially starts." Y/n mumbled, resting her forehead against the cool wood. Y/n opened the door and wheeled her suitcase in behind her, "Woah, this is sick!" Y/n awed, looking around her home.

She left the suitcase and carry-on near the entrance and walked around, looking through each room and mentally mapping what went into each room and how she would lay everything out.

Once she was done with her mental mapping, her hands fell to her sides and she looked around with a flat face and eyes dulled due to boredom.

She didn't know what to do now.

The truck wouldn't be there until four and it was only... Y/n looked down at the screen of her phone, which displayed the time in a large blue font...3:12.

Suddenly, an idea popped into Y/n's head. She had to schedule the interview and was advised to do so once she was settled down enough, but since she had time to waste, why not do it now? Y/n opened her contacts and pressed on Susie's, making sure it was on speaker, "Hello?" The sweet Irish voice that Y/n had heard last time, answered the phone.

"Uh, yes. It's Y/n Lee. I'm calling to set up my interview for the PA position." Y/n stammered, "Oh, Ms. Lee! I've been expecting your call back. I assume that means you're in Monaco?" Susie asked, "Yeah, uh, yes...ma'am." Y/n confirmed, nodding as of the woman on the other line could see her.

"Great, I know that you're going to need some time to settle down completely, so the interview will not be taking place any time this week. How about the next week around 10:00 AM? What day works for you?" Susie questioned, "I can do next week. How about Wednesday?" Y/n pulled out a pen and pad of paper to write down the date and time. "Wednesday works perfectly. Alright, I will e you then." Susie said.

"See you then." Y/n confirmed before pressing the 'end call' button. Just as Y/n put her phone on the counter, she got another call but this time from the company that had her stuff, telling her that they had arrived early and were ready to move her stuff in.

Y/n ran out the front door and down the stairs to see that they had indeed arrived earlier than planned and were already beginning to unload the lighter stuff, "Hey, I didn't expect you to be so early. Please, follow me and I'll show you where my apartment is." Y/n said, grabbing a box and leading the way to her floor.

After showing the movers where she was, Y/n went back down to grab another, but before she could make it too far, someone stopped her. "Hey, I couldn't help but notice you're moving in. Do you want some help?" A tall slender man with dark hair and dark eyes. The man in front of her was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome and Y/n was the definition of awkward around pretty people.

Y/n opened her mouth to decline, probably stutter through the sentence before falling too embarrassed to continue speaking, when another voice spoke up. "Babe, what are you doing? Who's this?" A woman who absolutely gorgeous saddeled herself next to the man, looking up at Y/n with a raised, perfectly sculpted, eyebrow. "I-uh..." Y/n's eyes darted around frantically, trying to find any way out of the situation.

She knew she said she was going to be a totally different person than she was in Australia, but she had the worst night of sleep where her body got too hot with the blankets, too cold with the fan, and still too hot with both. She also kept waking up randomly during the night, feeling dizzy and disoriented. She also may be up and doing things, but she was severely jet lagged and wanted to do nothing, but drop dead on the floor and sleep until she could physically no longer sleep.

Y/n was going to be quite honest, she could use the help and it would make things go a lot faster, but how was she, a socially awkward person, to talk to two very pretty people?

Answer; she didn't.

She walked past them with a quick 'excuse me' pretending like she didn't hear them. If they got upset with her, she'll just say her hearing aids weren't on or turned up enough for her to hear that they were speaking to her. "Wait! Ma'am, hold on." The man called out, following Y/n outside and grabbing her wrist gently, stopping her in her tracks. Y/n steeled herself and whirled around with a fake smile, "Oh, sorry. Can I, uh, can I help you?" Y/n asked, eyes darting between the man, who was giving her a smile, and the woman, who was scowling at her with her arms crossed.

"Yes, you can help us. My boyfriend asked you a question and you just walked past us as if you didn't hear. Are you deaf or something?" The girl sneered.

"Yes."

"Pa-pardon?" The girl asked, dropping her arms, Y/n turned her head to the side, showing the couple her cochlear and the the hearing aid, "I-I am in fact...deaf." Y/n muttered, turning to go get more boxes. Behind her she could hear the flustered man scolding his girlfriend while she stammered out flustered responses,

"How could you-?!"

"I..I didn't know, okay? Hop off my balls."

"Woman, what balls would I be hopping off of?"

"I... You... Just shut up! We should be helping anyway."

The two stopped their flustered play fighting as Y/n walked past. They both grabbed boxes and followed her, "Hey, we are so sorry." The man spoke up, speed walking so he was next to Y/n, "Especially me. I didn't know you were actually deaf and even if you weren't, I wasn't being the nicest. It's just, and this isn't an excuse, there have been some... how do I say this?" The girl asked, looking up.

"Issues." The man supplied, the woman snapped her fingers and pointed at her boyfriend before quickly putting her hand back under the box as it began to tip over in her hands, "Issues. We have had some issues with our last neighbours and it made me sort of defensive. Sorry about that. My name Chiara Lorenzi and this is my boyfriend..." Chiara trailed off so that he could speak for himself.

"Aaron Antognelli. And you are?" Aaron asked, depositing the box on the floor of Y/n's apartment, "Y/n Lee." Y/n answered. "It's nice to meet you, Y/n. I hope we get to become very good friends in the near future." Chiara said, nudging the taller girl as she and Aaron walked out to grab more boxes.

With the extra two sets of hands, Y/n and the movers were able to get everything inside quickly and it was a good thing too since the sky began to dark with thick rain clouds. "Um, thank you for your help." Y/n muttered, going into her house and beginning to close the door when a hand appeared between the door and the frame, keeping her from closing it fully, "Hold on there, kangaroo. Don't you want help unpacking?" Aaron asked.

"Oh, no. I couldn't ask for that. You have done quite a bit a-and I don't know you well enough." Y/n frantically shook her head. The couple shared a look before turning back to Y/n, "Please, we... I insist. We want to make up for the rocky way we greeted you. Of course, we won't force you to and if you don't want us to help you, we'll leave." Chiara said.

Y/n sighed and nodded, opening the door fully to let the couple in. She didn't know them or trust them, but she also needed all the help she could get. That, and she was shit at decorating, so it would be nice to enlist the help of someone else.

Chiara and Aaron looked around, "Why does your apartment look so much better than ours?" Aaron asked, "I thought they were all the same." Y/n said, looking at her spacious place. "Nah, yours has much more space, but it could be the fact that you're living alone that makes it seem that way." Aaron shrugged.

Chiara whirled around and clapped her hands together, "Alright, let's get this done."

With a yelp, Y/n fell out of her bed as the alarm she had set on her phone blared in her ear that contained the hearing aid. She had so much fun with Aaron and Chiara the previous night that she ended up going to be later than she usually liked to whenever she had something important to do the next day. After the day they helped her unpack, the two quickly became friends Y/n and they had been hanging out with each other ever since.

Y/n groaned and hobbled over to a cabinet near her bed where she kept her medicine, "Shit, getting drunk the day before my interview was not smart." Y/n grumbled, opening a bottle of pills and a bottle of water from her mini fridge.

Y/n gathered her clothing and put it on the end of the bed then went and took a scalding hot shower that helped her sober up. Y/n gave a quiet groan as she messaged her shoulders, "Man, my shoulders are stiff." She complained.

Stepping out of the shower, Y/n put on her outfit, which consisted of wool wide-leg pants, a skims t-shirt bodysuit, a nocturne cropped jacket, and a pair of heeled patchwork boots. Looking in the mirror, Y/n narrowed her eyes, "Hmm, wait." Y/n looked around to the clothes she had thrown everywhere when looking for a good outfit.

Her room was covered in an explosion of beige, brown, white, and black. There was not a lick of color in any of her wardrobe, save for her shoes, which were still not brightly colored, so they still fit her aesthetic. "I need to add some color to my wardrobe." Y/n muttered, before grabbing her things and making her way down to where the Uber was waiting for her.

She gave the driver the address of a café that Susie had suggested, Café de Paris, and off they went. Y/n's heart thudded so hard in her chest that she was pretty sure that the beat was coming from her stomach rather than her chest. Y/n ran a hand through her long, messy hair and tried to calm the nervous feeling in her stomach.

The driver looked at Y/n through the rear mirror and cleared his throat, "Nerveux? Vous avez un rendez-vous ou une raison de vous énerver?" He asked, causing Y/n to jump from the sudden addressing. "Euh, oui. J'ai un entretien très important. J'ai déjà obtenu le poste, mais je suis encore nerveux." Y/n answered shakily, wringing her hands together nervously.

The driver studied Y/n through the mirror before turning his eyes back to the road, "Eh, don't be nervous. It must be just a 'get to know you' interview." The driver said, switching to English and waving a hand to the side as if he was brushing Y/n's nervousness away.

"You're right. Merci, Monsieur." Y/n sighed, leaning back against the headrest. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

Susie sat at a table in Café de Paris, occasionally looking at her watch as she waited for Y/n to arrive. Admittedly, she had arrived a bit too early, but she was excited. She had been looking forward to finally starting the F1 academy and with Y/n working by her side, she'd make these girls into Formula One champions.

Susie continued looking out the window for Y/n, even though she has no idea what Y/n looked like at all. Y/n walked through the door and approached Susie from behind, "Mrs. Wolff?" Y/n spoke up, causing the blonde woman to jump up. As soon as they were face-to-face, both women froze.

Now, Y/n was open about her sexuality and what she liked, but Susie wasn't. Susie had never been interested in women and she wasn't one who would ever fall in love when she already had a husband and a beautiful son, but Susie's heart raced looking at the younger woman and she couldn't understand why. Susie had no problem admitting when another woman is beautiful and the one in front of her? Well, she was drop dead gorgeous in Susie's eyes.

"Ah, Ms. Lee. You startled me." Susie chuckled, putting a hand on her chest to calm her racing heart. Whether it was racing because of Y/n's beauty or because she genuinely got startled, she didn't know. Either way, the woman in front of her made her heart race. "My apologies, Mrs. Wolff. I didn't mean to scare you." Y/n apologized, giving the older woman a shallow bow instinctively.

"Shall we sit and begin?" Susie asked, gesturing to the chair. Y/n nodded and sat down across from the older woman. "Okay, remember that you already have the job. This is just to get to know you a bit more. Do you want to order something or do you just want to start?" Susie questioned.

"I would like to order something." Y/n muttered, Susie gestured to someone and a waiter came over, "Are you ladies ready to order?" The waiter asked politely. "Yes, I would like a chocolate chaud and panna cotta parfumeé au citron." Susie told the waiter who wrote it down before turning to Y/n, "I would like Le Chou Profiterole and the Irish coffee. Please." Y/n said.

Once the waiter finished writing down their orders and left, Susie turned back to Y/n with a smile that made Y/n want to throw herself off a cliff. She was so pretty and Y/n didn't think Susie knew just how gorgeous she was.

"Okay, let's start while we're waiting for our orders. Can you tell me about yourself?" Susie questioned, "Oh okay, um... I'm Y/n Lee, I am half Chinese and Half Australian, I am 23 years old, I want to do modeling in my spare time, I like surfing and skiing, and I used to be a Formula Two driver before I contracted meningitis and had to stop." Y/n replied.

"You contracted meningitis?" Susie asked, "I did. I lost hearing in my right ear," Y/n turned her head and moved her hair, showing her cochlear, "I had to get a cochlear for my right ear and I have a hearing aid in my left because I'm losing my hearing in that ear. After I got my surgery, I just decided not to continue driving even though I would love to continue." Y/n shrugged.

Susie nodded, "If you had the chance, would you try and continue to drive in F2?" Susie questioned. Y/n sighed and looked around the café, "I honestly never thought about it. I wanted to but I didn't have enough money to continue, so I thought that my chances were over. If I had the chance to do it again, I don't know if I would take it. I'm turning 23 soon and I fell like I'm getting too old." Y/n said, looking up as the waiter arrived with their stuff.

"Thank you/Merci." Susie and Y/n said simultaneously. Y/n brought the glass mug up to her lips and took a sip of the drink. Y/n put the mug down and looked at Susie again, "What are your goals for the next five years?" Susie asked.

"Hmm, I think I still see myself working in the motorsports world or perhaps attempting to further my modeling career. Or both." Y/n answered, picking up one of the cream puff and taking a bite, refraining from making any sort of noise.

"Do you consider yourself a passionate person when it comes to this sport?" Susie inquired, Y/n nodded as she swallowed the pastry in her mouth, "I was..am...Before I got meningitis, I was obsessed with being a Formula One driver. I was about as passionate about it like most of the guys on the grid. It was my passion." Y/n explained.

Susie nodded and sat back in her chair, "That'll be all." She said, picking up her spoon and eating some of her panna cotta parfumeé au citron. Y/n paused halfway from the plate where she was reaching for another mini creampuff, "That's all?" She asked, "That's all." Susie reiterated

"Okay." Y/n nodded. She was honestly so unsure as to why she needed to do the interview when she was only going to be asked about four questions, "Now, let's get to know each other since we're going to be working closely together. My name is Suzanne Wolff, but you can call me Susie. I am Scottish, 39 years old, I have a wonderful husband who is the team principal of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One team, and I have a gorgeous fiver-year-old son named Jack." Susie introduced herself.

The woman held out a hand for Y/n to shake, "It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Wolff. I look forward to working with you." Y/n said, grabbing the older woman's hand and shaking it firmly. Susie waved off her formalities, "Oh, please. Call me Susie. We'll be working close together, so we might as well drop the formalities." She chuckled.

The two women continued to talk about random topics, getting to know each other more and more. The two became quick friends and even made plans to hang outside of work sometime in the future and even talked about Y/n meeting her son and husband since she would have to meet them eventually.

By the time Y/n was in her Uber and on her way home, it was well into the afternoon and Y/n had a small permanent smile on her face as she thought about the older woman.

Y/n hated to admit it, but she tended to catch feelings for people quite easily. She didn't and never would believe in love at first sight, but she did believe that one can get to know someone well enough to gain some sort of feelings for someone.

And Y/n could tell that the bubbling feeling in her stomach was her feeling giddy and anxious. She was beginning to feel something for the older married woman, but she brushed it off. It was just a small puppy crush, and even if it wasn't, nothing would ever come of it. Susie was a heterosexual married woman with a family and if there was one thing Y/n could never be, it was a homewrecker.

Susie entered her home happily. Her husband and son greeting her at the entrance, "Hello, liebling. How was the interview? I can assume it went well since you're smiling from ear to ear." Toto said, kissing his wife on the forehead. "She's perfect, Toto. She is everything I wanted and more in a personal assistant. Not to mention she's absolutely gorgeous. If she were to go to a GP, people would assume she is some sort of supermodel WAG." Susie said absentmindedly.

Toto gave his wife an odd look as she bent down to greet their five-year-old. His wife was what some people would call a girl's girl and she definitely has complimented other women before, but the way she had talked about the woman she had met with made him feel curious. She had never sounded so infatuated with anyone other than him and Jack.

Of course, Toto knew that his wife was not going to cheat on him and especially not with another woman, but there was just a feeling in his gut that said there was something more than just a regular excitement to be getting the F1 Academy project off the ground.

"Yeah? Is that right?" Toto asked, "Yes. She used to be a F2 driver too, so she is the most perfect candidate for the job. I think you and Jackie would lover her." Susie said, kissing the top of Jack's head and carrying him into the kitchen.

Toto shook his head as he chuckled. He didn't know what the woman was like, but she must have been super amazing because she left such an impression on his wife that she was positively gushing about the new PA.

By the time Susie stopped talking about the new PA, Toto himself couldn't wait to meet her and he was now sharing the excitement that she was practically projecting off her in waves.

This was the start of something new and both Wolff's could tell.

↳ ❝ [Taglist] ¡!❞

@exotic-iris13 @alliwantisadonut @evie-119 @xoscar03 @cheyxfu @laur2608 @sunnylikesfrogs @goldenmoonbeam @victorharrington @only-nope

Unable to tag all of you

This one was over 6k words. I felt like I needed to give you guys this since I had been away for so long.

DO NOT ask me to update this story. I'll update when I can.

Anyway, only accepting 9 more people to be tagged

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copperbadge · 1 day

Text

Immediate Writer's Block

Had a comment on another post where I thought I'd probably need more space than the notes in which to respond, so:

constant-state-of-self-discovery Oh I get the envy I feel it right now how the fuck do you manage to write without impassable writers block after 5-9 sentences because I haven't fucking figured it out lol

I do have some advice on this!

I think most writers get blocked from time to time, it's normal and my general strategy is just to wait it out, but if you're frequently blocked after only writing a very little bit, I think the problem is one of two things: either you don't know what you want to achieve with the scene you're writing, or you don't know what should happen next within the scene to achieve that goal. If you frame "I'm blocked" as "I don't have an answer I need" then often you move from just sitting there, sweating and staring at a blank page, to thinking productively about how you're going to get where you're going. It's the difference between not knowing an answer and not knowing an answer but knowing where to look for it.

An invaluable piece of advice for this, which I think I picked up from someone who got it off a National Novel Writing Month messageboard, is "When in doubt, ninjas attack." It's not meant to be literal, you don't need to have ninjas or fight scenes just because you don't know what to do, but it helps to get the creativity flowing again. If you don't know what should happen next, or you know but you're having trouble actually writing the scene, it can be very helpful to induce a moment of uncertainty or surprise -- to have a metaphorical ninja attack. One time I did this literally -- the POV character was just on the road somewhere and I didn't know how to get them from a pastoral country road to their actual destination in an interesting way, so I had them get attacked by highway bandits and have to fight them off, which also allowed me to demonstrate that the character had significant unarmed combat skills. But it can also just be like, two characters who are having a boring conversation can be interrupted by a third person, even just a stranger asking for directions, or there can be, IDK, an explosion, or something goes missing, or etc.

Sometimes it also helps to leave it alone but keep it in your mind and go do something else -- listen to a podcast, take a walk, read a book, not because those things are distracting but because all our inputs eventually feed into our brain and come out as reactions. If you're thinking about your book while you're wandering around a park, something you see in the park might have an impact on it. If you've got YOUR story in mind while reading someone else's, you might be more inclined to look at what they're saying and see what you think of it, how it might play into your work.

And honestly, sometimes you just gotta go past it. I'm working on the next Shivadh novel right now and it opens basically with Simon the chef getting into a spat with his love-interest-to-be over some cheese. He want the cheese, she won't sell him the cheese, so they get off to a very contentious start. But I suck at writing conflict especially when it's basically "A character I like is being pompous and another character I want people to find likable is being stubborn and somewhat unpleasant". I've been stalled on it for a while. But I know where the scene ends up, like I do know what the goal is, so I just...skipped it and went on to writing a scene I like better, where they meet a second time and actually discover each others' identity and that they're about to be forced into the grownup equivalent of a school project. Once I've gotten dug deeper into the story I'll come back and write it, and by then I'll have the benefit of knowing the love interest a bit better.

So yeah -- I think a lot of breaking a writer's block, especially when you don't need rest but are just stumped about what to do, is to twist and look at it from another angle. It's not that you don't know what to write, or don't want to write what you know you have to -- it's that you don't have the correct answer to a question, or you need to leave that part alone to ferment and come back to it later. At least, for me.

#writing #constant-state-of-self-discovery #writer's block #inspiration #archive

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boyfridged · 2 days

Note

in your fic “paint it over” is that how you imagine jason making it out of the explosion at the end of utrh? not exactly the events that follow, but the preferable characterization of bruce digging jay out of the rubble and carrying him to help. and how do you think jason made it out canonically (without the help of bruce) also!!! what are your thoughts on the specifics of jason’s scar and how he’d behave toward it. i liked the part of your fic where jason was temporarily unable to speak due to the trauma his neck received. i think the scar is something that rests on the junction of his shoulder/neck, and that can be hidden with whatever clothes he wears -> no one knows he has it (or how he got it) either. i like to imagine while bruce knows his batarang made contact with jason’s throat it’s never fully registered to him that it scarred until he sees it for himself (and while i believe bruce would turn the moment in head over and over again until it’s engraved in his brain, his delayed realization—to me—is due to his repression of the occurrence)

oh i adore this whole ask. some of it i explained in my notes, but this fanfic is quite dear to me, so i will elaborate.

short answer to whether this is how i imagine jay making it out of the explosion: not exactly?

the premise that i wanted to explore with paint it over is almost the opposite of a fix-it, and definitely not what i believe it should be in canon.

what i wished to explore there is, however, the part of utrh that is perhaps the most shocking to many readers: that bruce leaves jason to die.

in-universe, i think the answer why it happens is surprisingly simple enough: bruce does not come because he is just... not there. my understanding is, that in a way, the events of under the red hood did not happen. there is nothing to follow. that purple mist in the finale of the utrh, that is often read as a force resurrecting jason (not technically wrong, either)- i believe that is the timeline already rewriting itself, making the whole story into something that was not.

and the reason for the above is the infinite crisis. if i'm not wrong, it's also the inifinite crisis miniseries where bruce meets dick right after the explosions in (or of) bludhaven-- that in batman clearly happens in the background of his confrontation with jay. however, in infinite crisis (#4, just checked it now), bruce tells dick: "i wanted to make sure...you're alright... i was in new york when it hit. got here as soon as i could." which could be a lie or a matter of the editorial not being synced enough- but i'm willing to give them a benefit of the doubt given how it ties with that sudden, stunted ending of utrh.

this makes sense for canon for several reasons. in the animated movie, since it spares us the infinite crisis tie-in, bruce says of the whole incident: this changes nothing. it changes nothing because although aditf isn't, utrh is a tragedy; it changes nothing because since his death, jason is necessarily always pushed at the peripheries of the narrative, no matter how much the fate itself tries to fix it, becoming a tragic footnote. the dead have one right and it's the right to remain silent. and that is ironically ensured on a cosmic level, with his violent attempt at being seen hidden in the folds of the timeline. you can also see it clearly in canon -- i believe it was not until the infinite frontier that the events of utrh got just tangentially mentioned (before that, even lobdell barely touched upon it). other than that, they have no consequences; they are barely ever spoken of; they seem to slip out even from jay's solo comics.

this move was necessary for batman, as a character and as a title: let's say bruce does hold red hood as he does in the alt cover of annual 25 (and the cover of the deluxe edition of utrh.) that would implore a reckoning with his failure and his (suddenly non-productive) grief that would either reconstruct the whole myth or lead to some terrifying implications. these terrifying implications are, essentially, what paint it over is about. it's about the worst happening and about there being no way back from it. and jason, in receiving what he wanted (his father's love and care) wants to deny that reality. they both want to. yet even jay cannot ignore it completely -- and i chose to use the batarang injury to emphasize it.

and about the scar: i mentioned it briefly before, but in the au jason aggravates the wounds on purpose, hence it will scar worse and cause long-term issues for his voice. it's a theme i also keep in some of my other stories (to come...) and i very much think this is what would happen in canon if he had to take care of that injury. yet as it healed, i believe he'd take to hiding it, mostly. still, as it stands, my primary take might be that in canon (if it was to follow the interference into the timeline from the crisis at least) jason would simply end up with no scar at all, and only memories for evidence of what happened, which is perhaps worse for him too (but of course better for bruce. and as it happens, this is bruce wayne's story and everyone else is just living in it- or dies in it- for better or worse. and if we're ignoring that metaphysical timeline bullshit, as you said, i believe bruce would repress it all anyway.)

#this is probably a mess but it's 3am and i should go to sleep so #sorry if it does not make sense/i did not properly reply to everything. i might follow up...#and i'm very curious if you have any more thoughts on jay's scar!!#+ most importantly <3 thank you for reading my work. this makes me so happy.#outbox #yutro writes #btw. i had another post in which i said that i consider what was said in annual 25 about jay's initial resurrection being an attempt ->#of “fate” to fix things to be central to my view on canon. i guess in that case the utrh becoming half erased is another attempt at it ->#when universe loves you so much it rids of the evidence of your trauma...#also i forgot to mention. i am very much for jay's storyline challenging the status quo of batman as a title #-> but that would make him literally the main character<3 and i don't think most people are ready for it or want it

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w--zii · 2 days

Text

a surprise - part two

bf!jihoon x f!reader

[minors dni]

smut warning:usage of words like slut, filthy etc. orgasm control, let me know if theres more.

vc:703

you took a deep sigh as you closed the folder in your hands and checked for the time. your dinner order should be here by any time now. you went to kitchen to have some water and when you came back to lay on your shared bed with jihoon, a notification popped on on your screen from him.

▶️AUDIO—6:24

he must be so bored, you thought, as you clicked on the notfication. how innocent.

hi baby^^ listening to it now<33

he only sent a creepy smile and left you alone with the voice record.

first seconds of the audio were only his breathing, you didn't understand a single thing, just continued listening while your eyes kept a stare on the white ceiling.

"y/n.. a-ahh,"

your tracks stopped after hearing his voice. did he really moan your name? your face and entire body started to warm up, you felt like your heart might melt anytime.

"f–fuck oh, feels so good."

you started to breathe heavily.

"i miss you–ah," his every word ended with a whine or moan, it turned you on more. hearing your name on his lips has a dirty impact on you.

now you can hear his breathe getting faster and his groans deeper by every second. you started to squirm in your place, pressing your thighs together to get some kind of friction, didn’t help much though.

jihoon

one message. and he got you. thinking of how wet you would be right now made his cock twitch in his pants. (yes, again, he was desperate.)

"i s–swear, mhh–if i don't get there asap, my cock is g–gonna fall ah–off"

his words made you chuckle. your right hand reached for your clothed wetness, cupping it. you let out a whimper. jihoon didn’t respond to your message yet, he wants you desperate too.

“y/n, i know you're dripping right now. my filthy slut.”

you kept listening to him as he reached his climax. audio ended, you called jihoon in light speed to ask about the heck he done.

he accepted the call with a smirk on,

“what's up baby?” he's having fun and it's obvious.

“jihoonie... i miss you,” you said in a crying tone, he will help, right?

“mhm, i miss you too. i wish you were here, pretty.”

“i love it when you tease me.”

sudden confess made his heart drop.

“oh? is that so?” his eyes turning dark, he knows what you're trying to do.

“you can wait for me, yeah? beautiful?”

“please...”

“it won't take long i promise, baby.”

you fake cried to him, not trying to be a brat but you needed him, now. your pleas continued and jihoon just listened to you. still smiling to himself.

“y/n, i said no. right? you heard me? no touching to yourself. be a good girl for me, yeah?”

“okay hoonie...” almost whispered to yourself. you lost your voice.

“mhm? couldn't hear you, baby.”

“i'll be your good girl i promise, jihoonie”

he grinned when he heard you, you are all pouty and he knows it.

“good girl, as you should. now i'm gonna go, i need to sleep, okay? i'll call you when i'm done with work tomorrow. good night baby. i love you.”

“love you too jihoonie good night.”

you let out a puff and sulked. “really jihoon...”

as you were making your way to bathroom, to get cleaned up, another notification popped on your screen from him.

baby boy^_^;

would you like to send me a picture of yourself too before we sleep?

i wanna see you without a top on, baby.

you cursed in your breath and removed your shirt, your tits bouncing when they freed.

you took a photo showing off your boobs, lips in a pout, you tried to act angry but failed, he'll find you more cute.

that's my girl, thank you. you look so good baby i missed those tits so much.

if i was there i'd just make you cum only playing with your buds

i bet you're so fucking wet for me right now

filthy girl.

tf jihoon you look so good TT

i miss you i miss you i miss youu

shut up or i'll come untouched😭

bet lol

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

a/n: help i don't like this at all lmaoo TT

not proof read. © w--zii. do not repost.

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queen-of-the-avengers · 3 days

Text

Practice Makes Perfect

Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~700

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You're working on a movie alongside your celebrity crush, Elizabeth Olsen. Can you overcome your nerves enough to get through it?

Squares Filled: wanda maximoff for @badbitchesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

Action movies are your specialty. Action movies are what make you comfortable. You like doing your own stunts, getting makeup done to look bloody, and getting your adrenaline going because of how extreme they want you to act. It’s what you’ve always known since all the movies you’ve been in have been action films.

Not this time.

Your agent got you a role in a modern romance film since she thought you’d be perfect for it. You are but that doesn’t mean you don’t know how to act in one. All the action films had a bit of romance to it but nothing like what they‘re asking you to do now. You only accepted because the director is a really good friend of yours and you couldn't turn her down.

Not only are you nervous about being in a romance movie, but you’re even more nervous that you’re acting beside the legendary Wanda Maximoff. Elizabeth Olsen has been your celebrity crush for years and you’re not sure how you’ll be able to film a romance movie with her without freaking out.

Actually, she’s more than just a celebrity crush you have. You’ve met her a few times over the years and she is the sweetest person you’ve ever met. She is shy and reserved but she is down to Earth and genuinely cares about people. She is a good person and that’s hard to find nowadays with celebrities.

You pace back and forth in your trailer with the script in hand for the few scenes you’re going to be acting out later. The director feels like it helps to get all the awkward and uncomfortable scenes out of the way so you don’t have to feel it later on, so the script is nothing but kissing scenes here and touching scenes there.

God, why did you think you can be able to do this? If your costar was anyone else, you wouldn’t have a problem with it. It’s only because it’s her that you do. What if she doesn't like the way you kiss? What if she doesn’t want to kiss you? What if she becomes repulsed by kissing you that she doesn’t want to do the rest of the movie?

Making her feel uncomfortable is the last thing you ever want to do, and you don’t want to ruin what you two have if there is anything there to ruin.

Someone knocks on your trailer door, interrupting your thoughts.

“Who is it?” you ask.

“Lizzie. Can I come in?”

You practically throw the script somewhere in your trailer so it doesn’t look like you’ve been obsessing over it. You lean against the counter in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Yeah, sure. “ The door opens and Lizzie walks in with a smile on her face. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you before we head down to set for the day.”

“Oh? What about?”

She looks around the room and sees the script half on the couch and half hanging over it.

“About that. I’m guessing you read most of it if not all?”

“Yeah, I did,” you nod, your resolve fading fast.

“Anything I can do to make it better? I figure we should talk about it so it doesn’t become awkward when we’re actually doing it.”

“I gotta know, are you in a relationship? I know actors who have these scenes are, but I have to know.”

“No, I’m not,” she smiles and walks closer to you. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Good. We got that out of the way.”

“Yeah.” Your breathing picks up the more she comes closer to you. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“Well, you know the saying, ‘practice makes perfect’?”

“Yeah.”

“I think that applies here, don’t you think? You don’t want either of us messing up and having to redo the scene dozens of times to get it right, right?”

Now that you think about it, it might not be a bad idea until you think of everyone watching you mess up.

“Right,” you whisper.

“Then come here.”

She pulls you in by your belt loops and kisses you softly at first to test the waters. Only when you cup her jaw with both hands does she kiss you a bit harder. Butterflies explode in your stomach from the contact because this is everything you thought it was going to be and more.

You two don’t need practice because this comes naturally to both of you.

“You give me butterflies,” you whisper against her lips.

“Same here,” she grins.

And that is how you started dating your wife, Elizabeth Chase Olsen.

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theetherealbloom · 2 days

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BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM - CH.3

Chapter 3: Dutiful Daughter, All My Plans Were Laid

Summary: After harboring a crush on your dad's charming best friend, Joel Miller, you graduate college only to be confused by something he supposedly said to you, but then he and his daughter Sarah, reluctantly move away due to his work. Six months later, Joel returns to town, and you're desperate to confirm if his words were real. Both you and your dad eagerly await his arrival but for entirely different reasons. As feelings intensify, you realize that falling for him might not be temporary after all.

Paring: Dbf!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, AGE-GAP Romance, Reader is Early twenties and Joel is in his late 30s to early 40s, Secret Romance, Sneaking Around, FLUFF, LOTS OF SMUT, SMUT, SMUT, Heavy Make Out Session, Oral Fem Receiving, Kissing, Barely any plot, NOT A SLOW BURN AT ALL, Relationship, Swearing, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Flattery, Awkward, Virgin reader, inexperienced reader, slightly Self Deprecating, Suggestive Content, Size Kink, Reader is “smaller” than Joel but no further descriptions, Breeding Kink, PWP (wrap it up), Body worship, declaring their love for each other,

Word Count: 10k

A/N: THERE ARE SO MANY OF YOU… UHM, HI! We’re nearing the end of the mini-series. I believe I have one or two more chapters to write and then we’ll have the epilogue. Thank you for all the comments, reblogs and likes! I look forward to reading all the feedback from ya’ll, it really does give me the motivation to write. Thank you all again!!! 🤍☺️

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: But Daddy I Love Him by Taylor Swift

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As you lay there, wrapped in Joel's arms, you can't help but steal a glance at the small alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing numbers tell you that it's nearly 3am, and as much as you don't want to leave the warmth of his bed and his embrace, you know that you can't stay forever.

Your dad is expecting you for breakfast in just a few hours, and the thought of him having a heart attack if you don't show up is enough to make you sit up and take notice.

"I don't wanna leave," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you snuggle closer to Joel, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin.

"I don't wanna let you go," Joel replies, his accent thick and heavy as he tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer still.

You can feel the heat of his body, the strength of his muscles, and the warmth of his embrace, and you know that you could stay there forever, wrapped up in him.

But reality calls, and you know that you can't ignore it forever.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," you say, your voice filled with longing and sadness.

"Me too, darlin'," Joel replies, his voice filled with emotion. "But we both know that we can't."

You nod, your heart heavy with the weight of the decision you both know you have to make.

"I guess I should get going," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I guess you should," Joel replies, his voice filled with regret.

As you reluctantly pull away from Joel, he surprises you by gently tugging you back into his embrace, his lips seeking yours in a kiss that is both passionate and intense. The taste of him lingers on your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the connection you share.

With a soft sigh, you finally gather the strength to untangle yourself from his arms, a pang of longing tugging at your heart as you begin to get dressed. Joel watches you, his gaze filled with a mix of desire and tenderness, his southern drawl adding a soothing cadence to his words.

"Let me help you, darlin'," Joel offers, his voice warm and comforting as he assists you with your clothes, his touch gentle yet possessive. The intimacy of the moment lingers in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond you share.

Once you're dressed, Joel's arms wrap around you, holding you close as if reluctant to let you go. His embrace is both clingy and sweet, a silent plea for you to stay a little longer, to prolong the inevitable parting.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Joel murmurs, his voice filled with longing. "I could hold you like this forever."

You lean into his embrace, savoring the warmth and security he provides. "I wish I could stay too, Joel," you whisper, your voice filled with emotion. "But I have to go."

As you prepare to leave, Joel's gaze lingers on you, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and regret. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, a silent promise of his affection and devotion.

"I'll be counting the minutes until I can see you again," Joel says, his voice filled with sincerity. "You mean everything to me, darlin'."

As you step out onto Joel's front porch, the cool night air brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. You take a deep breath, savoring the scent of the night, your heart heavy with the weight of your decision to leave.

You make your way quietly and quickly to the back of your house, tiptoeing through the darkness, your mind filled with thoughts of Joel and the intense connection you share. As you slip back into your bedroom, you can't help but feel a sense of bliss and excitement, knowing that you'll see Joel again in just a few short hours.

The anticipation builds within you, a simmering heat that courses through your veins, fueled by the memories of your time together. You can't wait to feel his touch again, to lose yourself in the passion and intensity of your connection.

As you lay in bed, your mind drifts to thoughts of Joel, his drawl echoing in your mind, his words of love and devotion filling your heart with warmth and joy. You know that what you have together is special, a bond that goes beyond mere physical attraction.

You close your eyes, drifting off to sleep with a smile on your face, your dreams filled with the promise of a future filled with passion and love.

As the morning sunlight streams through your window, you wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, the memories of the previous night still fresh in your mind. You can't wait to see Joel again, to feel his arms around you, to lose yourself in the intensity of your connection.

With a sense of excitement and anticipation, you get ready for the day, your heart filled with hope and joy, knowing that you have found something truly special in Joel.

You make your way downstairs to find your dad had gotten up extra early today. He glances at you and asks, "Well, someone's happy this morning. Did you sleep well honey?"

"Huh, what? Oh... yeah, I was pretty tired from yesterday so I just kinda passed out," you say, trying to be nonchalant. But you can see your dad give you a suspicious look before taking a long sip of his coffee.

"So... you and Joel..." Your dad begins, and you feel blood rushing into your ears, making you feel dizzy.

You raise your eyebrows at your dad, waiting for him to continue.

He clears his throat and says, "You gonna go with him to pick up Sarah later?"

You nod and smile at the mention of Sarah, "Mhm! I'll text you when we're leaving."

"Alright then, just..." Before your dad could finish that sentence, the doorbell rings, and you watch as your dad moves to the front door. When he opens it, Joel is standing there in a grey tee and those tight jeans with his hands in his pockets.

Your heart skips a beat as you take in the sight of him. "Fuck. He looks so good," you think to yourself, your body responding to his presence in a way that you can't control.

"Hey there, darlin'," Joel says, his deep Southern accent sending shivers down your spine.

"Hey," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper as you take in the sight of him standing on your doorstep.

Your dad has his eyes narrowed between the two of you, before saying, "Be sure to tell Sarah hi for me, I'll be going now."

You and Joel say goodbye, and watch as your dad hops into his car and drives off to work, leaving you alone with Joel.

"I missed you," Joel says, pulling you into a tight embrace.

You melt into his arms, feeling the warmth and strength of his body against yours.

"I missed you too," you reply, your voice filled with longing.

As you pull away, Joel's gaze lingers on you, his eyes filled with desire and affection.

"Let's go pick up Sarah," he says, his voice filled with excitement.

You nod, your heart racing with anticipation as you make your way to the car. The feeling of gratitude for the connection you share with Joel washes over you, knowing that it's something truly special and rare.

As you approach the car, Joel grabs the keys from your hand and gives your ass a playful smack, causing you to jolt in surprise.

"Hey!" you exclaim, looking at him with mock indignation.

Joel's smoldering gaze meets yours, filled with a mischievous glint that makes your heart race.

"Darlin', you just sit back and relax," he drawls in that deliciously Southern accent of his, sending a shiver down your spine. "I'm in charge of the driving, and you're in charge of lookin' like a damn goddess."

You can't help but smile at his playful banter, feeling your heart flutter with excitement as you slide into the passenger seat. Joel's eyes follow your every move, and you can't help but feel a little self-conscious under his intense gaze.

As he starts the car, you can't help but feel a sense of contentment and happiness wash over you. The connection you share with him is electric, a magnetic pull that draws you in and makes you feel alive.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Joel reaches out to place his other hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. You let out a soft moan, biting your lip as you feel a spark of desire ignite within you.

"You like that, don't you?" Joel murmurs, his voice low and husky. "You like when I touch you like this."

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. Joel's touch is intoxicating, making you feel dizzy with desire.

"Good," he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Because I love touching you, feeling your body respond to my touch. You're mine, and I'm never letting you go."

You lean back in your seat, feeling a sense of contentment and happiness wash over you as Joel's words of love and affection fill your ears.

"So... darlin'... how'd you feel about tellin' Sarah about us?" Joel asks, his Southern accent sending shivers down your spine as he rubs his thumb gently on your thigh.

You play the thought through your mind, considering the implications of sharing your relationship with Sarah.

"You want her to know?" you ask, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Joel nods, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Of course, darlin'. Do you?"

You take a deep breath, thinking it over. "Will she be okay with it?"

Joel smiles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "With you and I? Yeah. To be honest... I talk about you to her... a lot."

Your heart skips a beat at the thought of Joel sharing his feelings for you with Sarah. "Really?"

Joel nods, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on your thigh. "Yeah, darlin'. I can't help it. I'm crazy about you."

You can't help but smile at his words, feeling a sense of belonging and love that you've never experienced before.

"Okay," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Let's tell her."

Joel's face lights up, his eyes shining with happiness. "Really?"

You nod, feeling a sense of excitement and anticipation wash over you. "Yeah. I want to share this with her. I want her to know how much you mean to me."

Joel leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your hand. "Thank you, darlin'. I promise you won't regret it."

As you and Joel make your way to the parking lot of the airport, the anticipation of reuniting with Sarah and Tommy fills the air with excitement. The energy between you and Joel crackles with anticipation as you head towards the arrivals area, scanning the crowd for their familiar faces.

And then, there they are. Sarah and Tommy, standing out in the crowd like beacons of joy. You can't contain your excitement and start waving your arms wildly, practically bouncing up and down with anticipation.

Sarah's eyes light up as she spots you, and she breaks into a wide grin, her steps quickening as she rushes towards you and Joel. Tommy follows closely behind, a smile playing on his lips as he takes in the scene before him.

"Hey, you guys!" Sarah exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a tight hug, her excitement contagious.

Sarah then turns to Joel, her eyes sparkling with joy as she throws her arms around his neck, embracing him with her whole body.

"Hi dad," she says, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

Joel's face lights up at the sight of his daughter, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her in for a tight hug.

"I missed you too, baby girl," he says, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, his love for her radiating off of him in waves.

You watch the exchange between Joel and Sarah, feeling a sense of warmth and happiness wash over you. The bond between father and daughter is something special, a testament to the love they share.

Your gaze shifts to Tommy, and you make your way over to him, a friendly smile on your face. You wrap your arms around him in a warm embrace, feeling the strength and warmth of his body against yours.

"Hey there, it's good to see you!" you exclaim, your voice filled with genuine warmth and affection.

Tommy returns your embrace, his arms tightening around you for a moment before releasing you.

"Hey, it's good to see you too!" he replies, his voice filled with genuine warmth.

You take a step back, your hands still resting on his shoulders. "So, how was the flight?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

Tommy shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, you know, the usual. Turbulence, crying babies, and the occasional snoring passenger."

You laugh, the sound rich and full. "Sounds like a blast," you say, your voice filled with sarcasm.

Tommy grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, it was. Trust me."

As you all make your way to the car, the banter and teasing flow freely, the shared history and inside jokes adding to the sense of closeness between you.

Joel takes the lead, helping Tommy load his and Sarah's suitcases into the trunk of your car. His strong arms lift the heavy bags with ease, his movements fluid and efficient.

Sarah watches him with a proud smile on her face, her eyes filled with admiration and love.

"Hey dad, can I sit up front with you?" she asks, her voice filled with excitement and hope.

Joel shakes his head, a gentle smile on his face. "Sorry, baby girl. It wouldn't be polite to do that since it's not my car."

Sarah pouts, her bottom lip sticking out in disappointment. "But I want to sit up front with you!"

Joel ruffles her hair affectionately. "I know, but we have to be polite. Maybe next time, okay?"

Sarah nods, her disappointment forgotten as quickly as it appeared. She climbs into the back seat, her eyes sparkling with excitement and joy.

Tommy follows suit, his movements easy and relaxed. He slides into the back seat next to Sarah, a friendly smile on his face.

As you all settle into your seats, the car is filled with laughter and chatter, the shared excitement of the journey ahead palpable in the air.

As Joel navigates the car out of the airport and onto the road leading back to his house, a sense of contentment washes over you. The familiar sights pass by outside the windows, the hum of the engine providing a soothing backdrop to the lively conversation inside.

You feel Joel's hand on your upper thigh, his touch warm and reassuring, a silent declaration of his affection for you. Your heart flutters at the intimate gesture, and you steal a glance at him, meeting his gaze with a shy smile.

In the rearview mirror, you catch Tommy raising his eyebrows playfully, a knowing look in his eyes. Sarah, oblivious to the silent exchange, gazes out the window, her expression one of wonder and excitement.

The dynamic in the car is one of comfort and familiarity, each person bringing their own energy to the mix. Joel's presence is a steady anchor, his touch a source of comfort and reassurance. Tommy's playful teasing adds a lightness to the atmosphere, while Sarah's infectious enthusiasm fills the space with joy.

Eventually, you arrive back at Joel's house, the journey from the airport filled with laughter and chatter. As you all step out of the car, you lend a hand to Joel and Tommy, helping them with the suitcases and other items as you all make your way into the house.

Tommy excuses himself to put away his things in the guestroom, while Sarah does the same in her new room. You take the opportunity to help Joel fix up a few snacks for Tommy and Sarah, the two of you working together with ease and familiarity.

As you put the finishing touches on the snacks, you feel Joel's arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close. His lips find your neck, peppering kisses along the sensitive skin as he inhales your scent.

You lean back into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The connection between you two is intense, a magnetic pull that draws you closer together.

As Tommy makes his way back into the living room, Joel releases you, a playful smile on his face.

"I see you two found each other," Tommy says with a wink, a teasing glint in his eye.

You feel your face heat up, but Joel just chuckles, his arm draped around your shoulders.

"Can't help it," Joel says with a shrug, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before turning back to Tommy.

Tommy raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye. "You gonna tell Sarah?" he asks, grabbing a potato chip from the ceramic bowl on the counter.

Joel nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, when she gets down here," he says, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

Just then, Sarah appears from around the corner, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I knew it! Finally! He's been talking about you non-stop and was an absolute grump for the past few months!" she exclaims, a wide grin spreading across her face.

You feel your cheeks flush at the mention of Joel's infatuation with you, but Sarah's excitement is infectious.

Joel chuckles, his arm draped around your shoulders. "I guess the cat's out of the bag now," he says, his gaze softening as he looks at you.

Sarah claps her hands together, her eyes shining with joy. "I'm so happy for you two!" she exclaims, pulling you into a tight hug.

Tommy joins in, a warm smile on his face. "Welcome to the family," he says, his voice filled with genuine warmth.

You quickly send a message to your dad, updating him on your whereabouts and letting him know that you'll be having dinner with the Millers, and that he's welcome to join you all.

The rest of the evening is filled with laughter and conversation, the four of you sharing stories and memories as you get to know each other better.

As you were nearing finishing dinner, you hear a knock on Joel's front door, and he excuses himself to answer it. You continue to laugh loudly at Sarah's jokes while Tommy rolls his eyes playfully.

But then, you hear a familiar voice call out your name, and you find your dad standing by the entryway of the dining area. The room falls silent as all eyes turn to him.

"Hey Dad... we just had dinner. Do you want anything? I'm sure I can fix you up a plate," you say, standing up to greet him.

Your dad shakes his head. "No, just had dinner with some of the guys back at the shop. I wanted to say hi to Sarah and Tommy. Didn't think you'd still be here... thought you'd be home already," he says, giving you and Joel a pointed look.

Sarah, bless her heart, quickly jumps in to save the day. "Oh! That's my fault. I insisted she stay here for dinner since I missed her so much," she says, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your dad chuckles, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "Well, I'm glad you're having a good time. I'll let you all get back to it, just don’t be home too late," he says, giving you a quick hug before turning to leave.

As the door closes behind your dad, a sense of calm settles over the room. You all let out a collective sigh of relief, the tension dissipating as you begin to help clear the table and clean up the dishes. You insist that Sarah and Tommy take a break and get some rest after the meal.

Just as you're elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on a plate, you feel Joel's presence behind you. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you gently away from the sink.

"I'll wash 'em, darlin'," he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "You can rest too. You've done so much already. I can take it from here."

You turn to face him, a grateful smile on your lips. "Are you sure? I don't mind helping," you say, your voice filled with appreciation for his thoughtfulness.

Joel's gaze meets yours, his eyes warm and filled with affection. "I'm sure. You've been a big help today. Let me take care of this," he says, his drawl adding a soothing cadence to his words.

"I'll help dry the dishes and put them away," you say, grabbing a towel from the drawer next to the sink.

Joel chuckles, his arms wrapping around your waist as he presses a gentle kiss to the side of your head. "Fine, darlin'," he says with a wink.

You bump your hip with his, a playful grin on your face. "Come on, slowpoke. Let's get these dishes done," you say, sticking your tongue out at him teasingly.

Joel laughs, the sound deep and rich. "Alright, alright. Let's get to work," he says, his arms still wrapped around you as you begin to dry the dishes together.

The warmth of Joel's body against yours, the sound of his laughter, and the easy banter between you creates a sense of comfort and familiarity that you cherish.

As you work together, the pile of dishes slowly dwindles, the kitchen gradually returning to its former state of cleanliness.

Finally, the last dish is dried and put away, and you turn to face Joel, a satisfied smile on your lips. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" you say, your voice filled with playful teasing.

Joel grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "No, darlin', it wasn't. But I think I'll let you do the dishes next time," he says, his arms still wrapped around you.

You laugh, the sound rich and full. "We'll see about that," you say, your voice filled with playful challenge.

You and Joel make your way back to the living room, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the air. Tommy and Sarah are settled on the couch, their attention focused on the TV as they watch some show they had found.

Sarah turns her head, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she tilts it at the two of you. "So... when are you gonna tell your dad?" she asks, her voice filled with playful teasing.

You glance at Joel, a mixture of emotions swirling in your chest. "I'm not sure... but hopefully... soon," you say, your voice filled with uncertainty.

Joel nods, his arm draped around your shoulders as he pulls you closer. "Yeah, we'll tell him when the time is right," he says, his voice filled with confidence and reassurance.

Tommy turns his head, a knowing look in his eyes as he takes in the exchange between you and Joel. "Well, whenever you're ready, we'll be here to support you," he says, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

Sarah nods, her eyes shining with excitement. "Yeah, we can't wait to see what the future holds for you two," she says, her voice filled with genuine happiness.

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over you all. But then, the sound of laughter and chatter fills the air once again, the tension dissipating as you all settle in to enjoy the rest of the evening together.

As you lean into Joel's embrace, his arm wrapped around you, you can't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you.

"I had a lot of fun today," you say softly as Joel walks you back home, the short distance feeling longer with each step as a mix of excitement and nervousness swirls within you.

Joel's hands are tucked away in his jeans, a subtle restraint evident as he refrains from intertwining his fingers with yours, a silent acknowledgment of the need for caution in the presence of your father.

He hums in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips. "I did too," he replies, his voice warm and filled with affection.

You glance up at him, a hint of longing in your eyes. "Wish I could stay over tonight, but y'know... my dad," you sigh, the reality of the situation sinking in as you step onto the familiar steps of your front porch.

Joel nods, understanding the unspoken boundaries that need to be respected. "I get it. We'll have plenty of time for that," he says, his gaze lingering on you with a mix of desire and restraint.

You smile, your heart filled with gratitude. "Yeah, definitely. Thanks for walking me home," you say, your voice soft and sincere.

Joel leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Anytime, darlin'," he murmurs, his deep baritone sending a shiver down your spine. "I've been meanin' to ask you... d'you mind comin' with me to grab a bite to eat and then head to the store to pick up a few more things for the house tomorrow?"

You nod, a smile spreading across your face. "Of course," you reply, your voice filled with eagerness. But then you remember, “You know what small towns are like. People talk.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Joel admits. “But we can only do our best to keep our hands off each other until it’s the right time to have everyone know. If you think that’s for the best,” he susgests, and only try to make you feel better.

You let out a small sigh and eventually nod and give him a small smile in agreement.

Joel's eyes sparkle with affection. "I'll see you soon, darlin'," he says, sweet as whiskey.

As you watch Joel's retreating figure, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the warmth and affection that fills your heart. Reluctantly, you turn and head back towards your house, the day's events still lingering in your mind.

The familiar surroundings of your home envelope you, the sound of the television filtering in from the living room. You pause in the entryway, taking a moment to gather your thoughts before making your way towards the comforting glow of the screen.

"Hey, Dad," you call out, your voice filled with a mix of nervousness and excitement.

Your father looks up from the television, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Hey, kiddo. How was your day?" he asks, his eyes filled with genuine interest.

"It was good," you reply, trying to sound casual. "I'm going with Joel tomorrow to help him pick up some stuff for his house."

Your father raises his eyebrows, a hint of a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Oh, alright. Sarah and Tommy coming too?"

You shake your head, feeling a slight flutter in your stomach. "I don't think so... I think they wanna fix their things and rest up a bit."

Your father nods, his gaze studying you for a moment, a hint of a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Just the two of you, huh?" he says, his voice laced with slight concern.

You feel your cheeks flush, but you hold your father's gaze, determined to be honest. "Yeah, just the two of us," you confirm, your voice soft but steady.

Your father leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Alright," he says, his voice calm and reassuring. "Just text me when you leave, okay?"

You nod, a grateful smile spreading across your face. "Thanks, Dad," you say, your voice filled with appreciation.

You feel a warmth spread through your chest, the weight of the day's events finally starting to catch up with you. "I'm gonna head to bed," you say, stifling a yawn. "I'm kinda exhausted."

Your father chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. "Get some rest, kiddo. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow," he says.

You nod, leaning in to give your father a quick hug. "Thanks, Dad. I love you," you murmur, your voice filled with emotion.

"Love you too, kiddo," he replies, his arms tightening around you for a moment before you pull away.

You tuck yourself into the cozy comfort of your bed, a big smile spreading across your face as you let out a contented sigh.

As you settle into the familiar softness of your pillows, your mind can't help but wander to Joel. The thought of spending the day with him tomorrow fills you with a sense of giddiness and anticipation that you can't quite contain.

You hum a soft, lilting melody to yourself as you move through your morning routine, the excitement for the day ahead bubbling within you. The sound of your father stirring in the kitchen reaches your ears, and you know he's likely headed out for an early shift at the shop.

After quickly whipping up a simple breakfast, you hear a familiar knock at the front door, and you can't help the grin that spreads across your face as you practically bound towards it.

Pulling the door open, your eyes are immediately drawn to the sight of Joel standing there, his tall frame leaning casually against the doorframe. His silver curls are neatly pushed back, and he's dressed in a different colored flannel than the one he wore the day before, paired with his well-worn jeans.

A smirk plays on his lips as he takes in the sight of you, his eyes sparkling with a mix of affection and mischief.

"Mornin', darlin'," he drawls, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine.

"Hi," you breathe, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, yet unable to tear your gaze away from him.

Joel chuckles, the sound low and rich. "You ready to head out?" he asks, his arm reaching out to gently brush against yours.

You nod, your heart fluttering at his touch. "Just let me grab my bag," you say, turning to retrieve it from the nearby table.

As you turn back to face him, you catch a glimpse of your father in the kitchen, offering you a warm smile and a subtle nod of approval. The gesture fills you with a sense of comfort and reassurance.

Turning your attention back to Joel, you can't help but feel a surge of excitement and anticipation. "Okay, I'm all set," you say, your voice brimming with enthusiasm.

Joel grins, his hand finding the small of your back as he guides you out the door. "Then let's get goin', darlin'," he says, his touch sending a thrill through you.

As you step out into the crisp morning air, hand in hand with the man you've come to care for so deeply, a sense of anticipation and uncertainty lingers between you.

"What are we gonna do, Joel?" you ask suddenly as you settle into the car's passenger seat, the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

To be honest, it's the last thing Joel is thinking about, and your question catches him off guard. But he can see and feel how it's affecting you, the worry and doubt etched in your expression.

"You could just sneak over to my house every night. Make sure you're back home in time for breakfast," Joel suggests, trying to lighten the mood, but he knows deep down it's not as simple as that.

"Do you think your dad might already kinda know?" he asks, his voice soft and filled with concern. "Deep down, I kinda mean, darlin'."

You shrug, a mix of emotions swirling within you as Joel drives. You feel annoyed at yourself for even bringing it up, but Joel is grateful that you did.

"Or we could just go. Take off," Joel says, thinking aloud. He feels you turn to look at him, his hand still rubbing comforting circles on your thigh.

"You mean... just leave?" you ask, the idea not entirely foreign to you.

"It's not something we have to think about right this minute, but do you really wanna stay here, in this house? In this town, tutoring kids for a few bucks an hour?" Joel questions, his voice tinged with a hint of restlessness.

He remembers one of the main things he doesn't miss about small towns – how everyone seems to know everyone else's business. And in the case of you and Joel, that would be none of their damned business.

"But you only just bought the place, and Sarah and Tommy just arrived, and I guess the only thing I'm really worried about is Dad. Screw tutoring," you say, your brow furrowed as you grapple with the weight of the decisions ahead.

"I only bought the place... only came back to town to be closer to you, remember?" Joel explains, his voice filled with sincerity. "Sarah's school transfer papers haven't been processed yet, and Tommy has to go back anyways. I didn't think in my wildest dreams that I'd have you all to myself on day one, darlin'."

"You're a pretty fast operator, that's for sure," you tease him, a hint of a smile playing on your lips, but the underlying tension remains unresolved between you.

The realization that you are well and truly Joel's, the depth of your connection with him, fills you with a sense of contentment and joy. It's a problem, but the best kind of problem to have, a testament to the love and bond you share.

Unbeknownst to you, Joel hasn't checked his messages yet, but he's confident that the call he made to boost your dad's business will yield positive results. It may not all happen today, but he's hopeful it will help your dad regain his confidence and pride in his work.

In the meantime, Joel is adamant that you shouldn't do anything you're not comfortable with. He inquires if you're the only tutor available at the college.

"Of course not," you sigh, a hint of resignation in your voice. "It'll just mean a couple of college kids keep their tutoring money from Mom or Dad, is all," you reflect, the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders.

From your perspective, the real challenge lies in explaining to everyone that you've been with Joel the whole time. The thought of facing your father's reaction weighs heavily on your mind, and Joel is keenly aware of the potential conflict that may arise.

He knows that your father's protective instincts will be triggered, and navigating that aspect of your relationship will require patience and understanding from both of you.

"Well, if we're gonna burn for it, we may as well burn together," Joel tells you, his voice filled with a mix of determination and tenderness.

"But there's no point makin' it harder on ourselves either," Joel adds, his tone thoughtful. "Let's just wait and see, huh?" he suggests, his eyes meeting yours with a reassuring gaze.

The idea sinks in – it isn't the end of the world if you stop tutoring, and if nobody has caught on to the fact that you two are together, why stir up unnecessary trouble?

Relieved when you agree, you relax back into your seat, the weight of the situation lifting slightly. Joel parks the car on a street lined with small stores and cafes, the hustle and bustle of the town adding to the charm of the moment.

Despite the external distractions, it feels wrong to be near you and not show you how much you mean to him. The subtle touches and stolen glances have evolved into something deeper, a connection that demands to be acknowledged.

By the time you graduate from those fleeting moments to a full-blown kiss once you're back in the car after your meal, the intensity of your feelings for each other becomes undeniable.

Just as the moment seems to crystallize into something special, a female voice interrupts, shattering the private bubble you and Joel had created.

"Oh! Hi, Professor," you squeak, the sudden intrusion jolting you out of the intimate moment.

Joel, his expression darkening, turns to face the unexpected visitor, a protective instinct rising within him as he assesses the situation with a keen eye.

As the scene unfolds, Joel quickly grasps the situation at hand. A mildly annoyed college professor, Professor Hannah Bennett, catches her star tutor – you – in the arms of a man, instead of where you're expected to be.

The initial tension softens as Professor Bennett's gaze meets Joel's, her expression shifting from annoyance to curiosity. Joel, ever the gentleman, gulps slightly before extending his hand in introduction.

"Professor Hannah Bennett," she says, regaining her composure, though Joel feels her hand limp in his for a brief moment, a sign of her surprise.

Her eyes flicker from Joel to you, who has momentarily lost your voice in the unexpected encounter. The professor, quick to regain her professional demeanor, decides to leave you two to your own devices.

"Your dad mentioned you were helping his friend... uh, new neighbor," she stammers, a deep blush coloring her cheeks.

"Just maybe more notice next time if you're not up for tutoring for the day, that's all I ask," she adds, her tone taking on a more authoritative air as she reverts to her professorial role.

"I think I'll take a rain check on tutoring for a while, Professor Bennett," you declare in a clear, resolute voice, your hand slipping into Joel's for support.

Joel's pride and satisfaction are evident as he grins at your decision. The old professor huffs in disapproval, muttering something about the younger generation, before swiftly retreating from the scene.

"You quit?" Joel asks, his eyes filled with a mix of amusement and admiration, leaning in to kiss you deeply before you can respond.

"I guess I did," you reply, a hint of amazement in your tone at the sudden turn of events.

"Was it hard?" Joel teases, and you shoot him a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement in your eyes.

"The professor's the soul of discretion," you assure him. "But if we're caught like that on our first time out together..."

Joel knows exactly what you mean. The potential fallout from such a public display is looming, and he can feel the weight of it pressing down on you both.

"C'mon," Joel urges, determined to enjoy the moment despite the impending challenges. "Show me around town. Take me grocery shopping," he suggests, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

"We can fill up both our pantries and maybe we can cook up a storm for dinner?" he asks, but he can see the worry etched on your face.

"Hey, your dad was alright with the idea, right? To come with me for the grocery run?" Joel reasons, hoping to ease your concerns.

Relieved when you finally yield, a smile spreading across your face as you relax. "You're right. He did," you agree.

"But easy with those kisses," you're quick to add, a hint of playfulness in your tone. "What if it was Dad that happened by just now?"

Joel bites his tongue, and to keep you happy, he agrees to the new terms and conditions. No aggressive public displays of affection – a small price to pay to maintain the delicate balance of your relationship.

Your little run-in with the professor has only affirmed Joel's feeling that small-town eyes and ears are always connected to big mouths. He knows they'll have to be cautious, at least for now.

"Say," Joel asks once you're back in the car, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Is there like a lingerie store or something in town too?"

You raise an eyebrow, unsure if he's teasing you or not. "I think there is, but I don't think that's where you wanna be seen hanging out, is it?" you ask, a playful challenge in your voice.

Joel chuckles, his gaze focused on the road ahead. "I'll keep it in mind for future reference," he explains, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

As he navigates the quiet streets, Joel makes a mental note that you're going to need a ready supply of all things underwear. The memory of tearing yours off is still fresh enough in his mind to remind him that he wants to make it a regular occurrence.

As you and Joel make your way through the quiet streets of the town, you can't help but feel a growing sense of unease. It must be your imagination, you tell yourself, trying to push down the nagging feeling that something is off.

But as you step into the local grocery store, the truth becomes undeniable – everyone is staring at the two of you. You're nowhere near touching, and you definitely don't have a sign around your neck proclaiming your newfound intimacy, but the curious gazes and hushed whispers are impossible to ignore.

You keep forgetting that a man of Joel's stature and presence is bound to turn heads in a small town like this. But as quick as the locals are to stare and gawk, they're just as fast to look away, especially when they lock eyes with Joel's unwavering gaze.

"Grab whatever you need, whatever you want. For your place, too, darlin'," Joel says, his voice warm and reassuring, though you can see the strain in his expression, the desire to reach out and touch you palpable.

He focuses his attention on filling the biggest cart he can find, his movements efficient and purposeful. You can't help but wonder how you're going to explain a houseful of food to your father, but you're sure he's well aware of just how naturally generous Joel is by now.

After filling up not one, but two overflowing carts, you can't help but protest the sheer volume of groceries Joel has insisted on purchasing. But he's quick to reason with you, his voice low and conspiratorial.

"The less I have to go out to shop, the more time I have to work on my new house," he says, his words laced with a hidden meaning that's clear to you.

You nod in understanding, realizing that his reasoning is not just about efficiency, but also about maintaining the appearance of propriety in the eyes of the small-town community.

As you check out, the total on the receipt makes your eyes widen, but Joel simply shrugs it off, his focus on ensuring you and your home are well-stocked. You actually think it's a great idea – if you both stock up now, you won't have to venture out for anything later.

No tutoring, no errands to run, at least for the next week. The thought of having all that spare time with Joel has your heart racing with anticipation, and you're pretty sure he has a few ideas of his own.

But as Joel pulls into your street, your breath catches in your throat. There, parked out front, is your father's truck. You swallow hard, the weight of the situation suddenly pressing down on you.

"Your dad's home," Joel says, his voice strained, but there's no hint of worry in his tone. If anything, he sounds more like an animal guarding its prized possession than someone afraid of getting caught.

Taking a deep breath as Joel pulls into the driveway, you brace yourself for the moment of confrontation you've been dreading. But as you both start to unload the groceries, the anticipated showdown never materializes.

Far from it, your dad practically leaps out of the house, a huge smile spreading across his face as he welcomes you both. Joel's mood instantly shifts, a sense of relief and contentment washing over him – if your dad is happy, so is Joel.

And just like that, you're off the hook for now.

"You're home early, Dad," you observe, but he's way too pumped up about something else to ask you two where you've been. He's grinning like a maniac, and you can't help but wonder if he's finally cracked.

Catching Joel's knowing look, you realize that this must be good news somehow. Whatever it is, it's clearly put your father in an exceptionally cheerful mood.

"I dunno what you did, Joel, but it worked!" your dad almost shrieks, pumping the air with his fist before high-fiving Joel, who doesn't seem surprised at all.

"What did you do?" you ask them both, but it's as if you've disappeared or something. Your dad has gone into full Joel-best-buddy mode, slapping his back and whooping and hollering. It's not until you're all inside that you can finally get any sense out of him.

"I'm booked solid for the next three months!" your dad exclaims to Joel, who's trying his best to look excited for your father's good fortune.

"And that, uh, client of yours? The one who collects all those vintage cars? Guess who he wants to be maintaining them all?" your dad asks, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"That's great news. I'm glad I could..." Joel begins, but your dad is on a roll.

He's re-hiring the mechanics and workers he's laid off, and he's going to "expand the business." He's going to do better than ever from now on.

He's going to...

He's going to make you vomit if he keeps going on about it.

"Dad," you finally say, talking over him to get his attention.

"Yeah, sweetie, what is it?" he asks, holding his thought so he can keep telling Joel all about his fresh business plans.

"Nothing." You smile. "But are you gonna stick around, or do you still have that tractor to fix?" you ask, wondering if you and Joel will have any time alone now.

And you haven't even thought about what's going to happen when it's time to go to bed.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks, honey, but I've got Lucas going out to do it now. Boy! Is he glad to have his old job back!" your dad exclaims loudly, beaming up at Joel.

His admiration for Joel makes you feel like you're not the only one who thinks he's pretty amazing, which he is to a lot of people. But to you, he's the only one.

"You've done the hunting and gathering," your dad proclaims, his eyes sweeping over the abundance of meat and groceries you and Joel have just started to unload. Sarah and Tommy quickly make their way outside, greeting your father and offering to help with the remaining items that belong to them.

"So I'll start making us all a feast to celebrate," your dad announces, asking you if you can finish bringing in the groceries while he and Joel "catch up."

The subtle way he singles you out of the conversation is not lost on you. If this had been a day or two ago, before you had just lived through the best twenty-four hours of your life with Joel, you wouldn't have minded. But you hadn't counted on your dad being home early, nor did you expect him to hijack your man as soon as he saw him again.

You look to Joel for help, but he only shrugs, a strange expression crossing his face when your dad's back is turned that has you stifling a giggle. Instantly, you find yourself forgiving the entire group for being in this crazy situation.

You do as your dad asks, leaving out the items he calls for, the ones he'll need to amaze you all with his cooking skills. But once that task is complete, you're left awkwardly hanging out in the kitchen, feeling miles away from Joel. Maybe you should just go to your room.

No sooner do you glance towards the hallway leading to your bedroom, Joel's stern look stops you in your tracks. The message is clear – he wants you right where he can see you.

"I might just go change," you tell the room, knowing your dad is not paying attention, still talking a million miles a minute to Joel, who gives a little nod of approval.

You haven't seen your dad this excited, ever. Whatever Joel did has clearly done the trick to help your dad out, but are you really going to have to hear about it all night? It feels like you are.

By the time you change clothes, trying to look nice but not overly dressy for Joel, your dad stops long enough to notice you for a change.

"Sorry, honey. I've just been so pumped all day. And I've just gotta talk to the man who made it all happen," he explains, shooting Joel another glowing look.

"Don't let me do all the talking, though, and don't worry about skipping tutoring today. I already spoke to the professor," he adds, making your heart freeze in your chest.

"So? What have you two been up to all day?" he asks, snapping off a celery stalk from one of the brown paper sacks, crunching it loudly as he leans back against the counter.

Now, he's all ears, eager to know what it is that you and Joel have been up to.

He looks from you to Joel, and you can feel your mouth hanging open. You're waiting for Joel to save you both, which he does without effort.

"I had sweet darlin’ here help me run some errands, we did some grocery shopping, and then she showed me around town," he says, and none of it is a lie.

Your dad's brow creases with attention as he listens, already looking bored if he can't keep talking about his own good news. Joel does skip some parts, though, including the more intimate moments you shared – your father wouldn't be interested in those details.

But once Joel suggests you help him out like you did today more often, especially with all the plans Joel has for his new house, and hanging out with Sarah and helping her by tutoring her, it starts to sound more like a job offer than anything else.

"Well, it's up to you, hon," your dad says thoughtfully after a moment, not even a hint of suspicion in his voice anymore.

As your dad busies himself selecting ingredients for the meal he's going to prepare, you can't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling within you. The prospect of spending more hours talking and eating with your family and Joel looms ahead, a bittersweet reminder of the newfound dynamics in your life.

Joel's pivotal role in saving your dad's business is evident, and it's clear that your father is more than willing to follow Joel's lead from now on. Despite the relief and gratitude you feel, there's an underlying longing for the quiet moments alone with the man who has quickly become the center of your world.

"I wasn't getting paid very much to tutor, Dad," you remind him, shooting a playful glance at Joel when your dad's attention is elsewhere. You can't help but ponder what your hourly rate might be if you were to accept his unofficial job offer, a hint of mischief dancing in your eyes.

It takes some time to adjust to the new dynamic in the kitchen with Joel and your dad. You find yourself fighting the urge to seek out Joel's touch every few seconds, a silent reminder of the growing connection between you.

As you call Sarah and Tommy over for dinner, the atmosphere shifts to one of camaraderie and relaxation. It feels good to simply talk, eat, and goof around without the weight of other concerns pressing down on you.

Throughout the evening, you notice the subtle strain on Joel's face, a reminder of the complexities of the situation. Yet, your dad remains your dad, unwavering in his friendship with Joel, creating a unique bond between the three of you.

As the meal progresses and conversations flow, you find yourself washing up alongside Sarah, the men engrossed in their post-dinner discussions out on the porch. Sarah decides to head back to the house early, leaving you with a sense of peace and contentment in the quiet moments that follow.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks – you might have to spend the night away from Joel, not just tonight, but potentially every night until you both figure out what to do. It's not a happy thought, and you know Joel is thinking the same thing as the time for bed draws closer.

You've spent more hours today not touching and kissing than you two have actually been able to do so, and you just know Joel isn't happy about that either. So when your dad comes back inside without Joel or Tommy, you try not to sound panicked as you ask where they both are.

Your dad chuckles, "He went home, sweetie. He lives next door now, remember?" he asks, stifling a yawn and scratching his belly, letting you know he's about to turn in.

"I gotta huge day tomorrow, so I might not even see ya before or after work, but thanks for helping Joel out. He's really saved our bacon," your dad says, pecking your cheek before stretching out another yawn and heading to his room.

Not long after hearing his door close, there's a light rapping at the back door. You spring around and see Joel, his finger pressed firmly to his lips before he stalks over to you in two steps, kissing you with a desperation that takes your breath away.

"Wait 'til he's asleep again... Then come over," he murmurs, cocking his head and darting back out the door before your dad shuffles down the hall again, this time in his pajamas on the way to the bathroom.

Once your dad goes back to his room, you know he won't be coming out again. And if he does, he'll think you're asleep. So, tidying up the rest of the kitchen in record time, it isn't long before you hear your dad blowing bubbles in his sleep, and you're hot-footing it next door.

The need for Joel's touch is overwhelming, the hours spent apart feeling like an eternity. As you step into his home, the familiar scent of him envelops you, and you can't help but feel a sense of relief and excitement wash over you.

Without a moment's hesitation, you find yourself in his arms, your lips crashing against his in a desperate, passionate kiss. The world around you fades away, and all that matters is the connection you share, the hunger for each other's embrace.

Joel's deep, southern drawl sends a shiver down your spine as he leans in, his lips brushing against your neck. "You gotta be quiet for me, darlin'," he murmurs, his warm breath caressing your skin. "Can you do that for me?"

You nod eagerly, your heart racing with anticipation. The need for his touch is overwhelming, the hours spent apart feeling like an eternity. As his strong arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his muscular frame, you melt into his embrace.

Joel's calloused hands roam your body, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you. His lips crash against yours in a desperate, passionate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a primal hunger. You whimper softly, the sound muffled by his searing kiss.

"That's it, darlin'," Joel growls, his voice dripping with desire. "Let me hear how much you want me." His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them firmly as he grinds his hardness against you.

You gasp, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through your core. "Joel," you breathe, your fingers tangling in his silver curls. "I need you, please..."

He chuckles, the deep rumble vibrating against your skin. "I know, sweetheart. I'm gonna take care of you." Deftly, he lifts you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you towards the bedroom.

The world around you fades away, consumed by the raw, primal need that pulses between you. Joel lays you down on the bed, his calloused hands caressing your curves as he hovers over you, his eyes dark with lust.

"You're so damn beautiful, darlin'," he murmurs, his lips trailing featherlight kisses along your jaw. "I've been waitin' all day to have you like this."

You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. "Then take me, Joel," you whisper, your voice dripping with desire. "I'm yours."

With a growl, Joel captures your lips in a searing kiss, his hands roaming your body as he slowly, methodically undresses you. The air is thick with the scent of your arousal, and the sound of your ragged breathing fills the room.

As he buries himself deep within you, you cry out, the sensation of being so completely filled sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Joel stills for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours.

"That's it, darlin'," he murmurs, his voice strained with restraint. "Let me hear how much you love it."

You whimper, your hips rolling against his. "Joel, please," you beg, your nails digging into the taut muscles of his back. "Don't stop."

With a groan, Joel begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, driving you higher and higher towards the precipice of ecstasy. Your bodies move in perfect harmony, the world around you fading away until all that exists is the two of you, lost in a haze of passion and desire.

The room is filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, the heady scent of sex hanging in the air as Joel's movements become more urgent, more primal. Your bodies move as one, a symphony of desire and need as you reach the pinnacle of ecstasy together, the intensity of your release washing over you in a wave of pure bliss.

As you come down from the heights of pleasure, Joel holds you close, his heart pounding against yours as you both catch your breath. In the aftermath of your passion, you're left feeling sated, fulfilled, and more connected to Joel than ever before.

In this stolen moment, you know that no matter the challenges that lie ahead, as long as you have Joel by your side, you're equipped to confront almost anything. The future may be uncertain, but in his arms, you've never felt more at home.

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shares-a-vest · 13 hours

Text

Just a Shirt (Read on ao3)

wc: 1.9k | Rated: T | cw: Mild descriptions of Steve's s4 injuries (mostly the scar on his neck), Hospital mention, Brief mention of nightmares

Tags: Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Post s4 Fix-it (Everyone Lives), Hellfire, Fluff and Angst (Happy Ending), Love Confessions, Injury, Cuddling

Eddie makes Steve a customised Hellfire shirt, just for him. Based off this ficlet/headcanon. But the BIGGEST thank you goes to @tangerinesteve (formally babydollbaron) for their incredible tags below. They gave me the biggest and softest brainworms. I hope I did your wonderful ideas justice!

“Here-p,” Eddie mumbles, pushing a too-neatly folded shirt into Steve’s hands.

“Uh, thanks,” his boyfriend hums, quirking a brow in confusion.

Eddie shrugs the whole thing off for good measure because it’s just a shirt – that’s all it is.

... But not really.

Like, at all.

He looks away, avoiding Steve’s gaze. While their relationship isn’t too new for gifts, it might be too fresh for a t-shirt that screams, ‘You are part of me and I can see that you are in pain and I think I can fix it. Nay, I need to make you comfortable’.

Yeah… it’s perhaps a little too premature for something that says all that.

So Eddie looks at the floor, his beige sock blending into the similarly-coloured carpet that lines Steve’s bedroom. His foot really only looks like an actual foot and not a patch of carpet thanks to the hole in his sock that is currently exposing his pinky toe.

It’s just a shirt, he desperately reminds himself as he catches Steve unfurling it out of the corner of his eye.

It’s just a shirt.

A customised Hellfire shirt he made especially for Steve.

One that is two sizes too big, made of the softest cotton and led to an emptying of his wallet to obtain. A Hellfire shirt that has short sleeves and a loose, scooped neck Eddie fashioned himself after borrowing a sewing book from the library. A neckline he sewed on Mrs Pemberton’s machine after crossing the trailer park and answering a slew of questions from an all too inquisitive Max Mayfield.

It’s a Hellfire shirt in its logo only – despite what his friends might think. Or the fuss all his pea-brained lost little sheepie buddies kicked up along the way.

They have been a total nightmare these past few weeks, scheming and plotting and sabotaging like a little hoard of gremlins. But Eddie supposes he can really only blame himself.

He should have never said anything, never asked Gareth for the original master copy of the Hellfire logo he knows his best friend keeps filed away in secret on the rare occasions they let in new members. Or to get new t-shirts printed in instances of spilled beverage-based stain emergencies. But then Gareth of course squealed to Jeff, who teased Eddie mercilessly before blabbing to Freak, who, well… Freaked about the possibility of a jock joining Hellfire.

The shock. The horror! Oh, the humanity!

And then came what was nothing short of a campaign via Dustin, Mike and Will, all collectively working to not only prevent Eddie from something he wasn’t even going to do in the first place but to also create a drama so seismic that rumours got around the whole of Hawkins that one Eddie Munson would no longer be running his little ‘demonic’ social club.

Or at least that’s what Wayne said Ernie at the plant had told him that his son had said.

The only thing is, Eddie feels more than a little sorry for Lucas Sinclair, a kid now sulking around, utterly crestfallen that his favourite Laundry Basket Friend isn’t also secretly a full-blown nerd.

It’s just that Eddie wanted to give Steve a nice, soft, comfy shirt he had hoped he would look at just like he is right now.

Besides, Steve had admitted that he liked the Hellfire logo months back when they first started dating. Told Eddie it was, “So creative, man”, after expressing some mild disappointment that he hadn’t shown up for their first date wearing it.

He smiles at the memory, Steve’s eyes lighting up as soon as he hopped into the Beemer, far too eager to head off to Benny’s Diner that he hadn’t even bothered to let Steve chivalrously walk up to the front stoop of the new and improved Casa de Munson.

“Eddie…” Steve says, his voice just above a whisper and sounding just as soft as the too-important shirt in his grip.

“Don’t worry,” he snorts, “I’m not making you join or anything it’s just… You said you haven’t been sleeping well…”

He gestures with his hand, searching for the right words. Better words that won’t sound so monumental and weighted as Steve’s eyes trail right along the shirt’s scooped neckline.

The hem is probably a little flimsy, but hopefully, Steve won’t fucking claw at it like the old Tigers gym shirt he almost tore in two a few weeks back after bolting upright in a sweat after a nightmare. That is what did it – really set Eddie on his mission. Seeing Steve’s sniffles turn to tears and how he tried to hide them away, shrugging Eddie off before rushing to the ensuite bathroom.

He had come back a few minutes later, eyes red as he hugged his arms across himself, appearing small and frightened but acting cold as ice.

“Yeah…” Steve nods before mouthing what appears to be the word, “soft”, as he balls the fabric between his fingers.

“Hell, I know you haven’t been sleeping,” Eddie continues to ramble, “Just… tossing and turning. Also your… Y’know…”

He gestures to his own neck, referring to the still-reddened scar around Steve’s. One that Eddie knows leaves his throat scratchy and hoarse at the slightest provocation. A mark that nosey townspeople gawk at when Steve is at work, leaving him all embarrassed and well, not like Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington at all.

And Steve hadn’t even told Eddie about that part. Nope. He found out from Robin, who swung by the mechanic one afternoon, inconsolable about her best friend spending their shift at Family Video hidden away in Keith Anderson’s stinky loser palace of an office.

“Mhmm,” Steve nods, pursing his lips.

Eddie knows he isn’t mad – it’s just something his boyfriend doesn’t talk about. That he doesn’t like talking about.

He needn’t ramble anymore, really – fill the silence between them or attempt to explain himself because, in a flash, Steve slips off his tight-fitting navy polo and replaces it with his new Hellfire shirt.

And Eddie can’t help but beam at a job well done.

It hangs nicely. Loose enough to sleep in, but not billowing so much to swallow that physique entirely. The neckline sits just where he had hoped too, much lower than the regular Hellfire shirts, scooped below Steve’s collar bones so that even if it stretches in his sleep, it couldn’t possibly pull and tug at his scar.

It’s perfect.

Exactly what he wanted to give Steve, who looks down at the devilish, very metal logo – a sight that is sure to scare off his snooty parents for good if they ever see it.

Before he knows it, Steve lunges for him and Eddie feels his cheeks squish against his boyfriend’s hands as he is kissed.

And kissed.

And kissed some more.

Kisses that last for long enough and grow softer with every peck that Eddie soon feels his legs buckling and he forgets altogether what they are even doing up here, in Steve’s bedroom, in the middle of the day on a warm summer afternoon.

It’s just the he –

“ – I love you,” Steve smiles when he comes up for air and –

His eyes blow wide in an instant.

And Eddie is sure his own do too – maybe even pop right out of his goddamn skull with an audible gasp in there somewhere as well as they both fully realise what has just been said.

Steve loves him?

Just the same as he loves Steve. So much that he is blurting it out now, in the middle of his bedroom on a warm, mid-summer afternoon – perhaps months too early when they are probably, most likely still in the honeymoon phase.

All because of one perfect t-shirt.

Steve’s brow pinches together and his jaw goes slack as he looks away.

“I…” he trails off, drumming his fingers on Eddie’s shoulders.

“Stevie...” he tuts, smiling back at him.

He steps closer still, closing any remaining space between them as he loops his arms around his partner’s middle and squeezes him tight.

Eddie backs them a step back, then another. Then another until he is at a safe enough distance to rock Steve back and collapse onto the bed.

They fall with a conjoined, “Hmphf” – one that knocks the wind out of Eddie’s already breathless lungs and has Steve momentarily distracted away from whatever inner turmoil he had going on a moment ago. As he lands on top of his boyfriend, Eddie gets a feel of the shirt, now warmed by Steve’s permanently hot body temperature. A feeling that makes it seem even softer.

Like it is already worn in and loved.

He wants to ball a handful of it up in his fist and never let go.

But Eddie forces himself to sit upright, settling down in a straddled position to hover over Steve’s clothed form. He smiles down at the sight beneath him, his giddiness short-lived and quickly fading as a big, brown and now glistening set of panicked eyes return.

“Stevie,” he whispers, running his hand up Steve’s torso.

He ghosts his fingers with a featherlight touch over the printed logo, an illustration he had first scribbled on the back of his math book in his junior year.

Eddie leans forward and takes Steve’s hands, clasping them tight and one by one, he brings them to rest above his head where his super-soft signature swoop is sticking every which way, mussed by the bedspread.

He can’t help but chuckle a little at the sight – momentarily giving into the greedy feeling he gets when he thinks about how this Steve is the one he gets all to himself.

But Steve frowns, those expressive brows looking positively pained now as if only one thing could possibly soften them.

“I love you too,” Eddie says, freeing a hand to delicately pluck at Steve’s loosened neckline, “Obviously.”

“You do?” Steve asks.

Eddie nods as a visible relief washes through Steve’s eyes, leaving his brows to soften up so much he wonders if his boyfriend might now cry.

And before he can say or do anything more, Steve bolts upright, once again leaving Eddie feeling winded and more than a lot flushed this time as he wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck, snuffling close like the world’s cuddliest puppy.

They stay like this for a long while, simply breathing in sync as they hold each other. And soon Steve begins to sink, his body going lax as his head slips down onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“I really wanna sleep,” he hums as tears seep through Eddie’s own plain black t-shirt.

“You wanna try now?” Eddie offers, pulling back enough to give an encouraging little smile.

Steve nods, refusing to let him go as they lower down together as one, his eyes fluttering shut when his head meets the bedspread.

“Wanna get all cozy under the covers?” Eddie continues, nudging at the bedding.

He really doesn’t want to move too much more – not when Steve looks like this.

Relaxed.

Loved.

Comfortable and wrapped up in a softness Eddie would like to keep him cocooned in forever.

But as he always does, Steve moves for them and rolls to the side. He snuggles in close, burrowing his head between the crook of Eddie’s neck and the mattress all protected and safe. Eddie palms around for the blanket and haphazardly wraps what sliver of it is free around them, shielding his partner a little more for good measure.

It’s good like this.

Calm. Warm.

Soft.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #healing steddie #stranger things s4 #lily writes a fic #fluff and angst #cw injury #steddie fanfiction

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astoryisaloveaffair · 3 days

Text

Fix You - Chapter 16 - Genesis

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

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Read on A03

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Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: cussing, graphic violence, mentions of sex. I'm not giving more warnings than that, sorry.

A/N: Hey all. First I want to say I'm sorry. I literally had no time or motivation to write this. I'm gonna be honest, this is a really tough chapter, and it was hard to get in this headspace. Suffering a recent heartbreak, things in this chapter are things I have thought also, and so it was really hard for me to voluntarily want to address that. I also started working in veterinary medicine, i do not have the spare time that I used to. We also recently adopted a puppy who we named Bucky! And if you read my earlier posts, you know that I was SA'd last January. All that to say, sorry I couldn't do this faster.

Also want to wish a happy birthday to @musings-of-a-rose, my beloved, my bestie, and my constant support. This is for you. Sorry it's not a happier chapter....

* If a character is speaking fully in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this

Suggested Songs: "Exile" Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver, "I Love You" Billie Eilish, "Vampire" and "Logical" by Olivia Rodrigo, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers, "Genesis" by Grimes

You didn’t even flinch at the landing, which was rough, so that’s saying a lot. When the janky cargo door (which looked like at any time during the flight would be ripped right off) opens, you barely even lift your eyes from the floor. You felt heavy and hollow, somewhere suspended in between shock and just not giving a fuck anymore. The only thing you could still fell was the pinching in your heart. It was still broken.

At some point during the journey, the co-pilot had taken pity on you and untied your arms from behind your back and bound them in front of you instead. You hadn’t struggled. There was no point. Where would you go? Jump in the ocean? You weren’t that great of a swimmer and you loved sharks and everything but the open ocean is not where you are supposed to be.

You have no sense of space and time, so you have no actual clue where you are other than not the mainland. You’re dehydrated as fuck, groggy, your vision’s blurry and you’d figured out the sticky moisture on your face was your own blood.

Because when you had suddenly blacked out it was because they’d hit you, and had absolutely no hesitation doing so. They did not care about you, they did not see you as a human being, they didn’t even bother strapping you into a seat so you had been sliding around the cargo bay the entire flight, bumping into everything. You were in deep danger, any hope that you would have some ransom protection had pretty much disintegrated. You had hoped that the boys wouldn’t come for you at first. Then you had hoped that they would, because if you’re ransom, even if at the very least you’d be alive until then, right? But “alive” doesn’t mean unharmed.

A shadow looms over you and it finally makes you look up, squinting to adjust your eyes to something so close, as well as the brightness of the sun. It feels like it takes you 10 whole minutes to process that you were being spoken to in English.

“Eh!” The man leaning over you snips, and when you simply blink in confusion and don’t answer, he slaps you lightly on both cheeks. You’re stunned enough to finally look at him, his oval face, beady eyes and unique sideburns seeming so familiar to you but quite frankly you wouldn’t trust yourself with recognizing even your dad at the moment, so you push that thought aside.

He kneels down in front of you. “You listen to me. We don’t want you. We want the money. This means if you don’t fucking piss me off, I might be nice and not kill you, you understand? Be a smart little girl, eh?.”

You nod, you probably should be feeling some sort of panic setting in but you don’t. Whatever. Who even cares anymore.

He takes your silence as submission. “Bueno.” He whispers, leaning down and grabbing you by the arm, lifting you until you are back on your feet. He tilts his head and steps to the side, revealing 5 additional men with AKs pointed straight at you. From behind, you feel the sharp tip of another poking your back, urging you forward and down the precarious ramp. The pilots.

You didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, but you knew you had no other choice. Trying to fight was asking for it, and once you step out of the hold and realize you were in the fucking jungle, there would be no sensical place to go even if you did get away.

You step out of the plane onto a rickety steel ramp that bounces as the footpad of your sandals touches it and shuffle slowly down it. You feel suffocated sandwiched between four men, your hands chafe where they are tied and you have been in the same positions for so long your whole body is sore. Every touch and movement hurt.

You stumble as the ramp ends but one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you so you don’t fall. It wasn’t kindness. It was a way to hurt you that he could get away with. The tiny dirt landing strip is almost canopied completely by the jungle trees, leaving large patches here and there where the plane flew through, not noticeable from far above. It looks like you’re walking to nothing, just a dirt road that ends right into the thick middle of the jungle, but you don’t stop at the edge. You push through.

It’s hot as shit and you felt sweat buildup in every crevice of your body, your thighs are rubbing raw from your asinine decision to wear short shorts to the fair, and you could feel a heat rash growing under your tits that you couldn’t even scratch because your hands are bound.

You walk for forever. You walk until the friction rash on your inner thighs turn to lesions. You haven't drank water in almost 48 hours and it feels like 150 degrees out, with full humidity. You’ve had to stop twice already to vomit from heat exhaustion and you still occasionally gag even though there’s nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. All the years that you did not appeal to insects are making up for it now, they’re all over you and you can’t walk 3 steps without one getting in your eye. The jungle gets tighter and you can’t breathe because it’s pushing in on you almost as tight as the hands on your shoulders pushing you forward..

You start crying. At least, that is what you tell yourself as you whimper and sob as quietly as you can. You know you’re strong, but this is just beyond reason that any normal person could take. And when you think about how this is probably what life was all the time in Delta for the boys, you cry even harder because you feel guilty, that you have no right to complain.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the tightness of the jungle seems to loosen. More open. You notice some of the trees look more oddly arranged than others. As you get closer you realize they aren’t trees at all, but tents and dilapidated buildings built into the shadows of the trees. The huge roots and overhanging canopy of the jungle transformed a bustling camp into what looks like a little village. At the entrance, a line of guards in jungle fatigues that were impossible to detect until you got right up to them. You hear someone speak above you, alerting you to a man up in the trees on a platform tucked between the branches. There was another in the tree on the opposite side. He calls to the man with the sideburns, saying something in Spanish you can’t interpret fast enough, but it’s jovial and they laugh, and it makes you feel like you’re going to go mentally insane.

It’s like it’s not even serious to them. And it’s so serious to you.

You are pushed through the camp quickly, but not quick enough that you don’t see the insane amount of cocaine packages piled up in the makeshift buildings, sheds, and tents toward the back. Men were milling about checking them, moving them and glaring at you as you walked past.

You continue past the main camp, crossing over a bustling creek whose bridge was literally just planks of wood, but you noticed there were tire marks across them so you felt at least safe it could handle a car’s weight. Across the creek, an old stonework manor stood. You can tell at one time it must have been glorious, but the white stone-worked walls were dirty and crumbling in many places, the fountains out front had dried crusty palm fronds and dirt in them and looked like they hadn’t sprayed water since the 1980s.

It was still oddly beautiful. You thought about how this house came to be, what it might have looked like when it had been first built. A beautiful Caribbean sea mansion. A jungle that hadn’t closed in on it yet. Fountains spraying and colorful birds resting on the rooftops. But then you realize that this place has probably always been used for what it is now. Someone like Carl Lehder probably lived here and ran an entire cartel within this very jungle. Maybe it was the same one, just run by someone else.

There was a shabbily made shack to the left of the manor with padlocks, piles of debris piled next to the door. You assume that’s where you would be taken, but you were instead led up the stairs to the manor proper. And as your eyes focus in on the ground while you were being guided to the mansion instead, you realize the heap of matter by the shack that you thought was some dying plantation was actually a crumpled human body. A boy looking not much older than 17, shot execution style in the head and left to rot.

Then smell hits you, your knees buckle and you vomit on the stonework stairs, a scream of shock and realization pierces the jungle, making the nearby tropical birds explode from the treetops. When the sicarios pick you up and carry you through the mansion door, you’re still screaming.

Eventually whoever was carrying you became fed up, and simply dropped you at the bottom of the stairs and dragged you up backwards by the armpits instead. You didn’t even feel the step edges hitting the small of your back all the way up, but you would later.

You were tossed stricken and shivering on a disgusting, top-sheeted mattress on the floor in the corner of a room, your feet still bound together and your rope-bound hands looped through a radiator that was long enough only for you to lie down or shuffle over to a bucket for your business. Everything stank and you still had vomit on your chin so you curled up in a ball and slammed your eyes closed, hoping that in time the voices and smells and fear would give way to just simple numbness. You didn’t hear a female voice speaking to you for several seconds.

Your eyes snap open, skin pulled taut from dried unwiped tears,and you jolt upright to look in the direction of the voice. A woman who wasn’t even tied up was propped up against the adjoining wall, and as you take in her condition you could understand why they hadn’t even bothered. She wouldn’t have been able to run.

Her legs look..wrong, splaying at angles that shouldn’t be possible. They look like they could be broken, but you can’t tell for sure because she was wearing jeans that cover up most of her skin. The jeans were ripped in some places and stained with dark blood spots, the color turning brighter wherever her skin shows through the tears in the fabric. She’s missing several fingers on her left hand that had been burnt at the ends to cauterize, and her face was black and blue, swollen and smeared with more blood that seemed to be coming from her scalp somewhere. Her lips are pale and cracking and her eyes are glazed over and barely open. When she speaks, she already sounds like she is dead.

She swallows and winces slightly in pain, then licks her cracked pale lips.“Is…my…her–my brother. Did you see him? Out there?”

Your face scrunches in confusion, which actually hurts a little and you’re not sure from what specifically. Perhaps you look just as bad as the other girl. “Your–I—I don’t understand.”

She’s too exhausted to even be annoyed with you. “My brother. They took him from me days ago. They do not talk to me anymore. They don’t—need me anymore.” A single tear falls down her swollen cheek and you suddenly feel so much connection with this woman and how incredibly fucking strong she is. Her eyes roll over to you, meeting yours for the first time. There are burst blood vessels in them.

“I think that they killed him.”

Your lips part and you utter a shuddering breath as you connect the dots. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. You nod slowly. “I think so. But it’s not…recent.” You look away as her eyes slowly close, the additional tears she was holding back finally spilling over and cascading down her cheeks.

“Bueno.” She says. “Then at least he is not suffering like me.”

You both fall quiet and you look over her again. Her pants aren’t completely done up and her t shirt is ripped at the neckline, exposing a gashed shoulder. Almost like…

You start crying again, and you feel even worse about it this time because you have in front of you a woman who has been through much worse and is somehow NOT crying. You curl tighter into yourself to try and hide.

But she simply asks. “Who are you?”

You swallow, raising your head up off your arms, quickly wiping the access tears off on your sleeve. It’s incredible how adrenaline and fear can sometimes make you the most clear-headed you’ve ever been. Your thoughts are swirling but you knew one thing for damn sure, if they didn’t know your name yet, you weren’t going to say it now.

If I look forward I am lost. Focus on right now. Nothing else. It’s my best chance.

You know enough about trauma that compartmentalizing this moment is your best chance. You can’t think what will happen if you don’t escape, if you aren’t found, if they never come for you. You need to stay focused. You need to keep hope alive. You need to stay coherent, because if a chance pops up, you need to be able to think quickly.

“I’m no one.” You mumble. “Just happened to be dating the wrong person.”

She sniffs and looks away, but it’s muffled because her nose sounds congested. You don’t miss her tone though. “Mmmm. His new one then.”

You blink. “What?”

Her glazed over, discolored eyes snap back to yours. “Pope.” She spits. “Your man. Santia—”

“NO!” You cut her off with a shout, you know there is a guy who is in the area and you still don’t know how much these men do or do not know. “Don’t. Don’t give them names if they don’t already know it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Garcia, or his friends, or anyone else, it’s their fault I am here and it’s their fault my brother is dead and..” She finally, finally starts to cry. “I told him I didn’t want to do it. They said they would let us go if we gave them what they wanted.”

“It was you.” You exhale with a shuddering breath. “They found us cause of you. You told them.” You shake your head, and for some reason you feel betrayed by this woman even though you’ve never met her. “How could you?”

“Because all I care about is my brother, do you understand?! I wish I’d never met him, Garcia, we would have just snuck away and no one would never seen us, but no, instead we listened to him and helped them steal from fucking Lorea, and now they found us and I knew they would, and YES, I gave them EVERYTHING because they said they’d let us go so long as they found you and–”

“Eh!” A voice trails in with a watchman you knew was hanging out somewhere in the hallway beyond. He slips through the doorway, a smaller man you were not expecting from that voice, and leans against the deteriorating door frame. He crosses his arms and his legs and it makes the handgun on his hip jut out prominently from his skinny hips. “No talking to each other.” His voice is silky and the words all slide together so it sounds like ‘no talkintoeeachother.’

You shrink back into the dirty wall behind you as your associate spits a bloody phlegm ball in the man’s direction. “FUCK you!” She snarls, a tirade of cuss words in Spanish flying from her lips.

A loud pop almost bursts your eardrums and your heart and you exclaim in terror as your associate is shot point blank in the head, her back slumping against the wall and her head hitting with a bang, pieces of blood and brain tissue spraying over the back wall with pieces flying in your direction.

The man remains completely motionless with his arms still raised before huffing a laugh to himself, putting the gun back on his hip, and looking at you with the such an unaffected gaze it leaves you feeling dizzy and you scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, crumpling onto your mattress in a terrified heap, arms over your head, sobbing hysterically.

A gentle but firm palm wraps around your forearm, yanking you back up to a seated position. You look away, but the man’s other hand takes you gently by the jaw and makes you look at him. And just behind him, the woman slumped in a pool of blood and brain matter. You try to wriggle out of his grip but he tightens ever so slightly, and you can’t help but notice how different it is when Frankie would grab you like that versus this man. Frankie held you the same, sometimes harder, but you had trusted his domination and his care of you and because of that, it made it arousing. That same motion with this man has you more scared than you ever have been in your life.

“Bebita.” He coos, thumb lightly caressing your jaw. He wipes at a small speck of blood you don’t know is even there. You can feel yourself shaking and breathing so fast you can see his half waxed back tousled locks that hang past his temples are blowing in its breeze. You can’t answer him. “Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are a dark, almost black chocolate brown, shape mismatched, a scruffy beard and goatee and thin lips. In another world you would find him devastatingly attractive and the fact that you do makes you feel absolutely violated and disgusted with yourself.

“Do not cry.” He continues. “You have no reason to if you behave, si? You be good and you listen and I will keep you safe you understand? Well, at least for now.” He shifts closer to you, you can smell his breath. It smells like orange and cloves. “There are a lot of men here Bebita. I am sure you understand what this means, si? Answer me.”

“Yes.” A final fat tear spills from one of your eyes, and it stings as it mixes with your sweat and the raw skin around your eyes.

He juts his head in the other woman’s direction. “This one, she fight the whole time. I like a easy job. Make my job easy, I make sure you always deal with me. Do not make me call in the other guys, they are not as nice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He releases your chin and you scoot back quickly as he saunters over to the other woman’s bloody body, grabs it by the arm, and casually drags her as dismissively as possible out the door and out of your sight, leaving a bloody trail behind.

At first you just sit there in a slump staring at the opposite wall,, you don’t know for how long. Probably hours. Maybe days. The man, whose name you figured out from when he spoke to someone else in the hall, is Angel. Sometimes he would sit up and watch you, as if figuring you out, your body and the way you shift and switch positions when you are uncomfortable, what it looked like when you were crying and trying to keep quiet and unnoticed. But most of the time he ignored you. Occasionally others would come into the room and either speak to him or approach you, but upon noticing Angel watching them they would hiss or spit a curse and slink off.

The room reminded you of those old houses from the 70s that had those drafty unfinished basements that were simply concrete floors, painted stucco or white brick. To the sicarios, it served as an overflow area, there was a rotting desk along the side wall with a metal folding chair and piles of scattered papers and random household tools on them. Against the opposite side wall was a pretty nice tv, considering, which was always playing soccer. Angel seemed to make that his home base, his lithe frame sprawled across a grandma-fabric sofa, head resting on one of the puffy arm rests. He binge-smoked cigarettes and his right hand was always stretched over his head resting against his forehead in the direction of to an end table with an massive overflowing porcelain ashtray on it. You didn’t used to mind the smell of cigarettes too much but now it makes you feel sick.

You’re ashamed of how little you actually think about your current situation and like the hopeless romantic idiot you are, mostly all you can think about is Frankie. The things he said–you knew he said mean things when he was mad, or things he didn’t mean, but isn’t there always some truth to things that are said in the heat of the moment? That was enough for you to silently spiral. You thought about every memory you had of him and how it could be viewed through the lens that Frankie just wanted to fuck you. Your self confidence was low enough it was believable, and your mind races through every instance of an older man being in a relationship with someone much younger and how of course it was predatory, and how could you not see it, that you didn’t have anything in common? It’s a tale as old as time. He just wanted to fuck you, he wanted to fuck you and dominate you, his dark desires seducing you into feeling so wanted you can’t believe you thought he loved you and didn’t see right through it.

And his friends, well, they were all in on it weren’t they, because why would they want to hang out with someone like you either? Why would men such as that actually want to be friends with you when you have never experienced half of what they have.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his lying ass, he was a fucking loser addict and you’re pissed at yourself for even considering him. Like how lonely were you?? To choose an old man with a kid who served in an institution that represented everything you hated about this country? To be so easily blinded by pretty words and love bombs to immediately take your clothes off. Because how, if he actually loved you or even like you, could he possibly have lied about something so big?! Or bought you something nice with all that fucking drug money he stole. Not that you’d want it or expected it, but why wouldn’t you want to treat someone you love as much as he claimed to?

How could he sit there and make up what happened to Tom like that, when you were being so coddling and trying to be a caring ear. And Benny…Pope...if they were your friends they should have told you, that’s what real friends do…

But they weren’t your friends. They were never your friends.

And if you went the other way, and considered that it was all true, that he did love you, that they were all your friends, and that he lied to you and threw stones to hurt you and push you away, how was that any better? You couldn't even think about a future not being with him, but obviously he could. He could watch you cry and question him and not even look at you, completely ignore you, then not even think about you again. No texts, no calls. No “I’m sorry, please come back.” Silence.

How could it be so easy for him? How can he just go about his life like you never happened? Why did you still care?

Why did you still want him?

Why did you still love him so so much. Part of you wishes they’d get on with it and just kill you. At least then you wouldn’t have to feel this excruciating pain. You wouldn’t have to see him show up to rescue you because he has to, to have to see his fucking face and every line, crinkle, scar, the bald patch in his beard and the tousled little curls that pop out of his hat…only for him to save you and then leave again, or die and then you have the guilt of killing a man who no longer loved you.

Yea. You think you’d rather die.

You feel like you’re going to throw up again. You’d let him force his cock in your mouth as far as it could go, let him tie you up and fuck you hard enough to leave bruises you had thought of as a badge of honor. You’d let him cum on your face. You’d let him fucking cum inside you! He’d gaslit you so you actually wanted him to tie you up with zip ties—-

Your heart almost stops. You can picture how his face looked exactly when he said it.

Sometimes rope can give over time.

That’s why we always used zip ties.

You look down at your bound hands.

They’re bound with rope.

#fix you fic #triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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