#:eye: hello folks...

[octoxicash]

"You should be finishing ur last artfight ref. but u playing on ur phone."

[javierduffy]

kieran and javier finding moments or even seconds of domestic bliss in canon pls

my friend i have scoured, deep sea dived, deep cleaned, poker all-inned and i have never once in my rdr2 career ever been able to find a positive interaction between them in canon. i didn’t think they even had ANY for the longest time until someone found one and its literally javier threatening kieran … which i would personally not categorize as “domestic bliss”. i think our best bet for canon content is crossing our fingers and praying that the ai for them in camp has them sit next to each other momentarily

[mcmansionhell]

we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar! Student loans just started back up!

[bunny-jpeg]

simon would definitely have a clumsy girlfriend. the type of girlfriend where you'd almost always find a way to have a bruise or cut on you anytime you went out.

"where did ya get this?" "hit against the desk at work."

"love, that's a pretty bad scratch." "i was trying to pet that stray cat near the ravine, i think she has kittens."

"what do you mean you got chased by a swan on the way home?" "it looked like it was injured, i was trying to get a photo for the wildlife people! you're the one telling me that the queen owns every swan!"

simon sometimes felt the need to swaddle you up in bubble wrap just to keep you safe. but as you looked at him with pleading eyes and a frown, he only ruffled your hair and went in for a soft kiss - he could never be mad at you.

you expected that you'd be taking care of his injuries from the armed forces, not him wrapping hello kitty banded bandages across your fingers because somehow you got seven paper cuts in one day!

one time you went to the park and when you went to feed the ducks some of the frozen peas you brought in a cup (never bread!), you leaned a little too forward and almost fell right into the pond. thankfully simon's reflexes were faster and wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back up, "alright, lamb. let's feed the ducks a little further away." and you looked up at him, near tears, and nodded.

it wasn't your fault, some folks were just more clumsy than ever. when he came back from missions, he would spend hours examining every part of you to check for any new cuts, bruises, or scars - then make sure to kiss them all and ask what exactly you did.

he kissed you on the forehead and asked, "now tell me, love, how does a trolley attack you?"

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello! How does a beast cookies x reader sound? Also the reader has a calming effect on cookies and is basically the groups therapy cookie. Like what if-

Shadow milk after episode 8: DO YOU KNOW WHY IM LIKE THIS?!?

Reader:Wanna talk about it?

SMC: haha..hahahHAHAHA-

*ten minutes later*

SMC leaning on our shoulder: And that was after Mystic started going off the deep end-

Reader calmly listening: mmhm

Interesting 👀👍

I'd like to imagine they're a Legendary who's been around for as long as the Beasts have, travelling the world to give therapy and healing to those who need it. So they're def more powerful than the average cookie

......

As a Legendary Cookie, it was your job to help give all denizens of Earthbread healing--mentally and emotionally, that is.

Your calming abilities enable virtually any cookie to feel relaxed in your company. Even those who are totally closed-off and were baked with the hardiest dough will eventually confide in you about whatever's on their minds.

And you give them advice, always knowing what to say, or simply listen and let them express their emotions.

You've been around for as long as the Five Beasts have, so you've seen a lot in your travels...including the many days and nights they spent terrorizing the world after they twisted their virtues into vices, trying to ease cookies' fears.

The Witches deemed them monsters worthy of being locked up in the Silver Tree...yet you realized they have never once considered why they fell from grace.

Having spent so much time helping the normal everyday folk, you felt some guilt in not checking in on the Beasts to make sure they were okay.

They were adored and revered figures..but even they might've needed somebody to talk to every once in a while.

Maybe they wouldn't have fallen down that dark path if you paid more attention to the signs....

But after they break out of the Silver Tree and face the Ancient Heroes who've "stolen" their soul jam, they hide away until they can figure out how to restore their powers and take their revenge.

That's where you come in, having visited Gingerbrave's kingdom and hearing about the Ancients' encounters with them.

You decided to go on a quest to Beast Yeast, hoping to find them and simply talk, which obviously wouldn't be easy had it not been for your powers.

They have some resistance to it, but one by one...their walls come down and you start to understand them better.

Shadow Milk

Of course, the last one to fall from grace had to be the first one you come across.

It's not long after his retreat from his Spire, still not back at his full strength, wanting to get away from Candy Apple and Black Sapphire Cookie for a while.

They finally saw him be defeated and..humiliated by Pure Vanilla Cookie, yet they're willing to stay and follow his every word?

Either way, he wanted to be alone--but unfortunately for him, that doesn't last long as you seize your opportunity to talk to him.

"Shadow Milk Cookie. The Fount of Knowledge-"

"Pah! Dunno who that other guy is. Only Shadow Milk Cookie is....here..?" He spins around, his eyes comically wide as he instantly recognizes your face. "You....you're-"

"Not dead? I've been around for as long as you, my friend." You chuckle. "I don't crumble easily."

"...it's amazing you haven't. Thought you would'a cracked under the weight of everyone's problems by now. But you're still trying to play the hero, huh?" He sneers. "Just like.....him. Riddle me this, [y/n] cookie...do you feel any guilt?"

"...I do."

"HAH! Well you...wait, you do?" He blinks. "Do you even know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes."

"..you're terrible at following this script. You're supposed to be confused and scared-"

"We're not on a stage, Shadow Milk Cookie. I'm not fooled as easily." You cut him off, firmly yet gently. "This is reality. And the reality is...you've been hurt so profoundly. Watching so many cookies embrace deceit instead of your gospels of truth must have been...difficult. You felt betrayed by them."

"........"

"Ever since..that day..I've felt guilty for not reaching out to you or the others sooner. I probably wasn't clear about my doors being open for you, too. I've been waiting for a chance to talk to you again. To help you feel heard, even though this was long, long overdue."

"Wow...and I thought Nilly had the biggest savior complex." He scoffs, trying to resist your magic's advances on his psyche. "Nice try, but you're not gonna get inside MY head, too. Nope. Nuh-uh. I'm not one of your fragile-minded cookie who unloads their entire sob story in one measly conversation!"

"It's not fragile to-"

"Besides..we haven't spoken in eons, so you don't even know HALF of what I've been through!! Not within the Silver Tree! NOT with Pure Vanilla Cookie! Not even before I turned to deceit!!"

Despite his anger, you remain unperturbed. "Exactly my point. So..why don't you help me understand? Let's talk about it."

"....like....right now?"

"Yeah? Unless you have an important date tonight."

"....hahahaha...AHAHAHAHA. Didn't you hear me, stupid cookie?! Obviously not, so allow me to rephrase it.......THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL THAT I'M EVER GOING TO-!!"

Fast forward to sometime later, when Black Sapphire Cookie finally finds his master...leaning on your shoulder while basically trauma dumping. The deceitful Beast was speaking from his mind, unfiltered, to a Legendary Cookie he's never met before.

"-and that was after Mystic Flour Cookie started going off the deep end. But could anyone blame her? No. Those damn cookies got greedy and began asking for the impossible."

"Mhm." You simply nod. "And after seeing her like that...what was going through your mind?"

"...like we were all just...losing it. So I guess hopeless? Scared that we were getting out of hand? I dunno. All I wanted was to be their teacher, to show them the truth....and look at me now!! I warned Pure Vanilla Cookie he'd fall down the same path if he continued the way he was headed...that traitorous prick.."

"He did tell me you rejected his friendship. But..would you consider revisiting that?" You hummed.

"I...no. I mean..I....I-I don't know.." He seems confused with himself. "I told the guy I hated him! What doesn't he get? He could have finished me off! Why does he still try after all I did to him?!"

"Because he sees the good in everyone, even you. I don't fully understand the soul jam connection, but...it seems like he's aware of your true feelings. Your loneliness after all that time spent in the tree. And you keep trying to deny them, afraid to draw back the curtain and express what you really feel."

"But when you've been a ruler of deceit since forever..why would I ever do that?! I don't need anyone! I....I especially don't need you or that stupid goody two shoes soul jam thief! But he....he just...why doesn't he just quit already?!" His voice cracks at the end. "H-He knows I'm a lost cause.."

Even though you can't see his face, the eyes on his hair are weeping, and that prompts you to put your arm around him. "It's easy for you to lie to others, but lying to yourself is way harder."

Despite not saying anything back, he doesn't reject the comfort.

In fact he unknowingly leaned against you more.

Black Sapphire can't believe what he's seeing--almost certain it's an illusion, but no.

This was the master of deceit confiding in someone else. Someone more familiar.

Despite feeling slightly jealous, he decides to leave you two be, distracting Candy Apple Cookie so she doesn't barge in and ruin things.

Burning Spice Cookie

"Ah, Burning Spice Cookie. Herald of Change, time hasn't been kind to-"

"You DARE utter that title?!! It is dead to me..just like you will be in a few moments!!" The Great Destroyer looms over you with his axe at the ready, scowling as you crossed paths with him in the ruins of his Spice Temple.

It was considerably difficult to even speak to him alone, especially with the last remnants of the Wild Spice warriors and Nutmeg Tiger Cookie trying their damnest to fight off your calming abilities...but not even their hardy dough can block it forever.

They let you through to see their master at his lowest point, even though he was still on a high from battling the recently awakened Golden Cheese Cookie.

"That's too bad. I was hoping you'd remember me. I was there when you once held that title with pride" You huff. "You welcomed me into your kingdom with open arms, allowing me to speak to the Wild Spices who had troubles on their minds, and the warriors who came home scarred by the things they've seen."

"....ah...you do seem familiar." He muses. "That's right. You're [Y/n] Cookie. The Legendary warrior of words. I bet you've never lifted a weapon in your life."

"My tongue is the only weapon I need, Burning Spice Cookie." You counter with equal sass.

Least to say...you intrigue him. You didn't cower, and even after all this time and knowing the things he's done, you sought him out anyways.

All just to....convince him to share his feelings?

He had a lot to say, but didn't even know where to begin.

He wondered where you were when kingdoms crumbled around him.

He wondered where you were when he kept watching those he loved die while he continued on living.

He wondered where you were when he decided that the only cure to his pain was destruction.

"Well, it's useless here. You could never understand what I-"

"So help me understand. That's why I do what I do. To better understand all Cookies I meet." You frowned slightly. "You were so convinced that you had to be strong for your people. To act like the passage of time hadn't dimmed your light. I understand why you never visited me. And for that, I apologize. I should've put more effort into-"

"Don't apologize. There's nothing you could have said or done to change the way I felt back then." He growled. "What would have been the point?"

"Maybe not, but talking about what and how you're feeling is better than keeping it all inside. You have your generals, sure..but you seldom speak with them. Not wanting to seem weak or soft-doughed in their eyes."

"When they only ever see you as a god, why would...." Suddenly, he's aware of the vulnerability he was showing, and his whole demeanor flips on its head. "GRRRAHH!!" He slams his axe down, nearly splitting the earth between you. "All I feel is pissed off that you're trying to get inside my head! Who told you where I was, mind reader?!!"

"Oh..just a little golden birdie." You calmly reply. "I heard you two had a glorious final battle."

"...ah yes. In spite of my loss, it was...the most entertaining battle I've had in a long time." He grins, recounting that fight.

"Really? Do tell."

Before you know it, he's back to talking again--about the battle, what happened before that, and the rest is history.

Your calming powers have been hard at work, but you've finally gotten him to open up a little more, and somehow he feels...lighter?

It's weird feeling. Weird, but new.

At that time, Nutmeg Tiger returns to her senses and sees you talking to him, furious that she let her guard down and that you were speaking to her lord without permission--

Only for you to calmly stand up and walk away, while she's shouting for you to come back and explain your actions.

"Hexing a Wild Spice is one thing, but turning your back on one will be your LAST mistake-!"

"Enough, General. They will not trouble us anymore."

"...they won't? But my lord, they put a spell on us-!"

"I said enough." He snaps. "I've known [Y/n] Cookie since before you were baked. Has their spell impeded your duties?"

"No, but-"

"Then return to your post."

"....as you wish, Great One." She eventually leaves, and he continues to ponder over your talk with him.

Mystic Flour Cookie

Tracking her down in Beast Yeast was a rather simple task.

All you had to do was look where the white fog has gathered. Luckily, your abilities grant you immunity to the apathy that ordinary cookies would easily be overwhelmed by.

When Mystic Flour laid waste to the world with pale ailment storms, doctors, nurses, and healers dealt with the physical symptoms of patients--while you assisted with the mental.

They may not be crumbling and have flour-white dough anymore, but apathetic thoughts linger in their minds long after treatment. Passions are lost and replaced with nihilism, and your duty was to bring them out of those dark places and remind them of what they loved and how it's all worth it and meaningful in the end.

Luckily, you were able to guide them back on the right path again, and suddenly their eyes regained their spark; their dough's color was returned, and you'd send them off to resume their normal life.

After the Dark Cacao Kingdom was 100% liberated from the flour storm, you ventured to Beast Yeast to find her, eventually meeting Cloud Haetae Cookie, who had been revived.

They didn't seem bothered by the fact their own master killed them, taking you personally to see her and giving you steamed rolls as they talked about her battle with Dark Cacao Cookie.

"She almost convinced him to accept futility. She was so, so close..but then that fool had to go and summon these two dragons to help him-"

"Who are you speaking to, Cloud Haetae Cookie?"

Before you could respond, Mystic Flour takes one look at your face and immediately knows who you are.

"[Y/n] Cookie. You're the reason why my clouds of apathy have lifted.."

"Well..having a bunch of nameless, faceless cookies moping about doesn't exactly make the world go round, my dear." You jest, although you fall silent as she just stares through you. "I know your heart carries a most heavy burden. The burden of not being able to satisfy everyone..and being a victim of-"

"You have not once set foot in my Ivory Pagoda to talk. And now, after all these years..." Given her pause...you knew her emotions were trying to bubble to the surface. Like yeast rising.

"I understand. I've heard it from the others already. This...comes much too late." You bow your head. "I remember seeing those lines, and I didn't wish to be perceived as another beggar. I'm sure you already knew my wish."

"They always expected you to solve their problems." She continued. "But it never feels like enough, does it? Don't you grow weary of their endless demands? Their pleas for you to "fix" everything wrong with them? You can only help them so much before they bleed you dry and give you nothing, [Y/n] Cookie. Not even a "thank you". Trust me...I have been there." Her face darkens. "We are not so different."

"Perhaps not. We've always looked out for the best interest of cookies...at our own expense." You agreed. "But I know a lot of them have appreciated my help. I'm sorry they never gave you that same respect, Mystic Flour Cookie."

"I do not dwell on it, for it is futile. It's a shame that you would never come to accept that same futility."

"I don't see a reason to start now," you chuckle, before you talked to her more about your recent work and the cookies you've helped, including Shadow Milk and Burning Spice.

It's clear that you reminded her of her old self a lot--before all the selfish cookies came along and attributed to her pain and corruption and imprisonment.

She thought she could talk you out of that path, certain you'll realize what true futility is like she did...

But you remain steadfast in your duty to help all cookies you meet. Even her.

[critterbitter]

What a weird eel dog! Wanted to draw emmet's starter. Inspired by the kind folks in my inbox, which I’ll be responding to down here

(more submas content? Check my masterpost!)

@holly-rose12 Ngl I'm gonna slow down on posting so I don't burn myself out, but yeah this hyperfixation's got a good grip on my soul. I STILL have so many ideas for the other members of the submas team, and I STILL really want to draw more Elesa too. Ah, the tunnels keep getting deeper...

@fortunatelykawaiitiger hehe me? committing crimes? noo. i would never.

@faestorian (drags you into the tunnels with me) I refuse to be the only one having brain rot

@nomorekneecapprivileges AAH THANK YOU! also JDSKLJFDSLK YOUR NAME- ((will draw sneasler at some point! The comics weren't meant to be linear but as you can tell, i'm awkwardly moving from tiny eel dog and angry candle shenanigans to teenage eel dog and sassy lamp shenanigans.))

@opossumonashelf YES HELLO I SEE YOU POP UP IN MY FEED ALL THE TIME THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE- but also yes!! eelektross my beloved.

@primordial-being EELEKTROSS IS SO SHAPE. No thoughts behind those eyes (just like me fr)

[artficlly]

close quarters [one-shot]

fantasy marvel au bucky x reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him. 

Warnings: forced proximity, one bed (kinda), panic attacks, fear of dark, class difference, kissing, generous use of the petname princess, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, fluff, kinda sweet, protective bucky, mentions of steve, peggy, sam, dum dum dugan, fantasy elements, monsters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: hello, i don't expect this to do well, kinda lost motivation near the end as you'll probably be able to tell. I've been working on this one and off the past two weeks but i'm so over it i just need to post it and be done with it. i've been sick and busy with uni so it's kinda mid so apologies but enjoy my flu induced insanity with this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt. 

That was the extent of your introduction. 

Yet, for all his glowering, women seemed to flitter around him. You had watched as a group of younger women, likely around your age, whispered and giggled as they cast lingering glances down the platform at your sullen escort. To his credit, he didn’t react or even lift his gaze from the train tracks ahead.

You let your own eyes waver on his profile, dark hair, strong bone structure, straight nose, and eyes like an oncoming storm. Handsome. That was undeniable. Startlingly so, if you were being honest. But you refused to let his looks—or the broad, muscled frame beneath his heavy coat—distract you. Especially not as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmistakable flask.

You shot him a scathing look as he tipped back the silver flask, his throat working with each swallow. Whatever was inside had to be strong. The slight wince as he lowered it from his lips gave that much away.

“Is that wise?” Your voice carried a pointed edge, skirting somewhere between disapproval and disgust.

Bucky chuckled, though the sound lacked any true amusement. His breath lingered in the evening air, curling into a thin mist before being carried away by the brisk breeze that serpentined through the exposed railway tracks. “Only way to stay warm, Miss. Only gonna get worse the further north we go.”

He tucked the flask back into his coat. The worn leather of his gloves creaked as he dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw as if brushing away the chill. You hated to admit he had a point. Spring had come late this year—if it had come at all. Even here, in the city, ice still clung stubbornly to the streets, and heavy grey clouds loomed overhead. The snow hadn't yet relented up north, where your brother was waiting.

In the safety of the larger cities, warmth was never a concern. The luxury of fire and heat was abundant. With proper protections and Firewardens employed, there was no fear of the light it produced, or more specifically, there was no fear of what the light might attract. Civilised folk no longer had to shiver in the dark. They had cast aside the weight of thick furs, the obscuring hoods, the need for constant vigilance. But where you were headed, where your brother waited keenly for your arrival, it was different. There, Ignivorae were far more frightening than the cold.

“I just hope you’re not a drunkard,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the empty tracks, the frostbitten metal beginning to hum with the distant approach of the train. You hadn’t meant for him to hear, but his trained ears caught every word.

He scoffed, the sound half jest, half feigned offence. “Why? You gonna rat me out to your brother?”

“You are under his employ,” you reminded him coolly.

Another scoff. “He wouldn’t care, Miss. Hell, if he were here, I bet he’d be doin’ the same as me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, irritation flickering through your chest. You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “You don’t know my brother well enough to make such a statement.”

Bucky inclined his head, unimpressed. “Two years is a long time, Princess. Feels even longer out North. I don’t think your brother is quite the same as when he left.”

You had little doubt he was right. Beyond the city limits, out in the rural farmlands, the world stretched isolated and desolate. This was the first time your brother had taken on such a venture alone, desperate to keep the family business alive even after the sudden loss of your parents. A part of you wondered if he had conducted the plan in a haze of grief, or if it was a means of proving himself to whatever invisible pressures he envisioned pressed upon his shoulders.

You sympathised with him, truly, even if he had abandoned you in his pursuit of imagined grandeur. A part of you had stopped expecting to see him again, had never anticipated his summons. But now, it seemed, he was finally ready to need you. Finally willing to accept your help.

The thought soured in your gut as you scowled at Bucky. 

“Don’t call me that.” You snapped, refusing to let your voice be swallowed by the growing roar of the train.

“Call you what?” 

“Princess.”

The train rushed past, a violent gust of wind pulling at your coat as the metal beast groaned to a stop, sparks flaring against the melting ice before flickering out.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Where we’re goin’, you’ll prolly be the closest thing to a princess they’ve ever seen. You’re a proper-bred lady compared to the folk out there.”

“Does that distinction truly matter that much?”

You had never thought of yourself as well-bred. Privileged, maybe, but not delicate, not sheltered in the way Bucky seemed to imply. Your parents had been wealthy, yes, and you’d received an education few could afford. You had never gone hungry, never shivered through winter, never known true desperation. But your family’s fortune hadn’t come from lineage or titles. Your parents had carved it out themselves, built it from nothing with a mix of skill, relentless work, and a hell of a lot of luck.

It was a dangerous formula, one your brother was determined to replicate.

“To them, it will,” Bucky said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. “Especially if you ain’t prepared to get your hands dirty.”

You gave a terse, humourless smile as you stepped toward the waiting train. “Well, good thing that is my brother’s job, not mine.”

Bucky huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, watching as you handed your ticket to the conductor. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he followed you aboard.

—

“This can’t be right. They’re expecting us to share a compartment—?”

By the time you reached your assigned sleeper car, the train was already rocking back into motion, the shrill whistle signalling your official departure north.

The train itself was plain but sturdy, built for endurance rather than luxury. The windows were fitted with metal shutters that could be pulled down from the inside—a feature you weren’t sure was meant for privacy or protection. You had passed through the lounge car, where Bucky had eyed the open bar with distinct interest and a dining car for breakfast, lunch and dinner service. However, your silent approval of your brother's transportation choice was promptly shattered when you caught sight of your assigned compartment. 

The compartment was tight, with only a small walkway that had another space for you to stand. If you were generous enough in your observations, you could lie to yourself and say that it allowed the room for you to walk two paces in either direction. One side held a stiff leather bench, its upholstery worn but well-maintained, bolted against dark wooden panelling. Above it, a metal luggage rack with frayed fabric straps provided limited storage. 

It was the other side that filled you with horror.

You wouldn’t have complained about the cramped space if it weren’t blatantly obvious you would have to share it with your hulking escort. Two bunks lined the opposite wall, the mattresses thin and stiff, large enough to accommodate one person each. A ladder at the end next to the window allowed easier access to the top bunk. You took one look at the lumpy pillows, dull green sheets and scratchy blanket that had been neatly folded by the feet end of the beds and turned around. You barely had time to process your own dismay before you were met with a wall of muscle as Bucky pressed in close, making way for other passengers filing through the narrow corridor. His chest was solid, his coat rough against your cheek, and you recoiled back.

Unfazed, he flicked his wrist, turning his ticket over to confirm the compartment number. “It’s what is on the tickets, Princess.”

You stepped back again, putting as much space between you as the cramped compartment would allow. “Don’t call me that, and this can’t be what my brother meant by ‘escort’—”

“His exact words,” Bucky interrupted, tucking his ticket back into his coat. “Keep my eyes on you. Keep you safe. Deliver you to Glenwyck.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring up at him. “So you’re going to watch over my every move? How am I supposed to get changed? Just rely on your gentlemanly instinct to turn a blind eye? Which might I mention, I have seen very little of—”

"There's a bathroom at the end of the train car." His tone was dry, as if he were already exhausted by this conversation. "You can use that for changin’. And whatever other business you think is necessary."

"How kind of you." You dropped your luggage onto the seat with a huff.

Bucky stepped further into the cramped compartment, either oblivious or determined to rile you up. The back of your knees pressed flush against the leather bench as he closed the distance, dipping his head so near that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your skin.

With effortless ease, he hoisted your luggage and swung it into the wire rack above. The movement and sway of the train forced your chests to brush. Just for a few seconds. Just enough to make you swallow hard and for a tinge of pink to dust your cheeks. But before you could shuffle away, he reached for his own bag, taking his sweet time as he secured it into place. 

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling hotter with every second you spent trapped between his broad chest and the wooden panelling behind you. If he noticed, he didn’t care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

“Now, tell me, Princess. Are you going to be picky about your bunk too?” Bucky hadn’t moved, lingering far too close, his broad frame crowding the already-cramped space. He was looking down at you with a rather lazy grin on his face as if he was particularly amused with the sour expression you regarded him with. 

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. You didn’t bite back, instead feeling your shoulders droop in relief as he finally backed up. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bottom bunk, stretching his legs out as if he’d already made himself at home. “I’ll take bottom, you take top.”

You stiffly nodded, trying not to linger on how ridiculous this arrangement was. Sharing a compartment was one thing, but a room barely large enough for the both of you, sleeping in bunks not even an arm’s length apart? You hesitated, debating whether to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t exist or escape to the relative privacy of your bed. 

The choice was easy.

Without another word, you clambered up the narrow ladder, the mattress shifting beneath you as you settled in. At least up here, out of his immediate line of sight, you could pretend for a moment that you weren’t stuck sharing close quarters with a complete stranger. A man, at that.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the cream-coloured curve of the train’s ceiling as the steady rumble of the tracks beneath you filled the silence.

God, you hoped your brother had put his trust in the right man.

—

"At least open the window if you’re going to smoke in here," you muttered, tugging your bootlaces tight with a firm yank. You were perched on the edge of the stiff leather seat, dressing for breakfast, while the faint hum of the train carried on beneath you.

You’d slept well—surprisingly well. The rhythmic sway of the train had lulled you into a deep, dreamless rest, a rare reprieve from the constant churn of thought that had plagued you for weeks. For those few blissful hours, you weren’t fretting over your reunion with your brother, or what exactly waited for you up north. You certainly hadn’t been thinking about your frustrating, tight-lipped escort.

Bucky was posted by the window, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word to you since the night before, and you weren’t sure if he’d slept at all. You’d awoken to find him already awake, elbows braced on his knees, methodically rolling tobacco like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

Beyond him, the world outside had vanished into white. Snow blanketed the earth, smoothing the rough land into a quiet, endless plain. No houses. No fences. Just the distant silhouette of mountains breaking up the pale sky.

"I can open the window if you want, Princess," he said without looking at you, voice low and gravel-edged. "But all you’ll get is a cabin full’a coal smoke."

You shot him a glare, then rolled your eyes and stood, brushing the creases from your coat with a sigh of forced patience. You’d learned, albeit reluctantly, that pushing him got you nowhere—at least, not without a headache in return.

“I’m going to breakfast,” you said crisply, sliding the compartment door open and casting one last look over your shoulder.

He pushed off the windowsill and followed without a word. Of course, he did.

For all his witty remarks and infuriatingly smug demeanour, Bucky took his job seriously. Wherever you went, he was just a step behind—silent, watchful, and always armed with that barely concealed impatience. He even waited outside the women’s lavatory, arms crossed, like a guard dog forced to sit through etiquette lessons.

You had no doubt that, given the choice, he’d rather have spent the journey holed up in the bar car or asleep in a quiet corner. But duty clearly came first.

The train was scheduled to stop in Hollowpass by evening, a final pitstop before you boarded the next line toward Norcross. From there, you had two more days of travel—by carriage, no less—until you reached Glenwyck. Your brother’s outpost.

No train lines reached that far north. Too remote, too wild. Just frostbitten roads and vast stretches of wilderness. And Bucky Barnes, your less-than-charming, maddeningly handsome escort, to lead the way.

Wonderful.

You stumbled, the floor pitching beneath your boots just as a blur of motion came barreling down the narrow walkway. A firm hand caught the back of your collar and yanked you sharply backwards into the compartment right as a trolley clattered past, steered by a flustered cleaning woman who offered a breathless apology as she vanished down the corridor.

Your back landed squarely against Bucky’s chest, the breath knocked out of you more from the closeness than the pull.  “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low beside your ear before letting you go.

You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, heart skipping for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

“How are you gonna survive in Glenwyck,” he drawled, “if I can’t trust you not to get run over on a damn train?”

You twisted around with an irritated look, brushing your hands over your skirt to smooth it back into place. “You’re rather dramatic, you know that?”

He only shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my job, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the corridor, leading the way.

The sleeper car stretched ahead of you, its narrow passage lined with compartments like the one you’d just vacated. The metal shutters had been slid open now it was morning, the orange glow of the sunrise casting a glow over the polished brass handles and dark wood panelling. You passed passengers still tucked into their compartments, some reading, others quietly sipping tea or peering out windows wrapped in thick scarves. You pressed on, following the distant tang of strong coffee.

When you finally reached the dining car, you were quick to find an empty table. The tables were arranged in neat rows along either side of the carriage, bolted securely to the floor with matching bench seats upholstered in deep green velvet. You slid into the booth nearest the window, the cushioning stiff beneath you. Bucky settled across from you with a grunt, his eyes swept the car.

You eyed your escort as you delicately draped one of the napkins across your lap. In the daylight, he looked younger than you had first assumed. The lines on his face seemed less carved by time and more etched by worry. His stubble had grown out further, darkening his jaw in a shadow.

“How long have you known my brother?” you asked, tone light, almost casual. However, your gaze didn’t waver from over the rim of your teacup.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone ask something personal. Until now, most of your time together had passed in silence. He kept to himself, either smoking, draining cup after cup of bitter black coffee, or nursing that damn flask of his. Always wound tight, like a viper coiled in wait. 

“‘round two years,” he said finally, guarded. “I was workin’ as a Firewarden in the city. Your brother came through and convinced a bunch of us to sign on with him.”

You tilted your head. “How did he manage that?”

Bucky gave a short scoff and leaned back against the booth, his arm slung along the top of the velvet seating.“Hell if I know. One week I’m lazin’ around the city guardhouse, the next I’m freezing my ass off patrollin’ the edge of some nowhere, nobody town I ain’t ever heard of. Your brother talked like the place was already rebuilt. Like it’s a done deal. Gets in your head like that.”

You smiled faintly. “He gets that from our father. He was like that too. Good at leading people. Better at convincing them they wanted to be led.”

Bucky raised a brow, studying you. “How’d your family even get into this line of work?”

You hesitated, then set your cup down and rested your hands on the table. “My father grew up in the city. But he met my mother at one of those old debutante balls—they used to invite girls from rural towns and farmsteads to give them a shot at something different. She caught his eye. When he travelled north to meet her family, to ask for her hand… he was horrified.”

“Horrified?” Bucky echoed.

You nodded. “They were barely surviving. No access to reliable fire, which meant no protection. No fuel, no heat. Elders froze to death in their sleep. Crops dead. Livestock gone. And the Ignivorae…”

You shuddered, though the memory didn’t belong to you. Your mother had repeated it countless times until it had practically become your own. “Towns would light pyres and pray their tenders could keep them burning through the night. Others would go dark completely. No light, no sound. Just hoping the Ignivorae would pass them by.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“So your father stepped in.”

You nodded again. “He saw the problem for what it was. Cities survived because they had infrastructure. They had fire. Steady, managed fire. But out in the rural zones, people were alone. Busy farming, raising children, barely getting by. Staying up all night with a torch and a pitchfork wasn’t sustainable. And most of them couldn’t afford to hire proper wardens.”

You looked down, fingers idly toying with the corner of your napkin. “So my father hired them himself and paid for the fuel to burn too. They’d build firelines on the outskirts, massive pyres like the ones in the city to burn hot and long enough to lure the Ignivorae away from homes. If the flames didn’t kill the things outright, the wardens would. ”

Bucky was quiet, eyes drifting toward the window. The snow had deepened outside, smooth hills like frozen waves rolling across the plain. The sun peeked over the horizon in slivers of pale gold and silver, bouncing off the frost-bitten world in blinding flashes. Mountains loomed ahead like jagged teeth, their peaks lost in cloud.

“With protection in place, people could sleep again. And once that foundation was stable, once the fireline was holding… then my father would start investing. Building industry. Bringing in trade, tourism, and shipping routes when the rivers allowed for it. Giving the town something to build on.”

The dining car had filled slightly while you talked. The clinking of cutlery and low murmurs of conversation filled the space. A few other passengers sat at the other tables, most dressed in heavy coats and wool scarves. One man read a newspaper folded neatly in front of him, while a young woman stirred sugar into her tea.

“Then my mother stepped in. I did too, once I was old enough,” you went on. “She’d open little schoolhouses, sometimes just in empty sheds or old barns at first. We taught the adults first. Reading, writing, and arithmetic so they could manage their own businesses when they came. And then we taught the children, so the next generation didn’t grow up at the mercy of someone else’s charity.”

Bucky turned toward you again, his expression unreadable. That same brooding stare, heavy-lidded and cryptic, like he was always walking the line between irritation and interest. 

“Didn’t peg you for the charitable type,” he said at last.

You gave him a dry look. “It’s not charity. It’s a foundation. If you want people to build something that lasts, you have to teach them how to keep it standing.”

He considered that, thumb tapping once against the edge of the table.

“And when the towns were strong enough to hire their own wardens and run their own schools?” he asked.

“We moved on,” you said simply. “All my father asked was one percent of their profits each year. Over time, it added up. He used that money to invest in the next place.”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned back, eyes still on you. The sunrise spilt gold across his features, catching on the stubble along his jaw, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.

“Sounds borderline predatory, Princess,” he said finally.

You gave a faint smile, one without warmth. “It’s business.”

A pause settled between you, brief but heavy.

“My brother trusts you enough to send you on this escort job, and you barely know anything about him?”

“Didn’t come up much in conversation, Princess,” he said, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Too busy not getting killed. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a sister until he handed me this job.”

You frowned, studying him. “You follow someone that blindly?”

“I follow people who get things done,” he said. “And if he says protectin’ you is part of the deal, then that’s what I’m doin’.”

—

The wind cut sharp through Hollowpass Station, knifing through coats and gloves, the chill carving you down to the bone. Beneath your boots, the platform creaked, salt to banish the ice crunching underfoot. The sun was long gone, leaving the world drained of colour, lit only by moonlight and fire.

Far beyond the edge of the town, a pyre roared like a heartbeat in the dark. Massive, constant and crackling. You watched it through the flurries of snow, that distant beacon where the Firewardens stood vigil. The Ignivorae circled in lazy, sweeping arcs above the flames, dark silhouettes, long-limbed and hungry. One would dive suddenly, vanishing into the fire with a hiss and a burst of embers. The swarm would follow, mindless, forever drawn to the searing light.

Bucky stood nearby, gloved hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and the curve of his collar. He wasn’t watching the pyre, instead scanning the tracks as if willing the train into existence through sheer force of irritation.

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip, then stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share the heat from his body.

He didn’t move. Just gave a small, knowing smirk without looking at you. “You cold, Princess?”

You huffed lightly, eyes still on the horizon. “A little.”

“Gonna get a lot worse where we’re headed,” he said casually. 

A low whistle echoed across the pass. You turned toward the sound, the relief unspoken. You would not be the only one on the platform anxious to be on board where it was warm and sheltered. Somewhere in the dark, gears shifted, and brakes hissed, metal groaning in protest as the train began to slow its approach.

“Do they ever break through?” you asked quietly, nodding toward the fire.

Bucky’s expression turned stony again. “Sometimes.”

“And if that happens while we are out here?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you better hope I’m as good as I say I am.”

The train emerged from the darkness like a beast of iron, the plume of smoke engulfing the falling snow. Around you, the waiting crowd stirred, boots shifting on the frost-glazed platform, murmured conversations fading into anticipation. A conductor stepped forward, shoulders hunkered against the cold and swung down the footstools with practised rhythm. Another man unlatched the station door, shouting over the chatter of passengers as mail and luggage were wheeled out.

You felt the press of people closing in, eager to board. A woman with a bundled baby stood just behind you, and further back, a pair of merchants argued softly over seating. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice the gathering heat of bodies around him. He kept his eyes on the tracks, one hand resting lightly on the strap of his pack.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You travel a lot, then? You seem very at ease with all this.”

“I get around.” He drawled, gaze still on the tracks. “You always this nosy?”

You caught his eye, refusing to let it go. The cold air curled around your cheeks, but the heat building in your chest was enough to thaw any frost.

“You’re a mystery to me,” you confessed, your voice barely above the noise around you. “Maybe I find that interesting.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you. His pupils dilated, irises flicking across your face like he was mapping something he didn’t quite expect to find. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, but you didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he murmured, just for you. “What exactly is it you’re hopin’ to figure out, Princess?”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” you replied, letting the wind catch your words. “Other than that you used to be a Firewarden in the city and work for my brother now.”

He lifted his brows. “You never asked.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just a little closer as the platform shuddered with the weight of the train’s arrival, “I’m asking now.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, the shove of the crowd pulled him closer to you, his warm breath fanning across your chilled cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

You opened your mouth, but your words were lost as the train neared. The brakes shrieked against the frozen rails, a grinding howl that sent a cascade of bright sparks down the line. You flinched from the sound, blinking against the sudden burst of light.

For one breath, it was quiet as you blinked away the stars in your vision.

A scream rang out behind you. 

Then another. 

The platform erupted in chaos, boots scrambling, bags abandoned, a child crying as they were yanked backwards by the hand. Shouts rose, some in warning, others pure terror. 

The Ignivorae hit the platform with a sickening crunch, its claws punching through the wooden planks like it was paper. A monstrous silhouette of twisted anatomy, the creature loomed in the firelight, half-moth, half-man. Its gangly limbs bent at the wrong angles, ending in hooked talons slick with frost. Translucent wings stretched wide behind it, tattered and powdered, like those of a colossal night moth.

Its face—if you could call it that—was a hideous blend of bone-white mandibles and jagged teeth, stretching unnaturally wide. Two bulbous eyes blinked out of sync, scanning the crowd. 

You’d never seen an Ignivorae this close before, not mere paces away. You had seen them at a distance, grown up watching as they dived into the pyres at night. You’d heard descriptions. Your father or brother telling gruesome stories of the outskirts while your mother scolded and ushered you away—‘such stories are not appropriate for young ladies’. In all your years, you had wondered what you would do if faced with such a moment. What would you do if one broke free from the swarm, disregarded the Firewarden’s efforts, and came straight for you? Would you grab a weapon, fight, scream, run?

To your disappointment, all you found was that you froze, as if the ice from the platform had crept up your legs and locked you in place.

With one violent shudder, it threw its wings forward. A cloud of fine, shimmering dust exploded into the air, catching in the light like gold. The effect was anything but beautiful. Screams tore through the crowd as the dust landed on exposed skin, the powder causing instant stinging. Red welts rose in its wake like a poisonous plant’s touch. People scattered in a frenzy, tripping over luggage and each other to escape.

A shriek tore from its throat, shrill and distorted, like metal bending under strain.

You still stood rigid, breath caught in your throat.

Bucky shoved you back, hard enough that your shoulder slammed into a column. “Stay down!” he barked.

The Ignivorae’s milky eyes swung around and locked on Bucky.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp motion, he pulled a hunting knife from inside his coat and rushed the creature. You had no idea where your escort had produced it from nor how long he had been so easily armed on this trip of yours. But rather than worry, you were rather grateful for his cunning. The Ignivorae lunged, jaws unhinging to reveal a mouth full of jagged, needle-like teeth. Bucky ducked beneath them, rolled forward, and drove the blade deep into its abdomen. Thick, black blood sprayed across the frozen platform in thick, oily ropes.

The creature shrieked and thrashed, claws tearing through the air. One struck his shoulder, ripping the fabric clean and exposing the skin beneath. Its wings flared again, dust bursting across him in a glittering veil.

Bucky hissed as the powder kissed his neck and collarbone, shoulder jerking back.

He yanked the blade free and, in one clean movement, rammed it up beneath the creature’s jaw, right into the base of its skull. The Ignivorae gave one final, horrible twitch, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and curling wings.

You scrambled to your feet as Bucky staggered back, breath visible in the frigid air. The bloodied knife remained clenched in his grip. His chest heaved, and an angry rash had already bloomed across the bare skin of his throat and collarbone. 

Without a word, he shook himself off, using his gloved hands to swipe the lingering powder from his coat and pants. He moved carefully, methodically, ensuring no dust remained on the fabric before lowering the knife.

Behind him, the platform was chaos. Passengers sprinted for the station, some rolling and shrieking in pain as the dust settled, others throwing themselves aboard with panicked shouts.

Bucky’s eyes met yours. His jaw was tight, temple flecked with black blood.

“Come on,” he growled. He gave his gloves one final shake, checked the backs of his hands, and then reached for you. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the waiting train.

You stumbled after him, breath hitching, heart racing. “Bucky, are you okay? Are you hurt?” You couldn’t stop looking at the rash blooming angry red across his throat, the skin raw where the powder had settled. “Your skin—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, dragging you onto the train as the doors hissed open. He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were inside, pushing past confused passengers and frantic attendants. “It’s just the dust. Burns like hell.”

You followed him down the narrow corridor, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have…God, you could’ve died—”

“I didn’t,” he said, leading you into your sleeper compartment and shutting the door behind you. The sounds of panic outside muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of the train and your uneven breath. “This is my job, Princess.”

The rash on his neck looked worse, creeping like vines toward his collarbone.

“You’re not fine,” you said, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see it—”

Bucky caught your wrist again, gentler this time. His eyes, still alert from the fight, softened just a little. “I’ll live.”

You were both breathing hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The cabin was just like the last train, with tight quarters and iron fixtures with the same thin, cream-coloured walls and dark wood panelling. Leather seating with overhead luggage storage lined one side, while two narrow bunks lined the other, the lower mattress already creaking under Bucky as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Let me help you.” You argued, holding his gaze with a determination that, deep down, even surprised you.

 He exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall. 

“Check my bag. There’s a jar.” His voice was quieter now but steady. “There's a woman in Glenwyck, a healer. She makes ‘em up for the Wardens. Helps with the rash. This ain’t the first time I’ve been covered in that dust. Won’t be the last.”

You turned to the leather satchel he’d tossed carelessly on the seat opposite. The zipper resisted at first, stiff with cold, but inside was a mess of folded shirts, a canteen, a few loose rolling papers, and the jar he’d mentioned. 

“How did the Ignivorae get past the Wardens? I thought we would’ve been safe so far away.” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you fished the jar from his bag. 

“Sometimes they get past, probably saw the sparks from the breaks and saw an easy target.” Bucky replied through grit teeth. You tossed a look over at him, noting how sweat misted his brow, wincing in pain as the train began to rumble to life once more. You unscrewed the jar lid, and sure enough, a pungent pine scent hit your nose, sharp and earthy, undercut with something vaguely medicinal.

Outside the window, the night blurred by in streaks of white snow and distant firelight. You moved toward him carefully, the jar in one hand. 

“Collar,” you instructed, and he tugged the neck of his torn shirt loose without protest, baring the angry red rash that bloomed along his collarbone and crept up his throat.

When your fingers touched his skin, his eyes flicked up to yours.

You dipped your index finger into the salve and dragged it gently along the inflamed skin, spreading it in careful strokes, watching as it sank in with a faint sheen. The silence between you grew thicker with every slow motion. You tried not to notice how close you were now, standing between his knees, your breath shallow and uneven.

“How long does it take to kick in?” You questioned, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers smoothed up his neck, muscle and tendons shifting under your touch. You swept a thumb across his jugular, and he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“The pain fades first,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Rash’ll stick around for a day or two.”

You were the first to look away.

You screwed the lid back on with a quiet click and stepped toward the bag resting on the seat. The train lurched under your feet, and you reached for the bunk rail to steady yourself—only to find Bucky already there, his hands catching your waist, steadying you like it was second nature.

His bag slid off the seat behind you, spilling its contents across the cabin floor.

You hid the flush rising to your cheeks, brushing his hands away gently as you crouched to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

“Princess—” he muttered, shifting like he might kneel down too.

“Sit still,” you cut in, already scooping up his belongings. He let out a sound—half a sigh, half a grumble—but obeyed, leaning back against the wall as you stuffed shirts and supplies back into the leather pack.

It was only as you blindly grasped a stack of thick paper that you hesitated, eyes glancing up. In your hand, you held a bundle of letters wrapped in twine. At least a dozen, maybe more, none of them opened. The edges were worn, some water-stained, others wrinkled from being carried too long. A few still had wax seals, cracked from travel but untouched.

“Bucky…” you said, turning them over slowly. “What are these?”

He didn’t look at you. “Letters.”

“I can see that.” You cut back, exasperated, peeking up at him. “You haven’t opened any of them.”

“I know.” He responded, and for a moment, you thought that was all he would give you. But after what appeared to be a lengthy internal deliberation, he sighed through his nose and offered you a further explanation. “They’re from my friend. Steve.”

“And you haven’t read them?” Your thumb ran down the corner of the stack, the paper flicking against your nail. “These must go back months.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just leaned back against the wall with a straight face. He was watching you with that same vigilant calm, like he was already bracing for whatever reaction he was worried you might give.

“I can’t read,” he confessed finally.

You stilled. “You can’t… what?”

Your voice caught in surprise as you turned toward him fully. “But you’ve been reading the tickets, the signs—why would your friend keep sending letters if—?”

“I can read a bit,” he interrupted. 

“I know enough words to get by. Basics. Just not enough to keep up with letters like that.” His tone was slightly irritated as if he was unsure if your questions were mocking or genuine confusion. “The letters were for me and a friend, Sam. He could read. That’s why Steve would send ‘em.”

“Sam’s been dead about a year now, so…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the dark panelling opposite. “I had no way to tell Steve. So I just… held onto the letters. I figured I’d read them eventually. Once I learned.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Your gaze dropped to the stack again, fingers gently brushing over one of the names penned in Steve’s neat, looping script. Sam must have died working in Glenwyck. You could blame your brother for drawing him to that place, but Glenwyck was no crueller than any other firepost. The Firewardens knew the risks. It didn’t make it any less tragic.

Bucky only grunted in response. From your place on the floor, you studied him quietly. Maybe you’d misread him. Maybe he wasn’t gruff for the sake of being difficult or to scare you. Maybe there really was a weight he carried, something heavy and damaged beneath the sharp edges. Had sorrow or bitterness carved itself into him after everything he’d seen?

And against your better judgment, you offered something small. “I could read them for you. Teach you how to read. If… if that’s something you’d want?”

His brows knit together, jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. Then it set hard. “I don’t want to be another one of your charity cases, Princess—”

You cut him off. “It’s not charity, remember? It’s foundation.”

He stared down at you, lips set in a fine line as he contemplated. 

“...Okay.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself up onto the mattress beside him. He blinked at your sudden movement, instinctively leaning back as you settled next to him, letters in hand. For a moment, his guarded expression cracked, just long enough for surprise to flicker in his eyes.

Reading mystery letters for your sullen escort would be the perfect temporary distraction, and the bonus was that maybe you’d learn something new about him. Something he wouldn’t explicitly tell you himself unless sufficiently prompted. 

You held up the bundle with a teasing smile. “Maybe, if you behave, I’ll even help you write back.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smirk. “Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You laughed, light and genuine. “Worth a shot.”

—

A few hours had passed, marked only by the clack of wheels over frozen tracks and the steady glow of the oil lamp overhead. Letters were strewn across the bunk and spilt onto the floor like fallen leaves, pages soft and yellowing, ink curling in elegant loops. To your mild disappointment, you’d discovered that the mysterious ‘Steve’ wasn’t the author of those elegant words. It was his wife, Peggy, who had penned most of the letters in his stead while he worked the pyres. You were curled into the corner of the bottom bunk, your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s as you read another aloud.

“‘—and then Steve nearly broke his own nose trying to prove to Dugan that he could knock a pinecone off the fence post from thirty paces. It was like watching two puppies try to arm wrestle. I had to bribe the store clerk with liquorice just to get him to hand over an ice pack.’” You snorted a laugh, eyes dancing as you glanced up at Bucky.

He was grinning—really grinning—for the first time all day. “Dugan always gets him so wound up. It’s a miracle the two of them haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And Peggy bribed someone with liquorice for him?”

“Of course she did. They’ve been together for years, but she still acts like the exasperated schoolteacher, and he’s the scrappy kid with skinned knees and dirt on his chin.”

You smiled softly, letting the letter drift onto the growing pile between you.

“Why didn’t Steve and Peggy go with you and Sam to Glenwyck?” you asked, hesitantly glancing over at Bucky.

He shifted slightly, gaze distant. “He considered it. The pay was better, no doubt. But they’d just got married, and they were trying for a baby… didn’t want to raise a kid in that kind of place. It’s hard enough just surviving it.”

“I get it.” You hummed, selecting the next letter on the pile. You were about halfway through now, around six months deep. “Probably why my brother didn’t want me out there with him.”

“Did he write you much?” Bucky asked. “While he was out there?”

“No.” You replied, being careful not to meet his eye as you frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again, to be honest.”

“You thought he abandoned you?” You could feel the heat of his gaze on your cheek as you refused to meet his eye.

“Kind of… I—” You were cut off as the door slid open with a rattling clang, and a uniformed attendant stepped into the frame. He peaked around the side, down to where you and Bucky sat on the bottom bunk, knees and shoulders touching. 

“We’re entering blackout protocol,” he said briskly. “There’s been a report of a swarm of Ignivorae sighted along the pass ahead. All windows must be shut, and metal shutters secured. No lights. All lamps and candles extinguished until morning.”

You sat up straighter, a chill slicing through your earlier comfort.

“How long until we reach them?” Bucky asked, already rising to his feet.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. Best to be ready.” The attendant gave a curt nod, then slid the door shut with a decisive snap.

Before you could fully register what was happening, Bucky moved. He crossed the compartment in two strides and dragged the heavy metal shutter down over the window with a grinding creak, locking it in place. 

You remained on the bunk, gathering the scattered letters into your lap with slow, distracted movements. Your gaze drifted toward the sealed window, then the door. Already, your imagination filled in the silence, the scrape of claws against the glass, the dry whisper of wings brushing steel.

Bucky reached for the oil lamp mounted near the door.

“Wait—” you blurted, your voice small and unsure.

He hesitated, eyes finding yours. “It’s okay.”

And then, with a twist of his hand, the flame vanished.

Darkness swept in like a wave.

The only sound left was the soft rumble of the train, the occasional jostle of the carriage, and the muffled shuffle of other passengers beyond your door. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear sit too heavy in your chest.

The mattress shifted. You felt Bucky’s hand brush your arm gently, guiding, not pulling. 

“You wanna head up top to sleep?” he asked quietly. “Best to get some rest before we hit Norcross. Won’t be much shuteye once we’re in the carriage.”

You didn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted in place as something old and cold took hold of your limbs. Without thinking, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails catching in the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t… I—”

Bucky stilled. “You alright, Princess?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” The words came out in a rush, and Bucky paused. You could feel him hovering above, silence stretched between you. “I’m afraid—”

“Hell, Princess. After what you just heard, I think anyone would be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not of the Ignivorae.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m scared of the dark.”

A pause.

“…What?”

“See?” you muttered, already curling in on yourself. “I knew you’d laugh—”

“You hear me laughing?” Bucky said flatly. You heard the soft rustle of his collar. He was shaking his head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand. You’ve done blackouts before, haven’t you?”

“Not true blackouts,” you whispered. “I’ve always lived where there are Wardens. Never fully dark. There would always be the glow from the fires, even at night. I just got used to it, I suppose.”

“I get it. I do.” Bucky replied, though it was accompanied by a long sigh. “We can’t have any light, though, you understand?”

“I know, I just…”

“C’mere.”

You blinked as his arm eased around you, gently pulling you back. In the dark, it was a clumsy tangle of elbows and whispered apologies as he shifted onto the mattress beside you, legs stretched out. He found the wall and leaned against it, adjusting you with him until your side pressed to his, and his arm was warm and firm around your shoulders, guiding you into the curve of his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You let yourself settle there, head resting against the soft thrum of his heartbeat, the faint scent of pine and smoke on his shirt. His thumb brushed against your upper arm in slow, grounding circles.

“If there’s one thing I can promise, Princess,” Bucky murmured, voice low near your ear, “it never gets properly dark in Glenwyck. Wardens keep the pyres lit all through the night. You’ll feel right at home.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting yourself drift, allowing the tingling sparks in your spine and the butterflies in your stomach to drown out the shadow that had gripped you moments before.

“Thank you—” you began to whisper, but the words died on your lips as a loud bang cracked through the carriage.

It echoed like a thunderclap against hollow steel. Somewhere further down the train, a woman cried out. A muffled yelp, cut off just as quickly. You jolted upright, heart slamming into your throat.

“What was that?” you gasped, voice trembling.

Bucky’s hand found your waist again, pulling you back against him. “The start of the swarm.”

Your body stiffened. “There’s nothing we can do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, his voice was calm but firm. “No. Safest thing is to ride it out. We’re sealed in tight. Metals thick, train’s fast. They won’t get in.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your head whipped toward him in the dark. Even with your faces just inches apart, you couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything.

“Then what was that noise?”

"One of ‘em. Hit the side of the train. Likely died on impact." His voice was clear and deliberate like he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of it. As if he knew that if you could just understand, truly believe the train was too fast, too strong, too sealed for them to breach, you might be able to quiet the fear clawing its way up your chest.

But, as if summoned by his words, another bang, closer this time, rang out. Then another. A few passengers gasped. Someone down the car stifled a scream. The train rocked slightly under the force of the impacts. You clung to Bucky’s shirt now, the fabric balled in your fists.

The air felt too thin, like this train of death was suddenly headed up a steep mountain where your lungs could never truly be full.

The next strike was louder like something bigger had collided with the carriage. You flinched hard, pressing your face into Bucky’s shoulder. His arm tightened around you, his other hand bracing against the wall behind.

Then, the real storm began.

Bang—bang—bang! 

A rapid succession of impacts, like hailstones the size of skulls, hammering against the train’s body. The metal groaned, wheels screeching beneath you as the train barreled forward, but the sounds of the Ignivorae overpowered everything else. The shrieks and shouts of other passengers mixed in, panicked, pleading, praying.

Something scraped along the roof.

You let out a choked sob, the noise strangled in your throat. You buried yourself deeper into Bucky’s chest, the darkness pressing in on all sides. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t breathe. Every bang sounded like the end.

The screams got louder.

The sound grew. Deafening. Hundreds of bodies, maybe more, slamming against the train, shrieking past the windows like banshees in flight. You were shaking violently now, your hands trembling as they clutched at him. A cry tore out of you, high-pitched and helpless, and you didn’t care anymore if anyone heard.

You were sobbing into his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably as the sounds swelled into a relentless cacophony.

And still, Bucky held you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, his voice the only thing not swallowed by the chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hold onto me.”

And in the dark, with hell crashing against the walls around you, you did.

Your chest heaved in shallow bursts. The darkness felt thicker now—suffocating, alive. Each blow from outside rattled the walls and echoed through your bones like war drums. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Couldn’t think at all.

Your fingers clutched blindly at Bucky’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tight your knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t feel your hands. Couldn’t feel your face. The air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, too hot, too thin, too sharp.

“Hey…hey, Princess—”

His voice sounded far away like it was coming from underwater. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your whole body had turned to ice and fire at once. You shook your head wildly, gasping now, sobs hitching through clenched teeth.

“Princess.” Bucky’s hands framed your face now, gentle but firm, thumbs brushing just below your eyes. “You’re panickin’. I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Another bang rocked the train, louder than before. You flinched violently, trying to curl in on yourself, but Bucky didn’t let you. He held you steady, close.

“Look at me.” His voice was still soft, but it cut through the noise. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe. Just breathe with me.”

You were shaking so hard now your teeth chattered. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t get enough air.

“In through your nose,” Bucky coached, his forehead pressing gently to yours, “out through your mouth. You don’t have to get it perfect. Just follow me.”

You tried.

Tried to match the rhythm of his voice, the slow inhale, the deliberate exhale. But your lungs wouldn’t cooperate. A strangled noise tore from your throat instead, a fresh wave of sobs threatening to overtake you.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice unwavering even as the train screamed around you. “You’re right here with me. There’s nothin’ in this room ‘cept you and me. Hold onto that.”

You clung to his words, desperate.

And slowly, painfully, your breathing started to stutter into some kind of rhythm, still shaky, still uneven, but present. You could feel the heat of him against you, solid, real. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his breath brushing your temple.

“That’s it. There you go. Just keep doing that. With me.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your body jolted, instinct still screaming, but Bucky was already grounding you again. His hands rubbed slow circles down your back. One of them moved to rest over your chest, right above your racing heart, like he could steady it with his palm alone.

“You’re doin’ good. I’ve got you.”

The shrieking from outside started to change. The tempo of the blows against the train shifted, less frequent, less violent, like the worst of the swarm was beginning to pass. The wails of the passengers faded, tapering off into soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It was still dark, but the sounds were thinning.

Your breath, still ragged, wasn’t choking you anymore.

You pressed your forehead to Bucky’s collarbone and let the tears come, quieter this time, not from panic but from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, just kept holding you, hand never stopping its soothing rhythm across your back.

Eventually, the last of the banging faded into the distance, swallowed by the speed of the train. A tense silence settled over the carriage, broken only by the muted sobs of a child somewhere and the faint clatter of wheels against rail.

And in the black stillness of that bunk, pressed close to Bucky’s chest, you finally breathed in fully and let it out in a slow, trembling sigh.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you until sleep finally took you. 

—

You stirred slowly. Your cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. His arm was heavy over your back, warm and protective, like it had stayed there all night. You breathed in, taking the scent of him.

You didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

“Mornin’,” came his voice, rough with sleep. You felt the vibration of it beneath your ear.

You hummed back softly, not quite trusting your voice yet.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, still tucked into his side. “Yeah… I think so.”

Your voice was quiet but true. You shifted a little, your hand brushing across his ribs, and tilted your head just enough to glance up at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He gave a lazy smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that charming, crooked way of his.

“We’re close to Norcross now,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Train’s slowin’ already. You slept right through the breakfast call.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Like the dead.” He grinned. “Figured you needed it.”

“I must’ve…” You hesitated, glancing around the bunk before finally, reluctantly, beginning to peel yourself away from him. Your limbs were stiff with sleep and the lingering tension of last night, but the moment was already slipping from you. Duty waited beyond the window.

Still, you paused.

Hovering just above him.

He looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, unreadable as ever, though the corners had softened.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you said again, with a faint smile this time.

He made a pleased sound, something deep and amused in his chest, and before you could shift away completely, his hand caught your waist.

“Not done,” he muttered.

And with that, he pulled you back in. His other hand came to the side of your face, and he kissed you—properly, this time. No hesitation. Just the soft crush of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his palm, the rough edge of stubble beneath your fingertips. You melted into it, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the train swayed gently beneath you.

A knock at the door startled you both, you jerked back slightly as it slid open with a clatter.

“Passengers, we’re making our final approach to Norc—”

Bucky didn’t even look.

He reached out with one hand and slammed the door shut again.

A stunned silence followed outside the compartment, but Bucky was already turning back to you, eyes glinting with mischief as you giggled in disbelief.

“Now, where were we?” he murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back as he tugged you in again.

[hashtagcigarette]

Lisa Frank

summary: joel doesn't like you poking fun at his age. you make it your mission to prove to him that his age isn't a point against him.

warnings: unprotected piv, lil makeout sesh, reader is afab & able bodied but otherwise not described, pet names (angel, little girl, kid (once... dont look at me), baby, etc.), joel smokes, lowkey sub!joel for a second before he finds his voice lol, creampie, im probably forgetting some sorry folks

word count: 3k

note: this is truly just pure filth and a very small teenie weenie bit of plot surrounding joel's insecurity about his age. im horny for old peepaw joel what can i say. also i havent posted fic on tumblr in like 6 years so,,,, hello? ++ no beta we die like men or whatever they're saying now.

The ground between the small, square plots in your neighborhood became soft and jagged with fresh grass in the late spring, absent only in the shadows of the trailers and in the places where kiddie pools filled with hose water flattened the growth against the earth. You had a kiddie pool against your will– when your air conditioning had gone out, Joel had dropped a pink, plastic one at your front door with a sticky note inside that read, “DON’T DIE OF HEAT STROKE”.

And as trashy as it looked in your front yard between the orange picnic table and the rusted wire clothesline, you couldn’t help but stumble into it most mornings when you woke up sweating. You liked it even more when you had the willpower to drive to the liquor store and get a bag of ice to dump into it. This morning in particular, you’d even grabbed yourself an ice cream sandwich.

The freshly risen sun projected a yellow-orange hue through the high grass and onto the soles of your bare feet as they poked from the edge of the pool, the angle at which it shone reminiscent of six-ish-AM. Joel would be leaving for work soon, you knew, and your eyes rested on his front door as you slid your ice cream sandwich out of its wrapper.

He was one of the only neighbors you (sometimes) got along with. There was something about a stranger in town that gave folks the creeps, he had said, though you’d lived there a year already and no one seemed to be getting any friendlier.

As if you’d made it happen with your mind, a few seconds after you’d glanced in the direction of Joel’s trailer, the door swung open and smacked against the wall. His work shirt waved through the air like a flag as he tossed it over his shoulder, descending the steps in only a white undershirt and a pair of jeans that had absolutely seen better days. The jingle of his keys as he shoved them into his pocket was the only sound, save for the soft trickle of the hose into your pool.

You grinned as he stepped out from beneath the overhang and into the light. He put a cigarette into his mouth, looking you over.

“This is gluttony if I’ve ever seen it,” he said, fishing a lighter out of his pocket.

You forced a frown, flicking water onto his pant leg with your toe. “You bought the pool.”

“Yeah. Just didn’t expect the ice cream sandwich.” His lighter was red and dented, glinting in the sun as he flicked it beneath his thumb. Bending at the waist, he shielded his smoke from the breeze with a broad hand and rolled the sparkwheel in a continuous tempo, clicking and clicking and clicking as the sound of the hose dripping into the pool droned on.

You huffed, pushing yourself up on your arms. “C’mere. I got one.”

And boy, did you. It was a gaudy thing encrusted with purple rhinestones and a ripoff-Lisa-Frank decal, and it reflected the sunlight from the green, metal table that sat beside the kiddie pool. He knelt in the grass as you reached for it, watching your nearly bare body stretch and your wet hand tighten around the lighter’s bedazzled surface.

Resting his arm over his knee, he offered his hand, palm-up, and you placed the lighter into it with a grin.

“I think it’s your style,” you chirped, biting your ice cream sandwich as he looked the thing over.

He shook his head and lit his smoke, biting down on the filter like an amputee would bite down on a scrap of leather. “How’d you know? Think it goes with my outfit?”

“Oh, yeah. Pink brings out yer eyes. Makes you look younger.”

“Younger?” Joel wiggled his eyebrows, puffing out a ring of smoke and placing the lighter back into your hand. “How much younger, you reckon?”

Mocking thought, you pressed your finger to your chin, looking him over through your eyebrows. “You could pass for seventy five, give or take a couple’a years.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are, little girl.”

“Okay, fine. Sixty.”

He shook his head, glancing back over his shoulder as the sun rose steadily over the hill behind the parking lot. It must’ve been nearly seven by then, making him nearly late to work.

You wiggled your toes, thumbing ice cream from the corner of your mouth and then licking it off. “Maybe fifty nine, if you’re lucky.”

“I am fifty nine.”

“Yeowch. Sorry.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched, sweat reflecting the morning light and accentuating the nearly invisible motion as he suckled the filter of his cigarette. When he glanced back at you, brown eyes blinking slowly in true kicked-puppy fashion, you giggled.

“‘M sorry. Didn’t know your age was a sore subject.”

“‘S not a sore subject.”

“Seems like it is.”

Joel exaggerated his pout, batting his eyes as he took a slow drag and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “You’re just kickin’ an old man when he’s down, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you poor baby.” You cupped his jaw with your wet hand, soothing the coase facial hair beneath your thumb as a faux sob fell from his lips. His acting was a little sub-par (and he was much less funny than he realized, carrying on like he was) but Joel knew how to pull on your heart strings. Clicking your tongue, you said, “I don’t think you’re too old, honey. You’re just right.”

The pretend look of devastation remained on his face even as his eyes opened, both sides of his mouth contorting downwards into a pathetic glower. “Just right for what?”

But then you were too close to him, and his face was in your palm, and he was realizing that you hadn’t really touched him before this as you took a slow bite of your ice cream sandwich with your free hand. He could feel the bit falling away for a moment, face falling as you inched closer, heat pressing down on the both of you from all sides as the sun continued to rise.

You clicked your tongue again, grinning. “For a Lisa Frank lighter.”

Joel’s face faltered yet again, wide eyes blinking at you as you started to laugh. He cleared his throat, blinking. “Oh. Real funny.”

Your shoulders vibrated and you hung your head as you giggled, tossing the half-eaten ice cream sandwich into the grass beside the pool. “Wait–” you said with a smile in your voice as he started to stand, the hand on his face trailing down to his collar to pull him back down.

Joel, who had stopped thinking this was funny several moments ago, swallowed hard, watching as you flicked your sticky fingers in the water. He met your eyes again sheepishly when you said his name, sweat reflecting the blinding sun at his temple.

“Joel,” you said, still smiling. “I’m kidding. I’m sorry.”

And as needlessly embarrassed as he felt, he still couldn’t help but relish the feeling of you cupping his face, holding him with one hand as, with the other, you fidgeted and flicked beads of water into the air. You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“Let me show you what I think you’re just right for, hm?”

And that was how he ended up in your trailer, sitting on the edge of your bed, becoming more and more late to work as the minutes crawled by. You straddled his lap, facing him, holding his jaw in your hands and looking him over with exaggerated admiration.

Joel was sweating, and he was sure that even if your air conditioning hadn’t been broken and even if it hadn’t been over a hundred out that day, he still would’ve felt feverish. His hands held your hips in a vice grip, nervous twitch entirely evident as his left wrist vibrated against you.

You gnawed on your lower lip, fingers moving up to thread into his hair.

When you breathed out a hushed “You’re so pretty”, it elicited from him the smallest of chuckles, only slightly audible over the sound of your ragged breathing. As if testing the waters, he slid his hand from your hip to your waist, squeezing you there instead.

“Oh yeah?” He dug the tips of his fingers into your damp skin, blunt nails and calluses pressing just a bit too hard, surely leaving marks.

Your bathing suit was an old red one, something you’d bought for yourself before you’d moved to Austin, something loose and outrageously easy to untie. Joel’s tremor was the only thing keeping you from tearing it from your body and tossing it to the floor– you didn’t want to scare him off. “Yeah,” you parotted, petting the scruff on his cheek with the gentlest pressure. Then, impatiently: “You wanna kiss me, cowboy?”

Joel swallowed, body becoming tense again beneath you. His face warmed beneath your fingers as he nodded, fingers drumming at your side. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, meeting your gaze. “Yes. Please.”

You’d pictured kissing him before– it was something you did in secret, watching him from the window beside your bed in the evenings when he’d get home late from work, waiting for him to come back out with a beer and sit on his front steps. It was something you were embarrassed of and something you would never ever tell him about, but your fantasies stirred in the back of your mind as you finally did kiss him, pressing up onto your knees with his face in your hands.

He was more timid than you’d imagined, but you weren’t surprised by this. Anyone would seem timid compared to the way you’d pictured him– rugged, aggressive, uncaring as he took what he needed. That was the Joel you made up in your head when you touched yourself at night.

This Joel was visibly nervous, hand still trembling against your waist as he returned the kiss, soft lips drinking you in. This Joel pressed you against him like you might fall away, kissed you back unsteadily at first, but quickly gained confidence. This Joel, as the moments dragged on, brought his shaking hands up to hold your head, to steady the both of you.

You could feel him relaxing as you licked into his mouth and pride swelled in your chest, pressing out of you like steam escaping a whistling kettle. Your hands found his shoulders and, breaking away, you squeezed them, ensuring he was entirely real.

“I want you to fuck me,” you breathed against his lips, eyes flicking open, searching his features for any hint of hesitation.

He met your gaze with a small smile and, to your surprise, gripped the back of your neck with an unyielding fervor, pressing you towards him again and laying a wet kiss at the corner of your mouth. “Oh yeah?” he said again with a grin seeping through his features.

The tremor in his wrist had calmed somewhat, you noticed as you reached back and took his free hand from your waist, threading your fingers together. He guided you with this hand, pushing you gently off of him and onto your bed where you landed flat on your back. Your wet bathing suit surely left spots of water on the quilt beneath you, but no part of you cared enough to pay it any mind.

As Joel crawled over you, callused hands running over your bare stomach, you smiled at him.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” you asked, reaching for his face again as he dipped down to kiss you.

His fingers ran down your middle, gingerly dancing over your bikini bottoms. “Been thinkin’ about you since the day you moved in, darlin’.” The tips of his fingers dragged tortuously lower, splitting the seam of your cunt with his knuckles through the fabric. Gently, he cupped your mound, pressing his palm against you as he buried his face in your neck. “Spread your legs, angel. Be good f’me.”

You did as he said, even as a smirk crossed your face. It took everything in you to mutter “Be good?” as he pressed his thick fingers against your slit again, bikini bottoms digging against your little nub with the most delicious friction. Attempting to regain your composure as he worked you, you continued: “Don’t get cocky, old man.”

“Oh, none’a that,” said Joel as one finger ventured beneath the fabric, exploring your slick. The timid Joel seemed to have disappeared completely, having been replaced by whoever the hell this was. “You speak to your elders with respect, you understand?”

You keened, partly at his words and partly at the feeling of his callused fingertip brushing over your clit, pressing the bud in what seemed to be an experimental manner. As he began to prod your button, movements jerky and desperate, his free hand gripped the back of your neck.

“Come on,” he said, meeting your eyes with a self-satisfied grin. “Tell me you understand. Say ‘yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” you complied immediately.

“That’s what I wanna hear, kid. That’s it.”

He worked you for a minute or so, enjoying the feel of your little bud beneath his fingertips, and a frankly pitiful whimper escaped you when his hand retreated from between your legs. Squirming, you brought your knees to your chest, watching as his hands found his belt.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked as he slid the leather from the loops on his jeans, discarding it on the dirty carpet and fishing for his zipper.

“Please, Joel.” Your voice was nothing more than a harsh whisper, floating from you as you watched him jerk his jeans down his hips.

He was leaning over you again before you could get a glimpse of his cock, pulling himself out of his boxers as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it– slipping between your wet lips, bulbous head pressing against your clit. “So polite,” he said, trembling as he ran himself up and down your slit. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

You must’ve asked nicely enough because then he was inching forward, pressing the fat head of his cock into you with no regard for the painful stretch, relishing in the pull of your little hole around him. A strangled sound left his mouth, whimpers pouring out of him like water from a broken tap.

You winced at the stretch, gripping his shirt in two closed fists. He gave you a distracted glare when a “fuck” escaped you, leaning over you and caging you in with both broad arms.

“Language,” he said, though as close as he was to bottoming out, your curses didn’t deter him.

When he was fully inside, pulsing length filling you entirely and stretching your poor hole to oblivion, he only paused for a moment before he began to move. Sweat gleamed off his forehead, reflecting the morning light from your bedroom window like soft, slick glitter and accentuating the concentrated twitch of the muscles in his jaw.

The pull of his cock dragging slowly out of your hole had you scrambling for purchase, arms looping around the back of his neck. “Joel. Jesus–”

“I know, I know,” he cooed, shushing you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You can take it. Just ease into it.”

“Want it so bad,” you panted as he moved back in, feeling his tip rip its way through you again on its trajectory to your cervix. You shook, feeling his lips trail down your jaw. “Want you to force it in, Joel.”

This made him laugh under his breath, a deep chuckle that reverberated against the low ceiling. He met your eyes with a grin as he pressed himself deeper, enjoying the way your face contorted. “You’re real fucked up, you know that, baby?”

“You like it,” you breathed, gnawing on your lower lip.

“Yeah, I do.”

As you relaxed around him, Joel found a pace somewhere between painfully slow and forcefully ragged, something steady that made you keen and squirm beneath his broad form. He pumped himself into you like every stroke was the most important one, brows knit together in concentration, feeling every bit of you drag up and down his massive length.

“So tight, angel. Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. The big arms that pressed the mattress down on either side of your head tightened and relaxed, pulsing in time with his strokes. “Not gonna last too long, little girl.”

The look that you gave him made him shake his head, gritting his back teeth. “Not gonna cum in you,” he said sternly, though the slam of his hips said otherwise.

You bit the inside of your cheek, brows knitting together. “How come?”

“What do you mean, how come, girl?”

“‘M on the pill.”

“‘S the principal of the thing, kid,” he hissed through his teeth, hanging his head as he fucked into you. His strokes were becoming sloppy and forceful, body slapping against yours with reckless, cacophonous abandon. “Fuck, ‘m close. Where do you want it?”

“In me.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not bein’ funny.”

Each time he thrust into your little hole, a whine left you, fingers threading uncoordinatedly through his hair. Meeting his eyes, you craned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, tongue darting out to lick into his mouth. “Please, Joel,” you whimpered, watching as his face lost any look of composure. “Want your cum in me.”

“Angel.” A warning.

“Please.”

Joel hung his head once more, pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck, hands coming to grip your waist so tightly that his fingers would leave faint bruises. His resolve was slipping; his hips twitched, jerking as he pressed into you.

“Fuck. Okay, baby. Okay.”

And then his orgasm was ripping through him, making his muscles spasm and his face go slack. His cum was thick and hot, shooting from his cock like a medication drip and filling your hole to the point of overflow. Each time you thought he was done, another spurt hit your insides, ripping a low whine from deep in his chest.

When he finally collapsed on top of you, cock softening, he buried his nose in the crook of your neck. His grip on your waist still hadn't loosened, still holding you in place as he panted.

You watched the muscles in his back rise and fall, moving with his rapid breath, heart hammering against you. His greying hair caught the morning light, compelling you to put your fingers in it, to brush it back tenderly from his face.

“Thought you had work,” you said quietly, fingers dancing at the base of his neck.

Joel snorted. His eyes were closed. “Thought you thought I was too old.”

“You know I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

[funnier-as-a-system]

Just a heads up someone who @'d you recently (404shcats) is red on SE and likely a TERF. Thought you should know, stay safe broski

-Recoil

Hello. Thank you for the concern, but Shinigami Eyes is no longer a trustworthy tool for scouting transphobes such as TERFs. The person you mention addresses this in their pinned post here, and more information can be found in and in the notes of this post. In short, those who moderate and often report users through Shinigami Eyes have begun being/using it to be very transphobic in recent times, especially towards non-dysphoric trans people, trans men, trans people of color, and general trans + intersex inclusionists, framing these people as "transphobes" for not agreeing with common exclusionism and gatekeeping, much like how other inclusionists are framed as bigots for not participating in lateral aggression or discrimination against a particular group (e.g. this is what anti-endos do, framing all pro-endos as ableist for supporting endogenic systems). We do not use Shinigami Eyes and do not consider it a trustworthy source on who is or isn't a transphobe, as it is little more than a stranger's individual and vague review of someone with little to no evaluation from anyone else, which means it is subject to their bias and the bias of the few moderators that run it. I would highly recommend no longer using the tool from here on out and instead evaluating individual blogs for yourself. Other habits and tools that show more promise in avoiding transphobia/transphobes include:

Blocking tags related to TERFism, transphobia, and radical feminism.

Learning dogwhistles such as "womxxn", "womban/wombyn", and "gender traitors", often used by TERFs.

Blocking those who say things that TERFs often say, such as "testosterone is poison" or "all men are perverts", or who show concern about "men in women's bathrooms", "misguided/manipulated young girls mutilating their bodies", or "gender ideology".

Carefully considering posts you see about gender and sex related issues from people you don't know/trust, so as to check if they include subtle bioessentialism, gender essentialism, sexism, intersexism, or transphobia.

Listening to trans and intersex folk about their experiences with TERFs and transphobia/intersexism, so as to get a better idea of what to look out for and how to support trans and intersex people.

In other words, thank you for the concern, but please do not rely on word-of-mouth (as that is essentially how Shinigami Eyes works) to spread rumors on who is and is not a bigot without fact-checking. Fact-checking shows that this system is not a TERF. [PT: Fact-checking shows that this system is not a TERF. / end PT] I'd be surprised if any TERF was reblogging that many positive posts about trans folk and had several openly trans headmates.

[drchucktingle]

my masks

hey there buckaroos. due to all of the attention the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION situation has gotten i am going to take a minute to talk about my personal way as an autistic buckaroo. im going to tell you about my masks.

im doing this for a few reasons, some are good FUN reasons full of love and some are not so great. 

lets start with the GOOD STUFF. first of all, i am talking about this because speaking on my way can help other buckaroo feel more comfortable speaking on there own way, ESPECIALLY if they are good at ‘passing’ for neurotypical like chuck is. 

unfortunately the NOT SO GREAT reasons im talking about all this dang stuff are two fold. reason one: i have been put into a position of having to explain and justify my needs and boundaries by the TXLA. this is not something that i WANT to be taking up all of my time, but when large organizations do not make space for those who they have pledged to support, it puts us smaller buckaroos into position where were have to defend our existence. it is not plesent but it is necessary.

the second NOT SO GREAT reason is that ‘passing’ bisexual and autistic people like myself are ALWAYS just seconds from being gatekept from folks both outside and inside these communities. there will probably be a day on chucks deathbed where i take off my mask and say hello to this timeline (mostly so you can all see how handsome i am under here but I DIGRESS). i KNOW with absolute certainty (the same way other bi and autistic buckaroos are probably nodding along right now) that when that day comes i will STILL be accused of ‘not being real’ and ‘faking’ because i ‘dont look autistic’ and i have a beautiful ladybuck partner in sweet barbara.

ALL THAT IS TO SAY, i am taking a moment today to talk FOR THE RECORD about my neurodigence and my particular needs. hopefully i will not have to keep diving this deep every time an organization takes a discrimantory action against me, but i will also say this: at least it is a good fight on an important battlefield

anyway buds, here is the story of my way on the spectrum

when i was a young buckaroo i knew that my thought process was different. i could socialize easily, which is unique in contrast to many autistic buds (it is a spectrum after all), but my social ease was for an interesting reason. I ALWAYS KNEW WHAT OTHERS WERE ABOUT TO SAY. it was like a strange ‘human game’ where someone would say one thing and i would think ‘well you actually mean something else’ in a sort of logical way (this is why i later related to DATA from star trek so dang much). at first i remember thinking ‘well i am just NOT going to play along with this human game’. i quickly learned neurotypical buckaroos do not like this, that there is a BOB AND WEAVE to social interactions that must be learned. 

later i realized ‘actually if i WANT to make friends and prove love is real then i can do this like an expert because i can SEE the game where most cant’. this got chuck many buds and took me on many adventures. please understand, i am not saying these connections are not important to me, they are just different. they are full of love, but i express this in my own unique way.

HOWEVER, while growing up i felt disconnected from this timeline in other ways, like an alien or a reverse twin trotting along in a world that is not quite my own. i did not feel emotions the same way my buds did. they would get upset over the ‘human game’ interactions and i would not be moved at all, HOWEVER i could see the way sunlight hit a window and start crying my dang eyes out over the beauty. so my emotion was still there and VERY STRONG, i just felt it in more existential ways (like hearing the call of the lonesome train). these days that feeling has progressed to where i am pretty much in a constant blissed out state of cosmic emotional connection (make of that last sentence what you will, but it is the truth). when i make existential posts online i am not just FIRING OFF SOME CONTENT, i really mean every word. this is really my trot.

anyway as a young buckaroo these feelings made me worry sometimes. i thought about various mental health dianosises and marked the parts and pieces that matched with myself. am i this? am i that? sometimes, instead of just being’ different’ i worried i might actually be ‘wrong’. 

when i saw david byrne on letterman in my younger days i immediately recognized something connected to myself. i thought ‘wow this is the mystery being solved before my very eyes.’ i could hear it in the music of talking heads too. i started doing research and realized that i might be on autism spectrum, something that was later confirmed by a therapist (back then the diagnosis was called asperger's). it was a glorious and fulfilling moment. i was SO EXCITED TO BE AUTISTIC LIKE MY HERO. i felt very cool because of it, and i still feel very cool because of it.

one of the big reasons i talk so much about being autistic these days is because i want to make sure OTHER buckaroos can have that same moment that i did. they can see chuck and think ‘wow i really like this autistic artist, maybe being autistic is cool’

so what does an average day WITHOUT wearing the pink bag look like for me?

my thought process is exactly like ROSE from CAMP DAMASCUS, which is part of why i wrote the book. we have the same stim (complex order of finger taps), we prepare for social interactions the same way, we analyze things in the same logical trot that neurotypical people might think feels ‘detached’ but for me feels natural (certain reviews of camp damascus are very funny to me in this way. you can tell when a reader is just very confused by existing in an autistic brain for 250 pages.)

from the outside you would not be able to tell that i am on the spectrum. in fact you would probably find me very socially adept. 

the problem is, all of that masking can take its toll. i spent years trotting in and out the emergency room, talking to confused doctors who could not figure out the chronic phantom tension and pain that radiated through my body. i eventually accepted the fact that i would either live a life constantly on heavy painkillers or just stop living altogether.

eventually, however, i started noticing a correlation between the way that i felt, and the space that i allowed for chuck and the pink mask. i was exercising that tension, allowing my mental mask of neurotypical existence to take a rest. i started practicing physical therapy and this time THE RESULTS STUCK because i was approaching from two sides, MIND AND BODY. after a while, i got my pain down to about 5 percent of what it once was. i still have flare ups in times of stress, but the healing has been very real and life changing.

lets get VERY specific now. if i attended the TXLA confrence without a mask and gave my talk i can tell you this: i would do a dang good job. i can work the heck out of a crowd and (not to reveal too much about my secret way) I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO DO THIS ON OCCASION VERY WELL. however, going home from this event i would very likely be in pain. i would likely need to do physical therapy. i would likely need to stim for a while. i would NOT be emotionally fullfilled in the same way. in other words, without my pink mask i can charm the heck out of buckaroos, but THE SPACE OF CHUCK TINGLE IS NOT THE SPACE FOR THAT. the pink bag is a place for me to not have to put up with that tension. it is a place for me to unmask mentally by masking physically.

this pink bag space SAVED MY LIFE and i am not going to risk blurring these lines. if and when that ever happens it will be MY decision, not someone elses. that is my boundary. the part of me that neurotypically masks could handle a library conference in a purely technical sense, but the part of me that chuck represents absolutely cannot and should not be asked to do that without the pink bag. unfortunately, the complexity of this point makes it even MORE difficult for me to think about and takes up even more of my time, because it forces me to START QUESTIONING MYSELF and my own needs. to be honest, that is the most insidious part of other people questioning your identify and refusing to accept your accommodation needs without ‘proof’.

the thing is, while all of this discussion of disability and accessibility is important, i have a much larger point to make by writing these words.

a conference should not uninvite someone with an unusual physical presentation or a strange way of speaking REGARDLESS of it being classified as a disability. it does not matter WHY i look the way that i look and wear what i wear. i should not have to spend all day writing this post instead of writing my next book, just because my sensibilities are unique and my presentation is unusual. 

fortunately the solution is very simple: let other people be themselves. its not hurting you to simply accept and nod at the buckaroos you think look strange. let us exist

[unintentionalseductress]

Uncoded

Warnings: ANGST, slow burn, self-deprecation, general sadness, NO SMUT Summary: Stuck in Linkon City, you never thought you'd be someone other than the MC. What happens when you spawn in the game as an NPC? WC: 8.8 K A/n: Hello everyone! I know it's been a hot minute since I wrote a oneshot, and thank you to all the kinds folks that reached out after I said I was let go a few weeks ago. I'm taking a break after being burnt out at that job, and planning my next moves, but I do want to get back into the joy I found while writing. And who is this girl, there's no smut?! *gasps*

The operating room was cold, and the bright overhead light caught on sterile surgical tools that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. The regular beeping from a heart rate monitor, the hissing and mechanical thunks of the machines that supported the delicate task of the operation filled the room, broken only by the shuffle of surgical gowns and the clink of metal as the used tools were discarded into a separate bowl after their use. 

"Bovie," Zayne says, his voice low but clear.

You passed it to him carefully, your gloves brushing against his briefly, and still, despite the dozen or so times you had done this seemingly insignificant act, it sent little tingles of electricity down your spine. Zayne doesn’t flinch. He never does. He was laser-focused on his patient, the cautery moving with robotic precision along the patient’s heart, the pungent smell of charred tissue mingling with the clean air of the operating theatre. 

Your gaze lingers on him longer than intended. The surgical mask hid most of his face, but his eyes were narrowed in utmost concentration. He always looked like that when he operated, calm and unwavering. Nothing outside the human heart he held in his gloved hands mattered. It was admirable, but you couldn’t stop the sharp pang of longing that lodged itself in your chest every time you assisted in the operating room. 

He doesn’t see me.

You don’t know when the thought first curled into you like a parasite, but it lived there now, quiet, constant, gnawing away at your insides. 

“Retractor,” Zayne requests.

Your hands automatically move, anticipating his needs. As the operation theatre grows quiet again, your mind wanders. 

It had happened three days ago.

You had gotten home from another long day. The world was dark, work sucked, and you had no desire to do anything. After reheating a bowl of leftovers and doing your nighttime routine, you had curled up in bed under the warmth of the comforter, and logged in to the only thing bringing you any semblance of relief from your otherwise shitty reality. The dim glow of your phone screen bounced off the white walls of your bedroom as a familiar cafe suddenly bloomed into life, and a man dressed in a black shirt and black slacks made his appearance.

“You’re here.” He extended his hand towards you, and you’d tapped his palm, wishing he were real. 

You tapped the relax time icon and chose the option for holding hands, feeling warmth spread into your chest as he intertwined his simulated fingers with yours, before kissing the back of your hand. 

“Thank you for being my stress relief.” He released your screen hand and took a few steps back. You zoomed in to focus on his face, admiring the sharp amber-green eyes, the straight curve of his nose, and the black hair that fell softly onto his forehead. You tapped his lips.

"If your hands keep being mischievous, I can show you how surgeons tie knots."

You giggled, and repeated the action before he finally got fed up, and turned his back to you, during which time, you amused yourself by poking his bottom, watching as he tensed up and shook his head in disapproval. You played the claw machine with him, then tenderly tapped his face one last time before logging out of the game. 

“If only.” You’d murmured into the darkness, as his handsome face consumed your thoughts again, as sleep overtook you. 

“Zayne…” you sighed his name, aching for him, even though you knew it was ridiculous, pining over a fictional man that didn’t exist. 

And then…You awoke abruptly. You squinted against the harsh lights that filled your vision and realized you were in a sleeping pod, like the ones in the game. How had you ended up here? Even stranger, why did the guy who had woken you up look like…

“Greyson?” You’d asked as he pulled you up by the wrist.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Dr. Zayne is about to operate on an unstable patient. OR 2 stat!” You followed along clumsily as Greyson escorts you, and soon you’re in the atrium outside of the OR. 

Greyson presses the intercom button. “I found her, Dr. Zayne. Good luck.” 

You’d glanced around in panic, wondering what to do when your body acted on its own accord. Suddenly, you’re scrubbing with the surgical soap, washing up to your elbows, a voice in your head counting the seconds, then drying off. You walked into the OR and an assistant held out gloves, which you dipped your hands into, marveling at how they were the right size. Your feet automatically carried you towards the operating table, where you could just make out the lead surgeon, completely covered by his mask and cap, sharp eyes glaring at your approach. You’d assumed the position in front of the surgical instrument tray.

“Thank you for joining us.” There’s a bite of impatience and obvious sarcasm, and your heart jolted as you recognized the voice.

“Beginning anasthesia, Dr. Zayne.” One of the medical staff members calls to him. 

“Scalpel,” Zayne stated simply, his hand extending towards you in expectation. 

And your hands moved in response, gloved and steady, body responding like you’d done this your entire life.

You’d glanced up several times during the procedure, trying not to pass out from the giddy way your heart fluttered, and your stomach flipped each time he asked for another instrument. There he was…Zayne. 

Alive. Breathing. Not pixels. Not a script. A man.

Your breath had caught in your throat as you observed him. Sweat had gathered on his brow as he’d operated, and when he’d turned to face towards you, your hand had reached for the designated towel to gently pat his brow clean, feeling like you could melt at how intimate the gesture felt. It was like a dream come alive. And for the duration of the surgery, you’d felt like the luckiest woman on the planet. It was only after that that your dream had quickly turned into a nightmare. 

You’re jarred back to the present as Zayne makes a quiet sound in his throat. “Forceps.”

You quickly handed him the pair. 

“Good,” he murmured, more to the heart he was holding than to you.

You had tried to understand the rules of this world. You weren’t a scrub nurse, not in real life. You didn’t know the first thing about being in an operating theatre. 

But here, your body is moving like it has been trained. You knew his surgeries by heart, knew what he would ask for next, and had knowledge about how long each surgical procedure would run. Everything was scripted, everything was clean.

A background NPC.

It had been humbling to realize it. Yet you couldn’t help but hope anyway. Hope Zayne would see you. Would realize how much you had yearned for him, separated by a screen, memorizing every microexpression on his face. 

“Closing sutures,” Zayne says briskly, and you hand the needle holder, locking eyes with him briefly over his mask, before he looks away. Another successful surgery. Thanks to you. But you’d already known what would happen the moment Zayne left the OR.

He didn’t say thanks, didn’t even acknowledge your presence. And the reason why was obvious. Glancing up at the large viewing gallery, you saw someone sitting in the front row of seats, someone you knew intimately, despite having never spoken in this world. 

Her eyes were exactly like yours. She had the same mouth and nose, features you’d painstakingly crafted while glancing into a mirror every few seconds, and her hair was styled in a cut that you would have loved to have, but were too unsure to try. She was wearing the distinct Hunter’s uniform and was gazing intently at Zayne.

You tried not to let the wave of envy swallow you as you looked at her. She was you after all. Or rather, the version of her you’d created in the game; the all-important MC. 

And Zayne had eyes for no one but her, his view fixated on her form. She smiles and gives him a thumbs up, and you see the effect she has on him. His shoulders, which had been tense and bunched, grew slack. He raises ten fingers, and points to the operation theatre door, and your MC nods, getting up to meet him. 

He brushed past you, and you felt your stomach lurch, silently following him to scrub out. Your mind was chewing away at the thoughts inside your head, and even though you knew what to expect, you still couldn’t stop the first pang of pain that hit your heart when you Zayne and your MC in the staff lounge. You quickly ducked into the fridge, pretending to grab some yogurt. 

Zayne, real, impossibly tangible Zayne, was leaning towards her, their body language too comfortable with each other to suggest this as a recent development. His face had softened, and his voice, when he spoke, carried a tone of warmth you had never heard when it came to addressing his surgical staff.

“Glad you waited,” he said, an almost imperceptible quirk in his lips that has your MC grinning at him as she shakes a paper bag in front of Zayne’s face. 

“I brought those steamed buns you like. Thought you could use something warm after three back-to-back cases.”

You had imagined this very scenario several times when you had been playing the game, being the MC and handing Zayne a snack after his surgery had finished. At that time, it felt like anything was possible.

Zayne takes the bag from her and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

That’s when it hits you. 

This wasn’t the beginning of the relationship between Zayne and your MC. He already knew her, had allowed her to become part of his life, and sought her out after a hard day.

In this world, this prewritten, coded dream, Zayne already loved her. 

The realization steals the breath from your lungs, and suddenly, you feel like you are intruding on a private moment. You quickly close the fridge and sprint out of the lounge. 

The game texts you had been replying to, believing it was you, were actually being sent by your MC. The confessions Zayne sent, which you had thought were meant for you, were for her. 

Your MC was the one who got his late-night messages and accepted his coffee invitations. She got his time, his kindness, his smile. And it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

You had always known the game version of yourself was awesome. Of course, she was. She was smart, a professionally trained hunter with a badass job. She had hobbies and a fit body. She was witty and sassy, and everyone loved her, including you. Which was why you had tried your best to model her after yourself.

But she’s not me. She’s everything I’m not. 

The awful truth of it all sinks in. 

She’s the better version of me. Of course, he doesn’t see me. Why would he?

You reach the hospital’s rooftop, which was covered with rows and rows of potted plants, Linkon’s attempt at creating a calming environment. You slink away between the rows of tall trees, which engulf you, creating the perfect hiding spot.

Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you sob quietly.

Zayne had been your comfort character, the one you wanted to see at the end of the day, even if he wasn’t real. But now he was, and somehow, you wished you could go back; back to the days when you could delude yourself into believing Zayne could love you, not the MC version of you, but the real you.

Yet he was blissfully unaware of your existence, cozying up with the MC you had made, while you sat alone, the cool night air whipping your face, drying the salty tracks that covered your cheeks. 

I’m not someone he would love. I’m nobody. Nobody. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

In the days that followed, you tried to make yourself known. Your MC was amazing, but only because you had designed her so. After the misery of the previous night, you decided that despite the game dynamics, there might still be hope. 

You couldn’t help it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite knowing he didn’t perceive you in any meaningful way, you couldn’t help but want to attempt to leave an imprint, some kind of trace to make him aware of your existence. 

You tried to carry yourself with purpose as you strutted down the halls of Akso Hospital, straight-backed and buoyed by the small chance of possibility. The tablet in your hands had been opened to the patient scheduled for surgery today, a casual way to open a conversation, in your opinion. You spied Zayne at the nurses’ station and made your way over. It would appear like small talk, a tiny opening into his field of vision.

“Dr. Zayne.” You say his name quietly as you approach. That turn as he heard his name, the brief blink of surprise, followed by recognition. Your breath caught as his gaze fixed on you, almost driving the entire premise of the conversation out of your mind. His eyes fall on the tablet you’d pushed towards him, and he looks at you expectantly. 

“I had a question regarding today’s surgery.” You manage to say, trying not to sound breathless. Another blink, followed by a nod. 

“Yes, go on.”

“I see the patient was a smoker. He’s due for a transplant. I wanted to know if there are any precautions I should take, or any steps of the procedure I should exercise more caution. Or perhaps stock more supplies for.”

And there it was: a brief, almost imperceptible quirk to his lips, like he’d nearly smiled at you. How long had you stared at the screen of your phone, watching and tenderly memorizing every micro expression he made? 

“A very astute question,” he says with a touch of praise, and it instantly triggers a million butterflies in your stomach, wings beating rapidly inside you. “You’ll want to make sure we have extra clamps, and notify the blood bank ahead of time to ensure we have some in case of an emergency. Double check his blood type.” 

You nod, hanging onto every word like a smitten schoolgirl. “And…should I prepare OR 2?” 

“Yes, please do.” The sharp lines of his face have lessened. “It is my preferred OR after all.”

“I’ve noticed,” you reply, unwilling to lose the flow of the moment. “May I ask why?”

Zayne is about to respond when his gaze suddenly fixates on something behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder, then feel your heart drop to your knees as your MC makes an appearance again. The moment shatters like glass. 

“What are you doing here?” Zayne steps around you to greet your MC, like you were a tree obstructing his view. 

“You left your charger at my place,” you hear her reply, and your heart sinks another inch or so towards the floor. If he had left the charger at her place, then that must mean…

You stop yourself. It was too painful to imagine. You were barely two feet away, the tablet lying on the counter, forgotten. Neither of them notices as you pick it up and leave. 

A few days later, you tried again. You had convinced yourself that the last time had been a coincidence, that the arrival of your MC had been the only factor that had deviated from what had been an otherwise positive conversation. 

It was lunchtime, and you saw an opportunity to maybe try bonding with him over a weakness of his. 

“Dr. Zayne.” You call out as you meet him near the elevator. He turns, clearly not expecting you. 

“I heard they’ve made that chocolate mint cake today in the cafeteria. Maybe we should try to snag a slice before it’s all gone?”

This time, a genuine glimmer of interest in his eyes, followed by a huff of what appeared to be amusement.

“Word certainly seems to spread around the hospital.”

“Of course. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret, right?” You banter back carefully. “Your fondness for sweets?”

Zayne fixates on the panel of buttons in the elevator and remains quiet, but you observe the way his ears turn red, an endearing sight indeed, something you’d loved about him since seeing it in the cafe screen interactions. 

“No, I suppose not,” he says after a beat, and you try to suppress your smile. It was the closest you had been to him outside the operating room. “But I’ll admit it’s a bit disconcerting that people have noticed this about me so easily.”

“Or maybe,” You boldly begin, then push on. “They notice these things because they want to get to know you better. It creates reasons to interact, you know?”

He considers this, then nods in agreement. “I suppose that’s a more flattering way to look at it. I think it’s nice that people want to get to know me.”

Your heart feels like it might burst from your chest, and just as you’re about to ask him if he takes coffee with his cake, the elevator doors ping open, and you feel the air rush out of your lungs. 

There stands your MC, and in her hands is a little paper plate carrying a slice of the cake you had been talking about seconds ago. Zayne’s eyes light up, little fireflies against the dark backdrop of his irises before he approaches her, and you once again, fade into the background.

You can hear the warmth in his tone, the way his movements are casual as he draws her away from the crowd. Passersby look at them with smiles on their faces. Look at the young, happy couple. Look at them stealing away to enjoy a small moment of privacy, the intimate exchange too obvious to ignore. You step hollowly out of the elevator. The cafeteria was out of cake by the time you arrived. You buy a cold slice of pizza and eat it alone at the table in the farthest corner of the room. 

The final ditch attempt to get his attention was quiet. A fragile action in the hope that he would at least remember your name, or show some form of acknowledgement. You made a cup of tea, his favorite one, your hands trembling as you steeped it in the lunge, carefully cradling the cup as you brought it to his office. The door was open, but he wasn’t in, so you’d placed it on his desk with a sticky note, nothing fancy, a simple “Till your next surgery.” Part of you, the foolish little part that refused to believe Zayne wasn’t yours, had made this last-minute decision, but your mind was already braced for the crushing rejection. 

You exit his office and are a few feet away when you hear footsteps, and you glance back to see Zayne and your MC enter his office, the door clicking shut. You’re unable to stop yourself from walking back, placing your ear against the door, hoping to hear what you so desperately wanted. 

Inside, Zayne lifts the cup and sniffs it, little rifts of steam still arising from it, frowning. He glances at your MC, and you hear his question muffled through the door.

“Did you leave this?” he asks your MC, who looks puzzled. 

“No, but it’s your favorite, right?” She asks in your voice, the voice you’d spent so much time customizing in an attempt to make it sound like you. And it did sound like you. A more musical, attractive version of you. Just like the rest of her. 

You hear Zayne take a sip, followed by a hum of appreciation, before your MC starts teasing him about how absent-minded he’d grown, brewing tea himself and forgetting about it. 

The door felt like it put dimensions between you. You were always the outsider, trying to find a way in. It wasn’t meant to be. The comfort you used to find from Zayne was long gone. It had been crushing to let go of the one final thing you’d used to escape from your crappy reality. Now, the thing that gave you joy was the source of your angst. 

You’d escape this world if you knew how. But you were trapped, forever the wallpaper, never given more than a second’s glance before people moved on. Even if you went back to reality, how were you supposed to cope, knowing you had been so close to the love of your life, yet unable to make him open to your presence? 

That the man you’d idolized was in love with another version of you, who had been crafted so perfectly that you almost wanted to scream at the injustice. You felt the betrayal keenly, resentment welling up inside you. The MC was you. YOU. How could a fictional version of yourself outdo you so astoundingly?

You wanted nothing more than to put a universe's worth of distance between yourself and Zayne. To disappear into the vast region of Linkon City and never reappear. But the game dynamics limited your mobility. You had an apartment (surprisingly like the one your MC had), which your programmed self knew how to enter, and the route between there to Akso hospital was the standard routine. 

Like a never-ending loop, against your will, you had to join Zayne in the operating theatre no matter how much it hurt you. And you hated it. Hated him. Well, not really. You loved him. And the sharp razor blade sting you felt inside your chest every time you looked at him, while he looked at someone else, was all you had. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You withdrew as the days went by. Like a chameleon, blending into your surroundings, inconspicuous. Somedays, you felt like a ghost, certain that if you stood in someone’s way, they’d walk right through you and not notice a thing. 

With no way out of the game, you performed your surgical tasks robotically, not looking at Zayne unless it was necessary, handing the instruments and backing away until he asked for the next one. 

He, of course, was unperturbed. Zayne continued with his surgeries, consultations, and his regular meetings with your MC. Since the day of the teacup incident, you’d tried your best to avoid noticing their interactions, but the hospital seemed to be smitten with them.

All the nurses would giggle whenever she dropped in and asked if Zayne was in a meeting, or when Zayne would change into a set of fresh clothes before leaving the hospital in anticipation of a date night.

During one surgery, you had been close enough to observe a faint, pink hickey on his neck, and had looked away, resisting the urge to stab his awaiting hand with the scalpel you were meant to hand him. Prim, proper, Dr. Zayne, who should have been so professional and discreet, was now unbothered about turning up to work with hickeys on his neck. The damn man had no shame. That’s what you’d told yourself as you’d quickly run to scrub out after the surgery had ended. And shouldn’t your MC have known better than to do something so brazen? She was a wild little freak as far as you were concerned, and it helped to believe this narrative rather than to accept the inevitable: that they were a young couple falling in love. 

“DeBakey foreceps.” Zayne’s hand appears in front of you again. 

You’re about to comply, the game coding driving your hand towards him, when you feel a pull of defiance bubble inside you. What would happen if you didn’t promptly hand him what he needed? Wilful restraint stilled your hand, satisfaction flooding your veins when the game seemed to freeze at your unwillingness to oblige the scripted system. You hadn’t asked to be an NPC; you had sentience, and the rebellious act was sweet. Your hand jerks as the code tries to make you submit, but you persevere, savoring the little control you have. 

“DeBakey foreceps,” Zayne repeats, and this time, you notice something strange; a small ripple distorts the room, the occupants becoming temporarily distorted, pixelated shapes, before order is restored. The retractor in your hands fades away, reappearing in Zayne’s, and he continues his surgery as though nothing has happened. 

No one had seen it. Your heart hammered in your chest as you started to piece together what had happened. Had the code simply overrode your attempt at defying the game's logistics? You had a theory; you wait until you were out of surgery to test it.  

There were no deviations in the route of an NPC. Once the day had ended, you always took the same train to the apartment. Today, as you stepped outside the hospital, you make a cautious step in the opposite direction of the train station. When you had tried this before, the game pixelated and reset you back at the entrance of Akso Hospital.

Today, nothing happens. Your small act of noncompliance had changed the dynamics. You take a few more steps, feeling the rush of freedom soar into your heart before breaking into a sprint. You were no longer bound by the rules of the game; an unchained NPC. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

The days that followed were a giddy fantasy. The game could no longer call upon you to do your fixed role. You put the liberation to good use, exploring much of Linkon City, using whatever gold the game gave you to space out your time at the various cafes, bookstores, and amusement parks. 

Although the pain of being jilted by Zayne still lingered, it was easier to ignore now that there was distance between you and him. Your heart ached whenever you walked past a dessert place, old memories of your imaginings coming alive, of taking Zayne and doing a tasting menu with him.  

Now you ate the desserts alone, appreciating the macarons, cakes, and delicious mocha lattes as the richness flowed on your tongue. Some days, you could convince yourself that things were ok. That you would heal and that you’d eventually move on from Zayne.

It still ached deep within that you had the perfect man in your palm, only to realize he was just that; a man, and despite the game’s premise, men didn’t go for the mousy bookworms. Even in fantasies, they went for the cheerleader, and nothing could change the balance of that system. 

Besides, you thought, as you sat on the rooftop of your apartment building, watching the sunset, Zayne probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. There would be a new scrub nurse, one who didn’t love him, who would have replaced you, like slipping a brick into an open spot in a wall. His world wouldn’t stop at your absence.

But sometimes you wish it would. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

Back at Akso hospital, Zayne had in fact continued with his routine as expected, but with one small change; he had started to notice things. 

The first few days after you had walked out of Akso Hospital had been the same; there had been no issues getting through his surgeries, and he’d proceeded just as he always had. The voices and faces of the other staff had always been insignificant to him. It didn’t matter. Per NPC rules, they merely stood there to ensure game function continued. He’d done his rounds, completed his charts, and met with your MC as usual.

But a few days after the incident, he’d glanced at the scrub nurse handing him the tool and squinted, feeling a little unsettled. He could’ve sworn the scrub nurse that assisted him was different, the features of your face fuzzy in his mind, but he was confident he wasn’t mistaken. 

Sensing his hesitation, the replacement NPC asks, “Is everything all right, Dr. Zayne?”

“Yes, yes,” Zayne murmurs, accepting the tool from her, but he can’t shake off the feeling that something is amiss. “Did you ask me if we could get cake together in the cafeteria?” he asks.

The NPC’s eyebrows raise, and she shakes her head no. 

“Never mind then.” Zayne refocuses on his patient, but there’s a nagging feeling that this wasn’t the order of things. Your MC floats into his mind, yet he feels like he’s seeing differences in his memory. 

Your MC’s eyes, so symmetrical and large, yet another almost-identical pair replaces them, not quite so symmetrical, but still quite pretty. The perfect, glossy little Cupid’s bow of your MC’s lips fades to be replaced by ones that are pressed into a line of attention while poring over a medical chart, dry from the lack of self-care. 

Why was he thinking of these things? He was in love with who he needed to be per the code. And his girlfriend was perfect, a vision of beauty. Yet all he could focus on now were the small imperfections he thought he remembered, and finding them more attractive than he thought he did. 

“Was there someone before you?” he asks the new scrub nurse, hoping the answer would be no. The new scrub nurse nods, and Zayne feels a little lurch inside his stomach. 

“I’m not sure what happened to her. Perhaps a game update made her obsolete?” The NPC suggests, and Zayne tries to appear nonchalant. 

“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Let’s focus here, please.” He redirects the room’s attention back onto the patient, and silence falls once again, leaving him alone to mull over his thoughts and misgivings. Even if there was someone different before, why did it matter? The routes were on track, he was performing as he should be. It absolutely made no difference. 

Once the surgery was over, he scrubbed out and prepared for a follow-up appointment. The patient smiles at him as he enters his office. 

“No pain since the transplant?” Zayne asks as he inspects the fading incision in the man’s chest.

“None at all! And your scrub nurse was so kind to me post-op. Kept checking in to make sure I was comfortable.”

“My scrub nurse…?” Zayne falters, and suddenly he recalls a tablet being pushed towards him, and questions about precautionary measures to be taken before a transplant surgery. He purses his lips, and the patient grows silent, noticing the pensive look on Zayne’s face.

“Can you remind me…what did my scrub nurse look like?”

The patient looked taken aback at the question, but answered politely, and it did nothing to satisfy Zayne’s curiosity. For all that mattered, he had described the MC in almost striking detail. Yet he knew it couldn’t have been the MC…she had left the hospital after giving him his charger…and he’d gone into surgery with…

As Zayne becomes increasingly broody, the game ripples like it had the other day, only this time, he sees it; all the crisp objects and the patient in his office becoming pixelated before the world seems to snap like a whip, and all is well again. Shaken, Zayne stares at the patient who seems oblivious to what has occurred.

“Your incision is healing well.” Zayne moves away as the patient rebuttons his shirt and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “Let’s schedule another follow-up in a month. You can make your appointment with the receptionist.”

Zayne is almost impatient as he waits for the patient to leave, and once he’s exited the office, Zayne quickly gathers his belongings and drives home. The house was silent, and when he went to his bedroom, there was the MC, snug under the covers, exactly how things should be.

But he’s restless as he slips into bed, trying his best to remain neutral as the MC turns to snuggle into him. Even as everything felt right, it felt like he was doing this simply because he was told to do it. A puppet, all his actions triggered by little prewritten things inside the game’s engine. 

Zayne sleeps fretfully, and when morning arrives, he’s dreading the day for some unfathomable reason. He did not need to feel this way. Wasn’t everything working like it should? He had his career, MC was humming in the kitchen, and he was in love. Or, something resembling love. 

What was love anyway? A neurochemical response in the brain. Were his responses to love also coded? Did the game begin the neurochemical cascade inside him when MC made an appearance? Or was it more so, the game ensured MC was always around him, thus ensuring he developed some sort of attachment to her? What was love, really?

Unbidden, a neglected, steaming teacup filled with his favorite, freshly brewed tea, comes into mind, and he jerks up in bed, his heart racing.

This can’t be it. He was doing it right. He was with the person he was supposed to love. He shouldn’t be fixating on teacups and tablets, and quiet eyes that observed him intently during all his surgeries. These were mere background elements, required entities to move the game forward. He shouldn’t be recognizing them, much less feeling this jittery sensation in his stomach when he thought of them. No. No, clearly he must be coming down with something. Perhaps this was due to the pending update. Yes, once the update is installed, this would go away, and everything would return to normal. It was a glitch, surely. He gets ready in haste and kisses MC goodbye. 

“Meet you for dinner!” She says sweetly, squeezing his hand. He smiles wearily at her, hoping she doesn’t notice and goes about his day.

But as he wandered the halls of Akso Hospital, he was further disconcerted at the fact that things that were supposed to remain as insignificant attributes were now starting to become quite conspicuous. Was Greyson’s hair always brown? Had Yvonne always had bangs? He keeps noting these small things in various other characters as well, and a few hours into his shift, Zayne is visibly shaken.

“Dr. Zayne, are you all right?” Greyson asks concernedly. Zayne had been spacing out, his eyes glassy and unfocused as Greyson spoke to him about a paper.

“Greyson…” Zayne shakes his head and makes a split-second decision. “Do you remember the scrub nurse who assisted on my last heart transplant surgery?”

Greyson looks nonplussed, but takes it in stride. “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“She hasn’t been at work for a while. I wanted to check in on her. I suppose there isn’t a way to get her phone number or address, is there?”

This wasn’t something Greyson had been expecting from Zayne, but he decides not to pry, not when Zayne looked like he’d been dragged through the dirt. 

“She lives in that large apartment building about 20 minutes from here. It’s the same building where Yvonne lives. If you want, I can-”

Greyson is cut short as Zayne quickly turns and makes his way to the nurses’ station. 

“Ask her,” Greyson completes, his words falling into empty air. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You’re startled as your doorbell rings. No one visited you. No one knew you lived here. Certain that it was a delivery sent to the wrong apartment, you opened the door only to be dumbstruck by your visitor.

Zayne looked haggard, his fingers twiddling with the hem of his sleeve as he stared at you. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re waiting for the game’s auto reset to pull him away because surely, this must be a glitch? Because it simply wasn’t possible for Zayne to break the game’s coding and take the route to arrive at your apartment.

There was no script to support this or trigger action that could have caused it. Yet here he was, at your doorstep, like you’d wanted all this time. You stiffen, your heart keenly smarting as you remember the humiliation of his repeated rejections. 

“Dr. Zayne,” you say stiffly, refusing to move. “Why are you here?”

“Please let me in.” It was not a demand. It was a request, and his soft voice carried the subtle tone of a man about to crack. 

A lump forms in your throat, your instinct warning you this can only hurt you, but you relent and allow him inside, the door clicking quietly as it shuts.

As both of you enter your living room, Zayne’s eyes fixate on you with such intensity that you feel naked. Like his vision was X-raying you through your clothes, probing your thoughts, peeling away layers of your skin until he reached the tender and delicate version of you that ached underneath. Your pride forces you to look at him despite the overwhelming intensity to look away, and your heart jolts at what you see. 

As your eyes meet, you see the undeniable response; his pupils widen, swallowing the ring of amber surrounding the green. Zayne is stunned; it wasn’t possible. There was only one MC in this world. How could you stand there, bearing so much similarity to her, yet not be her? The MC in his memory overlaps with you, yet he sees the differences. 

Compared to her, you were a sharp patch of light, crisp and alive, and somehow, despite her perfections, the MC appeared blurred in his mind’s eye, like an unfinished graphic, still in the works of an unpublished designer. He saw what the game had masked: the texture of your skin, the not-so-straight line of your lips, the little imbalances of your eyelids. Yet they made him yearn, something poignant welling inside of him. 

Zayne’s throat closes up from the emotions bubbling up inside him. The sensation was alien, like something was trying to claw its way up from his gut. It was raw and uncomfortable, something he had never experienced before. The MC made him calm, and he’d assumed that was what it meant to love someone. He didn’t want to feel this hot, pulsing entity that was grappling with the lines of existence, forcing him to acknowledge it. 

“You’re not her.” He states it plainly, unable to fathom what was happening inside him. 

“Took you long enough,” you retort, feeling the irony; Zayne in your apartment, finally seeing you, just like you’d always wanted, but now you were too hurt to accept it. “I kept waiting. Trying, hoping for the tiniest scrap of your attention.”

Satisfaction burns in your veins as you notice the look of anguish that comes on his face. The strange delight of seeing him like this, of rubbing the raw truth of your feelings in his face, even as you felt your own heart clench painfully at the thought of hurting him. 

“I watched for a sign that you saw me as anything other than an NPC. Even though I was practically right in front of you, with my MC a few feet away, you still only saw her.”

“I noticed when you were gone,” Zayne begins, and you let out a derisive laugh. 

“Oh, did you now, Dr. Zayne? You noticed when I was gone. So it took my absence for you to notice.”

“Yes damn it!” Zayne’s voice is loud, contrasting with the calm, cool way he typically speaks. “So what if I was a little late? I did notice! And it’s been pretty miserable ever since! I notice things in the game I never did before. It’s like you opened a gate between realms, and now I have no understanding of the world I live in!”

“Oh, I’m soo sorry, Dr. Zayne,” you chide mockingly. “Made you a sentient game character, that must suck. Good thing your feelings weren’t hanging in the balance.”

“But they are now!” Zayne nearly shouts, and you flinch at the tone, and he immediately checks himself. He continues in a level manner. “Look, you disappeared. And ever since you did, it feels like the system broke. I’m questioning everything now, especially-” He cuts off abruptly, realizing what he was about to admit. 

Your breath hitches, but you know your curiosity will never be satisfied if you don’t hear him say it. “Especially?”

“My love.” The words fall out in a confused whisper, and Zayne swallows, trying not to appear unhinged. “I picture you everywhere. At first, I thought it was the MC, but no, it’s you.”

He closes the gap between you and pulls you into his arms. Frozen, your fight or flight instincts vanishing, you allow yourself a moment of weakness, pressed against the warmth of his chest, his cologne filling your senses. Everything about him screamed comfort, the only thing you looked forward to after a long day. You squirm, trying to break free, but he only holds you tighter.

“Let go. Please…” you request pathetically, but you know it’s futile. Like a bird that had become accustomed to captivity, you couldn’t find the presence of mind to push him off, even though you were certain he’d let go if you did. You stood there, drowning in his presence as silent, hot tears tracked down your cheeks. 

“It’s not fair,” you whisper into his jacket. “It’s not fair that you get these feelings for me now. Not when I was trying to figure out how to survive without you. Because the reality is, even if you loved me, so what? This is a game. I’m bound to go back to reality someday. And what was I supposed to do with this digital love? I’m already so unlovable.” You sniff and continue brokenly. 

“If my fictional crush doesn’t love me, then what hope is there in the real world?”

“Why do you think you’re unlovable?” Zayne’s hands rest on the small of your back, his cheek resting on your hair, feeling the texture and softness on his skin, his heart heavy. 

“I…I’m not that amazing.” You don’t know why your tongue is loosening, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. “I guess I’m average. I’m not ugly, but I’m not super pretty either. I’m not toned or muscled, but I do exercise and try to take care of myself. I’m not stupid, but I’m not that smart either. I’m the average. Common. Overlooked. Unremarkable.”

Your deepest fears spill out of you, and your head hurts along with your heart now. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to savor this moment because you know it could end at any moment. If this was all you got of him, you weren’t about to spend it thinking about your shortcomings and imperfections. You wait for the inevitable moment Zayne would release you, and this little dream foray would vanish.

But Zayne sighs, his breath caressing your hair, before gathering you impossibly closer. When he finally talks, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You say average like it’s a flaw. But maybe it just means you’re real. Not exaggerated. Not manufactured. Just… honest. Do you know how rare that is? Especially in a world like this?”

He takes a small step closer, his voice getting quieter with each word.

“I’ve spent so long surrounded by perfection that was never true. Flawless beauty, brilliance on cue. But none of it ever stayed with me when the code started to break. You did.”

His large hand cups the back of your head, and you hear his heartbeat, the rush of his breath as he gets closer to your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin. 

“If average means someone who shows up, listens, cares, and stays when no one’s watching... I think average is a wonderful thing.”

Your entire body still as you feel his lips graze your hair. “You don’t have to try to shine so hard to be noticed. Even at your average, you’re already like the north star. Brilliant, consistent, unwavering. Those are qualities to be appreciated. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

His reassurance takes root inside you and you hide your face in his chest as it screws up, a sob wrenching itself from the deepest parts of your pain. The world seems to stop spinning, levitating in this moment, as though trying to prolong it as much as possible.

“And you’re not unlovable,” Zayne murmurs into your ear. “Because I love you.”

You blink back tears as you look at him. “What?” 

“I love you.” Zayne cups your face between his palms, and your entire body comes alive, tingling like a live wire under his touch. 

Before you can reply, the world suddenly blurs. Ripple after ripple forms and vanishes inside the apartment, everything alternating between pixels and cohesivity. You cling to Zayne as the world starts to shake. Alarmed, Zayne looks at you, and you look back at him fearfully. The familiar theme song of the game begins to play, accompanied by a loud, computerized voice echoing through the chaotic din. 

“Resources not verified. Corrupt elements detected. Beginning immediate update and reboot.”

The message is repeated twice, and the world around you dissolves. Outside your window, you can see the buildings, cars, and people beginning to vanish, pixelating before turning into dust and floating away into nothing. You look at Zayne, who hasn’t let you go, but a look of comprehension dawns on his face. 

“This is my fault,” he says over the roar of destruction. “I broke a majority of the codes when I ventured off my path.”

“So what does that mean?”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake him urgently. 

“Zayne, what does that mean?” Your eyes are brimming with tears. His fingers grasp your chin, and when you make eye contact, there’s sorrow in his expression, but he’s smiling gently at you. 

“You’ll be all right,” he says softly. “The update only removes abnormal elements. This isn’t the end for you.”

“What about you?” His lack of worry is beginning to fill you with dread, and you wait for an answer. 

But instead, Zayne dips his head down and covers your mouth with his. You shiver, then yield, the sweet feeling of his lips on yours flooding your body. A heady spiral of heat shoots through you as you kiss him back, trying to convey everything you feel for him in that kiss. Your first kiss with Zayne. You focus on him, trying to commit everything about him to memory: the softness of the kiss, the taste of his tongue, and his heated breath on your face.

When he lets go, he brushes your cheek tenderly. “Be the average. I promise you everything will be fine. Don’t stop offering to get cake, or making tea for someone you like.” His smile is calm, and you realize what was about to happen a split second before it does. 

Zayne begins to dissolve in a blur of colors, little squares consuming his shoes, crawling up his legs, and towards his torso. 

“Zayne!” You’re hysterical as you watch, yet helpless to prevent it. “Zayne, don’t go!”

His hand was still holding yours, and he squeezes it tightly. “I love you. You are not unlovable. Remember that.”

“Zayne!” He’s nothing but an incohesive blob of pigment now as the pixels consume the remainder of his face, and the hand holding yours turns to dust as he’s carried into the abyss. Looking down, you see the game has deconstructed most of you as well, the portion below your waist a confusing flash of light and pixels. 

“Zayne…” Your voice fades into a whisper as your consciousness fades, and you’re consumed by blinding white light until you see no more. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

When you wake up, you’re in your own bed in the real world. Blinking, you try to focus, then with a jolt as the haze fades from your mind, you scramble to find your phone, which was resting on the nightstand beside you. 

You launch the game, impatiently drumming the screen as the update pushed through, slowly filling the status bar up bit by bit. After what seemed like a decade, the launch screen appears, and you punch the ‘enter game’ button harder than intended. The cafe loads, and there he was. 

“Only you’d use me as an ice cream maker,” Zayne says with a disapproving shake of his head. Numb, you watch him on the screen. Everything was back to normal. You were back in reality. And Zayne…Zayne had been reset. Back into his coded routine, like nothing had ever happened.

As the truth of it falls around you, you curl up into a ball and cry, sobs wracking your body. Zayne loved you. Had chosen to become an uncoded element and risk it all to love you, even if it had been for a brief moment.

How on character for him. The irony isn’t lost on you; sacrificing, punished if he loved, that was Zayne’s entire persona, wasn’t it? Even as a scripted character, he hadn’t been able to defy his fate, his memories probably wiped and reset to love the MC just as it should have been. 

“My love,” you whisper brokenly, tracing his face with your fingertip. “I guess…It was never meant to be.” 

Acknowledging it didn’t help. You wept until you passed out from exhaustion, feeling like your heart had been split into two, spilling its pain into your system until you were bled dry. 

You didn’t go to work. When your boss called, you said you weren’t well. How do you recover from losing the love of your life?

“I love you.” Zayne’s voice echoed in your dreams at night, and you’d wake up covered in sweat. 

“I love you.” You heard it when you uninstalled the game, unable to pine over his face any longer.

“I love you.” His words lingered when you finally returned to work. 

“I love you.” It served as a reminder when you were building your dating profile, and were about to swipe ‘yes’ on a questionable match. 

“I love you.” It hurt so bad, but it was the only thing keeping you together.

That for a brief moment, he had shown you that you were worthy of being loved. That it existed, even if it was short-lived. 

Sometime after the incident, you found the energy to not feel irritable on the weekend when the cheerful sunlight crept into your room to rouse you from sleep.

You found the state of mind to dress up, spending time indulging in matching your outfit and accessories. You decided you needed a haircut, not a trim, but perhaps a new look, something you wouldn’t have dared to try before. The stylist had been thrilled when you showed her the reference photo and had expertly snipped and layered your hair into a head-turning look.

Feeling dandy, you’d all but skipped out of her chair, admiring her work in the window reflections as you walked towards a coffee shop a few blocks away. As you’d placed your coffee order, you looked at the dessert display and ordered the last slice of mocha caramel cake, imagining how it would melt in your mouth and pair with the coffee you’d ordered. 

“Was that the last slice of that cake?” A deep, strangely calming voice asks behind you. Your heart skips a beat at how familiar it sounded, and you whip around to see who the stranger is.

Your heart thuds as you take in a tall man standing behind you, looking disappointed at the now-empty cake display. His dark hair had been neatly combed, and his glasses were slightly askew, sitting almost on the tip of his nose. 

“Yes,” you say slightly breathlessly as you try to calm your racing heart. Even as logic takes over, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He looked so similar to Zayne…but you could tell it wasn’t him. Just a normal human, bearing an uncanny resememblence.

“Unfortunate. It’s one of my favorites.”

Before you can reply, the barista calls your name, your coffee ready and the cake on a small plate. You wet your lips, then gather courage.

“Would you like to split the cake with me?” you ask, and you can see the man is surprised at the offer. A smile graces his lips.

“Do you often offer to share your cake with strangers in coffee shops?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and you laugh. 

“No, but desperate times call for socially awkward solutions,” you quip back nervously, and the man huffs at your banter. 

“I see. Well, in that case, allow me to reimburse you for your coffee. After all, I was raised right. And mildly suspicious of free cake.”

You can’t stop the giggle that escapes your throat. You take the plate and coffee and choose a table before the stranger sits down opposite you. Looking more closely at him now, you see the differences: code vs reality.

“What do you do?” you ask him politely as you offer him a fork. 

“I’m a doctor.”

Your smile widens. “Of course you are.”

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

flashing dividers by @cafekitsune, banner by me using Canva

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[gracieheartspedro]

how i imagine brother's best friend!eddie

warnings: this is 18+, mdni, reader and eddie are 18+, eddie's a perv, flirting, insane antics, kissing, butt squeezin', dirty talk, fondling. no smut. yet (; let me know if you guys want more! tehe

When your brother joined Hellfire Club, you vividly remember telling him he was the biggest weirdo in town, right next to Eddie Munson, the leader of the club. 

You had graduated a year before and you were familiar with Eddie and his antics. He was supposed to graduate with you but too many absences and tardies did not allow it. Plus he was just horrible at school.

Now your younger brother hangs out with him every time he had free time. Which included having him bring Eddie over to your house.

You would see him in passing, when you were heading to your late shift at the local diner, giving him a half smirk and a simple “hello”. 

Eddie was good at checking you out and making it obvious, which to you, was weird to do in front of your brother. 

Lucky for you, your brother was oblivious and idolized the super senior, not noticing his passes at you.

One night, you get home late from work and him and Eddie have the rest of Hellfire in your den. They are all loud and carrying on, so when you walk down there, demanding to know where your parents are, your brother tells you that they had to go to Indianapolis to check on your grandma at her old folk’s home and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow evening. 

Eddie’s eyes would twinkle up at you, dazed from the handle of vodka they are all sharing. “Yeah, don’t worry sweetheart, we will make sure the house is nice and secure just in time for your bed time.” You would walk over to him, snatching the handle of vodka out of his hand. “Are you getting my 17 year old brother drunk, you asshole?” “He’s a big boy, he can handle himself. No need to play Mommy tonight, sweetheart.” “I’d bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Munson?”

His face drops as all his friends hoot and holler at him, smacking his back and clowning him. He doesn’t peel his eyes away from you, smirking like a proud father. 

With that, you would hand another one of the boys the handle and walk upstairs, freeing yourself of the responsibility. You go up to your room, stripping off your work clothes, wanting to get the smell of grease off your body and hair. 

You walk to your bathroom, wash yourself clean, and then wrap yourself in a towel. You slowly creep out of the room, not looking both ways in the hallway, totally forgetting your brother’s friends could be around any corner. 

And guess who is?

“Got all clean for me, sweetheart?”

Your skin literally crawls hearing his voice, deep and husky right beside you. You grip onto the hem of the towel, making sure it doesn’t come open. 

“No, I smelled like french fries and a side of sweat. Needed to shower before I got in bed.” You side step him, heading straight for your bedroom at the end of the hallway.  “Your brother told me I could stay tonight. Is that okay with you?” “I don’t care, just don’t keep me awake.” You reach for your door handle, trying to get away from the guy. “Damn, and here I had some ideas on how I could.”

You roll your eyes, not responding. You go to your room, the word gross rattling around your head.

After settling in your pajamas, you unfortunately realize need to refill your water bottle downstairs, so you have to face Eddie and your brother’s other friends. Again.

You ran hot at night, so you were only wearing a loose black tank top and flannel pajama shorts from a matching set you got in middle school. 

When you get to the kitchen, no one is there. You still here commotion coming from the den, assuming all of the guys were settling in for the night. 

You are filling up your bottle when you hear footsteps creeping up behind you. And there he fuckin’ is again.

“We gotta stop running into each other like this, baby doll.” “You’re disgusting.” “And your shorts are dangerously short.”

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. He matches you stance, almost mocking you for being annoyed. 

Maybe it was the alcohol emanating off him, but you feel buzzed being in his presence. He lights a weird fire within you.  Maybe it’s because you need to sleep.

He scans you again, his glassy eyes and flushed cheeks making you think about how you could easily shove him and make him lose his balance. 

But instead, you step towards him, your head tilted in defiance. He’s not expecting you to step up on him like that. 

You groan, rolling your eyes. “What are you even doing up here?” “I hear you, I come up. Simple.” He smiles, his eyes stuck on your legs. “Why?” He finally looks up at you, a shit eating grin plastered across his face,“I told you I had some ideas. Hoping I could run them by you.” “Why would I ever entertain that?” You scoff, even though you were kind of curious. “Because you haven’t told me to fuck off yet.” You dramatically roll your eyes, “Calling you disgusting was kinda doin’ that, Eddie.” “Say the words, then.” “What?” “Tell me to fuck off.”

It’s a stand off. You’re mind is telling you to scream it in his face and dump your entirely full water bottle over his head. 

But your body, mainly your weirdly soaked panties, are telling you to hold your ground. See where this could go. Eddie was hot. And yeah, you’ve heard he has a big dick. And you have also heard he knows how to use it. 

“Nothing? You wanna hear my ideas, then?”

You look at the door that opens to the den. 

“Go show face for a bit downstairs and then come knock on my door when everyone is asleep.”

Eddie couldn’t smile wider. He just nods, letting you brush past him and go up the stairs to your bedroom. You wait for about 20 minutes, your eyes getting heavy with sleep. The knock comes abruptly, rattling your body back to life. 

You slowly creep over to the door, opening it slowly, but Eddie’s pushing into your room like a cop raiding a drug den. Something he must be familiar with. 

He’s immediately on you, his large hand grabbing at your waist as he presses his lips into yours. You’ve never been kissed so hurriedly. His lips are plump and perfectly slot in with yours. His hands are grabbing at you so intensely, you realize how lost you were in the moment when his fingers pinch your ass. 

You push him away, dramatically throwing him back off you. 

“Are you fuckin’ insane?!” “You seemed to like it.” “Is this one of your ideas?”

He sneers, shaking his head as he wiped his lips with the back of his heavily ringed fingers.

“You and that mouth.”

You roll your eyes, unsure of how to respond to that.  But he’s looking at you like you’re his next meal, his eyes dilated, his hands ticking at his sides. You scan him as he takes a large step towards you, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. His head tilts, his curls scattering across his forehead.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” “Stop with the nicknames.”

He steps even closer towards you, menacingly. His demeanor is so different when you two are alone. You are his prey, and he wants to pounce.

“I’m gonna call you whatever I want. Especially when my cock is in that mouth of yours. Keepin' those pretty lips wrapped around me instead yappin' all of those smartass remarks.”

His words send the craziest shockwaves to your pussy. You can actively feel your panties get wetter. He can see that his words have an effect on you because your nose wiggles.

You size him up for a moment, pressing your hand to his sides before slowly working towards the front of his body, across his denim jacket and tight black jeans. When your hand stops where his jeans are straining, you smirk. 

“You want my lips here?”

His dominant aura gives way the moment you undo his jean’s button. He is practically whimpering as he looks down at your actions. 

“That’s where they belong,” His voice is still raspy and steady with control. “Who says so?” His smile is so twisted. “Your brother’s best friend.”

It instantly makes you feel guilty. Your brother is literally downstairs, probably hammered and dozing off to some stupid cartoons all the other nerds watch. This was so wrong. 

But for fuck’s sake, Eddie’s clothed cock is in your palm and it’s practically busting out of his zipper. The way he looks down at you, with his lips slightly ajar as his smile fades at the realization that his words throw you off your game. 

“We don’t have to, sweetheart-” “Shut up.”

hiii if you made it here, tell me ur thots. comments, likes, and reblogs are alllwaayyysss welcome. so are asks. feel free to be a menace there.

dividers are @cafekitsune <3333

tagging ppl who wanted this and fwends (hehe love u guys): @amanitacowboy @mediocredreams @layaispunk @pedgito @chaotic-mystery @hockeyhughes

[laligraves]

all alone

serial killer!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~ 4k summary: You catch the attention of a serial killer. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, HBO Joel, TLOU AU, dubious consent (i'm so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), some proofreading, no outbreak AU, 70's/80's AU (not really committed to a specific time but let's say before the 90's), murder/violence, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, slight degradation, outdoor sex, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: hello y'all! sorry for being so MIA. it has been a rough 7 months. but I watched the pitt and now I have inspiration to start writing again (random, I know) 🤍 also this is only slightly proofread

Two days. 

It took two full days for you to bury the body. Six feet, loads of soft dirt, and all his belongings.

You couldn’t exactly go into a store and buy a ladder or a shovel. So you improvised. 

There were enough rural, abandoned farms in Texas that you could sneak onto the properties without being seen and take the things you needed. You have more than enough experience stealing, so you only had a mild worry about the gun-happy folk in this state. 

You found a dirty blue tarp to wrap his body, and once the hole was deep enough, you rolled him right in. You dropped all his belongings in there, too. It probably would have been a better idea to scatter his things throughout your road trip, but you were just too damn tired to care. 

You kept only a few things: his truck, his gun, and the money. 

The money was all your plan. It was a simple heist that involved robbing a small bank, with Anthony as the gunman and you as the getaway driver. You had the floor plans you found using your intelligence and charm. Therefore, the only issues were the security guard and the 8-minute response time from the police. 

Anthony and you were on the highway in 7 minutes. 

But he became too greedy with the money. At first, you were okay with him spending a few at the casinos, but the drugs and strippers became an annoyance. When he walked back into your hotel room with the stench of vodka and perfume, the idea to kill him, to rid yourself of this parasite, had crossed your mind. 

When he called you, drunk and delirious, to pick him up from the 7th strip club of the week, you listened. And when he told you to pull over on an empty road because he wanted to fuck, you grabbed your knife and stabbed it into his eye, straight into his head. 

Blood splattered all over the inner cabin of his truck, and he flailed in pain until red dripped down his entire front. 

It wasn’t a smart decision. You had to park the truck in the back of the hotel, away from the street lamps, while you walked discreetly back into your room to grab all of your belongings. 

You managed to wipe away most of the blood once he was six feet underground, and you thanked your now-dead boyfriend for his decision to choose a truck with an all-black interior. 

There were no tears or regret, only a sense of much-needed relief. He wasn’t necessary for your plans, just a pretty face to look at and a good shot. Until he began wasting your fucking money. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 100 miles away from his grave. 

The smoke billows out from underneath the hood of the truck. You’ve tried everything you can to get it to start, but the engine is completely fried. 

“Ain’t nothing we can do,” the mechanic says, wiping away sweat droplets from his hairline, “gonna need a new engine for it to work.” 

“Okay,” you say, “how long will it take to put in a new engine?” 

He wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag and reaches for a stack of papers. 

“ ‘bout a week. Just need you to fill out this paperwork and we’ll get started on payment.” 

Your heart drops. Fuck. A week is too long. 

“Any chance you can find a new engine sooner? I’m somewhat in a rush, my sister is getting married in three days,” you lie easily. “No matter the cost.” 

He shakes his head, giving you an apologetic smile. “Those engines gotta be special ordered. If you’re in a rush, I suggest takin’ a Greyhound or plane to wherever you’re goin’.” 

Fuck, Anthony. He just needed a brand new truck with difficult-to-find parts. 

“Whatever you do, don’t hitchhike,” he leans in, whispering, “too many people have gone missin’ on this side of Texas.”

One of the other mechanics calls his name and he walks away, putting up his finger to let you know he’ll be right back. You take the opportunity to slip out of the garage, leaving behind the truck. You don’t care what happens to it, it’s under one of Anthony’s aliases, and even if it was under his real name, they have no way of connecting him to you. 

There’s a gas station just a block down the street, so you figure you can try your luck there for some directions to the nearest greyhound station. You drag the suitcase behind you, a firm grip on it as people pass by on the sidewalk or in cars on the street. Everyone seems friendly, most of them smile and say “good afternoon,” which has you feeling more at ease. 

If you weren’t so hell bent on making it out west, you could imagine a life in this small town. There’s cute shops in the downtown area, trees lining the sidewalks, and parks with people enjoying their afternoon.  

The cashier at the gas stations hands you a pamphlet with the bus information and two quarters to use the pay phone once you give her the same story. You thank her, but deny the change, once again surprised by the town’s kindness and make your way towards the pay phone. 

The pay phone is right next to a board full of job posting, community event reminders, and… missing persons flyers. You open your wallet and take out change, sliding two quarters in the slot, and dial the phone number to the bus station. 

As you listen to the hold music, you begin to read some of the flyers. 

Jesse Smith. Male. 32. Last seen 01/08/70 on Tulson Road at 8:59 P.M. speaking to an unknown male in a dark colored pickup truck. 

Sasha Conner. Female. 27. Last seen 03/15/71 on Lake Avenue at 2:46 A.M. speaking to an unknown male, tall with brown, wavy hair. 

James Gonzalez. Male. 26. Last seen 05/22/72 on Wilson Street at 1:47 A.M. in an verbal altercation with an unknown male. 

“Jesus,” you whisper in fear, “I wonder if it’s the same guy?” 

The line cracks and you hear the voice of another person. 

“Thank–for–57th station–how–help–” 

“Hi, I’m sorry,” you say into the receiver, “the line is cutting–hello? Can you hear me?” 

“Are–for–times–hello?”

You hear the voice for a few more moments over static before the line completely cuts out. 

“Damnit,” you murmur. 

Before you can slide another quarter into the slot, a deep voice startles you. 

“These payphones don’t work, sweetheart.” 

You spin around, coming face to face with a brown-haired man. 

“Whoa,” he laughs, “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.” 

How did he sneak up behind me?

“No,” you say, “it’s fine. So the payphones don’t work?” 

He shakes his head, strands of wavy hair brushing his forehead. He’s attractive in a rough sort of way, like a man who uses his body for manual labor everyday. He has a few scars on his arms and face with gray strands scattered throughout his hair. 

“Ain’t worked for awhile,” he points to the entrance of the gas station, “that’s why they give out those quarters. Just being nice cuz the owner ain’t fixin’ it.” 

You place the phone back on the stand with a resounding thunk and take a deep breath. You could try the diner across the street, maybe they have another payphone or a phone they could let you use. 

You need to call the bus station first, find out which buses are heading as far west as possible, then a taxi company to get you there. 

“Joel Miller,” he says, sticking his hand out for a handshake. “If it’s a ride you need to the Greyhound Station, I’d be happy to help.” 

He motions behind him to a pickup truck. It’s shiny in the sunlight, and looks well taken care of. You accept his handshake and suppress the flutter in your lower belly from the strength in his hold. 

“How did you know where I was calling–” 

“I don’t like seeing young girls alone,” Joel interrupts, motioning towards the pamphlet in your hand, “it’ll be dark in a few hours and Lord knows it ain’t safe out here.” He points to the bulletin filled with the missing persons flyers. “The town is nice during the day, but at night…” 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You can handle yourself on your own, it’s been that way since you were a teen. You’re quick on your feet and you know you’re way around a revolver or a pocket knife, but the thought of a serial killer on the loose while you have no way of leaving does frighten you. 

But, you’re not naive. Most men don’t offer anything in this world without wanting something else in return. Especially handsome men like Joel. 

“I can pay you–” 

“No,” Joel interrupts again, “that ain’t necessary.” 

So, he wants something else. 

Joel picks up your suitcase and puts it in the backseat before he helps you into the passenger side. His car smells like leather, pine tree air freshener, and cigarettes. 

It’s only a faint smell, and if the box of mostly full Marlboro reds in the cupholder says anything, he probably only smokes every once in a while. Joel hops into the driver’s side, flashing you a quick smile, and starts the engine. You pull out the map you carry in your purse and quickly find the city you're in. 

“So according to the Greyhound pamphlet,” you say, showing Joel the pamphlet the cashier gave you, “it’s on Thompson Street and 20 minutes away–” 

“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart,” he interrupts, waving his hand, “I know a shortcut. We’ll cut that 40 minute drive down to 30.” 

“It says on the pamphlet that it’s 20 minutes from any part of town—” 

“There’s some construction goin’ on. The drive around town is a lot longer. Don’t worry, about it.”

Joel rolls down the windows of the truck and switches on the radio to a country station. You don’t miss the glances to your exposed thighs, even if he tries to be subtle about it. You don’t mind. You like the way he looks at you, and most importantly, you like how he looks. 

There’s always a seed of doubt present in your mind when you meet new people. It’s difficult to trust others when you’ve been wronged so many times, even recently with Anthony. Joel is a large man, broad and tall, with enough muscle in his arms that he swung your suitcase into the backseat so easily despite it being heavy. 

If he wanted to, he could grab and toss you around with minimal effort. And as you watch him sit in the driver’s seat, thighs spread wide, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of your seat, you suddenly crave violence. 

You squeeze your thighs together at the thought of him gripping you tight while he fucks you hard on the hood of hid truck. You feel the heat of his hand, resting behind you on the leather, not quite touching you but close enough for you to know it’s there. 

“Thanks again, Joel. You saved me from having to find another phone. Or wait for a taxi.” 

He turns to look at you again, giving you another smile, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent when he does. His eyes do a quick once over, but you still manage to notice how they linger. The sundress you wear has ridden up even more now that you’re sitting down. 

“No worries,” he says, “gotta make sure you get to your sister’s wedding, right?” 

You look at him in surprise. 

“I overheard your conversation with the attendant,” Joel says, answering your question before you can ask it, “I wasn’t followin’ you outside but I just needed to know you’d be okay.” 

You turn to look out the car windows, noticing that he’s driven out of the town and into the countryside.

“Oh,” you say, feeling relief. “So are you a local?” 

“Something like that–woah, I think I turned myself around. Would you mind takin’ out your map? The construction that’s going on has me all turned around,” Joel laughs. 

He grabs the map from your hand, touching his fingers to yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the warmth radiating from him. 

“Think we’re on Road 51,” he says, pointing to a spot on the map. “We’ll need to drive straight for a bit until we get to Daley Avenue and make a left.” 

You lean over to take a look at what he’s pointing at, but he folds it up and hands it back to you. “How’s a pretty thing like you end up out here?” Joel asks. 

“Hitched a ride to this town,” you say, already having an answer prepared. 

Joel looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “And where were you before?” 

“Living with my boyfriend–well, ex-boyfriend, a few towns over.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Ex-boyfriend? Can’t imagine any man letting go of a woman like you.” 

If only you knew, you think to yourself. 

“Sorry,” Joel says quickly, “ain’t tryna make you uncomfortable. But you oughta know how pretty you are.” 

There’s a warm glow in your lower belly. You can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. It’s been a while since you were fucked, properly fucked. Not the quick, boring moments with Anthony that made you more annoyed than relaxed. 

“No, it’s okay. I enjoy the compliments,” you say, giving him a smile. “You’re not too bad yourself.” 

Joel laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” 

“There’s no one calling you handsome at home?” you ask, running a finger through his thick hair. 

It’s a bold move, one that under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t do. But the sun is setting, the breeze coming in from outside the truck is fresh, and the sound of his voice is clouding your senses. 

Joel makes a left turn onto a road you don’t catch the name of. There’s more trees and an endless road ahead. 

“Can’t say there is,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Now I suggest staying put in your seat, honey. Don’t play with this old man’s feelings.” 

“Should I play with something else, then?” 

Your hand reaches down to his jeans to palm his bulge. He groans, quickly veering right and straight into the patch of trees. You yelp in surprise, bouncing in your seat, but he parks the truck and drags you to his lap. 

You hear the thunk of your purse hit the truck floor and slide underneath the seat. The thoughts you had earlier, of Joel being dangerous, still linger in your mind. He's quick, strong enough to pull you into his lap and hold you tight against the bulge in his jeans. 

And it scares you. 

But in a fucked up way, it also excites you. His hand slides to the back of your neck and he brings your head down, connecting his lips to yours. Your dress has ridden up, exposing the pink cotton of your panties. You grind down on the rough material of his jeans, shivering in his hold as the goosebumps rise on your skin. 

He kisses with an intensity you’ve never felt before, but one that you’ve craved while you're alone in bed, dreaming of a blurry silhouette who can make you breathless. Joel tugs at straps of your dress, pulling them down and exposing your bare breasts to the warm air. 

You test his strength, wriggling in his lap and pushing gently against his chest, but he immediately grips your hands and brings them behind your back, thrusting his hips into the softness between your legs. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey,” Joel growls. 

He attacks your neck, dragging sharp teeth over sensitive skin and down your chest, finally reaching the peak of your breast with his tongue. You grind down on his lap, gliding your hands through his thick hair to bring his head closer to your tits. 

Joel groans against you, the sound vibrating on your skin while he laps at your nipples. Your legs have turned to jelly at this point, and you’re positive you’ve made a mess on his jeans from the wetness seeping through your panties. 

There is a swirl of heat in your lower belly, the tightening of your inner thighs, and the slow trickle of exhilaration that courses through your veins. You’re close, your orgasm teetering on the edge as you bounce and rub your clit in his lap.

“Sweet little thing,” Joel murmurs, dragging his lips over your chin, “so sensitive.”

His hands roam from your tits down to your thighs and ass, where he grips hard, keeping your hips flush with his. 

“Anthony ain’t ever make you feel this good?” 

For a second, you think you imagined it, that you’re conjuring up words that weren’t even spoken. But it only takes another second for you to realize what he said. Your body freezes in fear, blood turning ice cold in your veins, as your mind rushes to understand why Joel would say Anthony’s name. 

“Nothin’ to say?” Joel whispers, “or maybe you just kill ‘em when you get bored?” 

“Fuck you.” 

With those words, you manage to punch him in the throat, catching him completely off guard. You slide off his lap and fall to the truck floor on weak knees, blindly looking for your purse that slid underneath the seat. Joel tries to grab you by the hair just as you open the passenger door. By the grace of God, your hand connects with metal, your pocket knife, and you climb out of the truck. 

You don’t have time to waste, so you make no intention of taking your luggage or trying to find your purse. Joel is already climbing out after you, screaming your name into the darkness as you run into the trees. 

“Don’t run,” Joel yells, “we were just gettin’ to know each other.” 

“Fuck off, creep!” 

You zig zag through the trees, stumbling through the branches and moss. The sun has gone down completely, so you have nothing but silver streaks of moonlight to illuminate your path. Despite his age, he runs fast behind you, thundering steps that echo all around you. You don’t dare turn around and see how close he is for fear of tripping or losing speed. 

There’s a break in the trees, a patch of grass and in the distance, a wire fence. If you can get through that clearing and climb over that fence, maybe, maybe, you can find a house with people that can help you. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 

You trip, in some stupid, twisted fate, right as you make it out of the trees. You land face first into the soft grass with a loud oomph, momentarily stunning you. You try to regain your senses, managing to get up on your knees, but a large body immediately falls on top of you. 

Joel pushes you back down, easily dodging the swipe of your knife. He brings both of your hands behind your back and takes your pocket knife, throwing it far away. 

“Get off of me, asshole!” 

He laughs at that, undeterred while he flips up the back of your sundress and lands a sharp slap to your left cheek. Embarrassingly, you whimper. There’s so much adrenaline running through your body, fear melting into heat through your veins, that you become aware of every single touch on your skin. 

The night air, the soft grass pressing on your knees and face, the feel of his rough jeans on the back of your thighs, Joel’s hand holding your wrists together, his erection that presses against the wet cotton of your panties–it’s all too much. You’ve never felt this sensitive or vulnerable before. 

“I know it was you, the person who killed all those people,” you spit out, “all those descriptions match you, Joel.” 

“Oh yeah? Guess we got one thing in common,” he says, pulling down the zipper of his jeans, “we like to hunt.” 

“No,” you scream, feeling the rip of your panties and the push of his tip to your entrance, “I’m not–I’m not like you–fuck!” 

You’ve always been proud of how wet you become. How easy it is for you to become aroused and slide your fingers, or toys, or whoever you wanted, right between your tight walls. But in this instance, it almost feels like a curse. Joel slides in, punching his hips in one fluid motion, stopping only halfway as you tighten around his length. 

You figured he was big, everything about this man is big. However, this is new. The sensation of being stretched to your limit or ripped open, you're not even sure. Another thrust of his hips and loud groan from him and he’s fully in, his hands, gripping your hips while he takes a break. 

You don’t even try to fight, don’t try to use your now free hands to push away or fight. You can only breathe in short exhales, too tired from the running and too full of his cock to bring oxygen into your brain. Joel, on the other hand, is breathing heavily above you. He curves himself into your back, pressing hot kisses on your shoulder. 

“I knew you’d be fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans. 

“Stop,” you whimper, fully aware of your leaking pussy and the tight grip you have on him, “let me go.” 

You don’t even believe the words coming out of your mouth. 

“You were in my backyard, honey,” he says through gritted teeth, “shit, you almost found the bodies.” 

“What the hell–oh, God–” 

Joel slowly pulls out, his thick length dragging along your walls, leaving just the wide head of his tip inside of you. His hand slips between your thighs to rub tiny circles over your pulsing clit. He plunges in again, this time harder, pushing right against your cervix. 

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ perfect,” Joel murmurs.  

“Joel–” 

“Saw you drag the body into the hole,” he says, “too bad you dropped his ID.” 

Your body shakes and jolts forward with each of his thrusts. It doesn’t quite matter how you ended up here, your body has betrayed you. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, covering his length and jeans in sticky juices. 

“You–you followed me,” you stammer, “fuck, Joel! You fuck–fucking followed–oh shit–me.” 

He spanks you in three harsh slaps, each followed by the slam of his hips. “Course. I. Did.” 

You wish you had the mental capacity to ask more questions, to try and understand how he found you and what he wants from you. But, he keeps splitting you in half, rubbing his cock through your folds and back into your pussy. 

His lips find your neck and he licks a path from your shoulder to your spine. Joel bites, sucks at your skin, leaving indents of his teeth on your back. His fingers speed up on your clit, bringing you right to that peak. 

“Just like that, sweetheart,” Joel groans, “take that cock.” 

Your fingers rip at the grass as you thrust back onto his cock, squeezing your walls, doing your best to keep him locked inside of you. 

“Little slut’s gonna cum, ain’t she? Killed her boyfriend,” he groans, frantically thrusting into you, “only four days ago and–and already comin’ on my cock.” 

“No I’m not,” you lie, “I’m not–” 

You push back, breathless and vision blurring, as the force of your orgasm sweeps through your body. A scream erupts from your throat, echoing through the empty field, while Joel pistons his hips, never stopping his movements. 

“Cum f’m, honey. Show me what this pretty pussy can do,” Joel groans. 

He lets your upper half fall forward completely into the grass, and then you feel it. The pulse of his cock inside of you and the flood of warmth. He groans your name repeatedly followed by his crude pet name for you, little fuckin’ slut, draining my cock, aren’t ya’, slut?

Joel's cum fills you, drips out of you from how fat his cock is in your tiny pussy. With another, final harsh thrust, he drops on top of you. You don’t know how long time passes with the both of you lying on the ground. 

His nose is pressed into your neck and you hear his rough breathing. Your thighs begin to ache and you feel warmth from where he spanked you. You wiggle beneath him with barely any energy, but he’s quick to wrap a hand around your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

“You had your fun, Joel,” you whisper, “let me go.” 

Joel squeezes your neck gently and rolls off of you. You’re surprised, wondering if that actually worked. Before you can hoist yourself up on weak legs, he grabs you and spins you around, throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.” 

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

[faithsmadhouse]

Into the Woods||Remmick x Fem!chubby!reader

MDNI+18

Summary—You’ve always been warned not to wander the woods at night, but temptation and curiosity pull you in deeper each time. You never realized you were being watched—or hunted. Remmick, the dark-eyed stranger with a Southern drawl and a wicked smile, has been stalking your midnight walks for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to make you his. And when he finally pounces, there’s no escaping the possessive grip of a predator who always gets what he wants.

Warnings—Dark Romance Dubcon / Noncon Elements Obsession / Possessive Behavior Stalker!Remmick Size Kink Rough Sex Outdoor Sex Against a Tree Overstimulation Marking (Biting, Bruising) Kidnapping Cabin in the Woods Power Play Dirty Talk Mild Bloodplay (Biting) Aftercare (Possessive and Twisted) Hurt/Comfort (Dark) Forced Proximity Slight Manipulation Innocence Corruption

A/N—THIS IS A DARK FIC READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

The moon hung heavy and full in the night sky, casting eerie silver light through the canopy of trees as you navigated the winding path. The leaves whispered under your boots, shadows stretching long and ominous. You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in the cool air.

You shouldn’t have been out this late. You knew that. Folks in town always spoke of the woods with hushed voices and wary glances, stories of shadows moving in the periphery, of eyes that gleamed in the dark. But you were stubborn—and perhaps a touch too bold for your own good.

The crack of a branch snapped you out of your thoughts, and you froze, heart stuttering in your chest. “Hello?” you called out, voice trembling just slightly. The woods answered with silence.

You swallowed hard, shaking off the chill that slipped down your spine, and kept walking. But the feeling of being watched only grew, prickling the back of your neck until you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder every few steps. Nothing. Always nothing.

Yet you couldn’t shake the feeling.

The path narrowed, leading you deeper, the moonlight flickering as the trees grew denser. You hurried your pace, each step crunching loudly, almost painfully loud. Your breath came quicker now, clouds of vapor puffing out as you moved faster, clutching your coat.

Something flickered in your peripheral vision—a shadow too quick to be caught. You whipped your head around, but there was only darkness.

A chuckle—soft, velvety—drifted from somewhere just beyond your sight. Your heart leaped into your throat. You spun around, eyes wide, searching the treeline. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Panic flared, and you abandoned caution altogether, breaking into a sprint. Your footsteps thundered against the forest floor, branches clawing at your coat and tangling in your hair. You didn’t dare look back. You couldn’t.

But you felt him.

The shadows grew thicker, deeper, and suddenly, the air felt colder, suffocating. Your breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning as you ran. You weren’t sure where you were going—only that you had to get away.

It didn’t matter.

The force hit you from behind like a freight train, a blur of strength and shadows that sent you sprawling to the ground with a cry. Leaves scattered, dirt scraping against your palms as you fought to right yourself, but it was too late.

A hand—cold and strong—pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down effortlessly. Another curled around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a promise of control.

“Well, well,” came the voice, low and dripping with amusement. “Look what I’ve found wandering all alone.”

You shivered, squirming under his grip, but it only made him tighten his hold just a fraction. His chest pressed against your back, his breath fanning hot against your ear. “Do you know how long I’ve watched you?” he murmured, voice a rasp of want. “How long I’ve waited for this moment?”

“P-please…” you stammered, voice trembling. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—mercy, escape, something—but he only chuckled darkly.

“Oh, sweet thing,” he purred, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Keep begging. I want to hear more.”

Your heart hammered against the forest floor, the damp earth cold and unforgiving beneath you. His weight pressed you down, unyielding, like he could pin you there for eternity if he wanted. You squirmed beneath him, fingers clawing at the dirt, but it only earned you a low, amused chuckle.

“There she goes,” he murmured, voice dripping with a Southern lilt, threaded with something darker, something old and Irish that curled around his words like smoke. “Like a lil’ rabbit, squirming ‘n thrashin’. Ain’t no use, darlin’. I’ve got you good ‘n proper now.”

“L-let me go,” you gasped, though the words came out pitifully soft. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, his fingers pressed harder, almost affectionate as they trailed down the curve of your neck.

“Oh, now why would I do somethin’ foolish like that?” he drawled, the grin evident in his voice. “I been watchin’ you for weeks now… all soft curves ‘n pretty blushes. Walkin’ these woods without a care in the world.” He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, and you flinched at the sensation. “Should’ve known better, sweetheart.”

You shivered violently as his nose skimmed the side of your throat, inhaling deeply. He hummed, almost contentedly, like he’d found something he’d been craving. “Mmm… you smell like fear,” he cooed, his accent thickening with each word. “Sweet little thing, tremblin’ all pretty for me.”

The hand around your throat flexed, his thumb brushing the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. “You don’t even know who I am, do ya?”

You swallowed hard, the movement pressing your pulse against his palm. “N-no,” you whispered, hating how breathless you sounded.

“Name’s Remmick.” He practically purred it, his fingers trailing down the line of your spine with a slow, deliberate touch that made your skin prickle. “An’ I reckon you’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve seen wanderin’ these woods in a long, long while.”

Your breath hitched, and he chuckled low, dark, the sound vibrating against your back. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Ain’t nobody told you ‘bout the monster lurkin’ out here?”

Monster. The word sank deep, chilling you to the bone. You tried to turn, to catch a glimpse of his face, but he pushed you down easily, pinning you flat. “Ah, ah,” he tsked, voice a dark melody. “Ain’t time for that yet. You’ll see me soon enough.”

His hands slipped lower, skimming the sides of your waist, fingers pressing into the softness of your hips. He made a pleased sound, almost like a growl, that had your cheeks flushing despite the situation. “Look at you… all lush ‘n ripe for the takin’. It’s like you were made for me.”

“No…” you breathed, shaking your head, but he only laughed, soft and indulgent.

“Oh, I think you are, sweetheart. Ain’t no one else out here… just you ‘n me.” His fingers tightened, pulling you back against him, and you felt the hard press of his body, unyielding and impossible to ignore. “Now… what should I do with my little rabbit, hmm?”

You whimpered, the sound slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Remmick hummed low, pleased. “There it is… knew you’d sound sweet beggin’. Might keep you beggin’ for a while yet.”

His lips ghosted over the side of your neck, sharp teeth just barely grazing your skin. “Maybe I oughta mark ya,” he mused, accent thickening to a lazy drawl. “Make sure you know just who you belong to now.”

His breath fanned hot and slow against your neck, the press of his body unyielding as he held you firm against the forest floor. The leaves beneath you were damp, the earth unforgiving, but Remmick didn’t seem to notice—or care. His fingers skimmed along your sides, mapping the soft curves with deliberate, unhurried attention.

“Look at you,” he cooed, his Southern drawl dripping with amusement, thickened by that lingering Irish lilt that curled around his words. “All flushed ‘n pretty… didn’t even have to try hard to catch ya.”

You squirmed under him, but it only made his grip tighten, a pleased rumble slipping from his chest. “Oh, darlin’… keep on wigglin’. Makes it all the more fun.”

His nose brushed the side of your throat, inhaling deeply, and you felt him shudder against you. “Sweet thing… you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, and Remmick stilled, his grin spreading slow and sharp. “There it is,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Been dreamin’ of that sound. All them nights watchin’ you wander out here, actin’ like nothin’ dangerous could touch ya.”

“W-watchin’ me?” you stammered, breathless, and he chuckled low, the sound dripping with dark satisfaction.

“Every damn night,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Followin’ you through the trees… listenin’ to those soft little sighs when you think you’re alone.” His hands drifted lower, squeezing your hips with firm possession. “Know what I heard last week, sugar?”

You shook your head, breath coming in ragged bursts as his hands slid over the swell of your thighs, bunching your skirts in his fists. “Heard you whisperin’ to the trees,” he continued, voice a wicked purr. “Sayin’ you wished somethin’ would happen… somethin’ excitin’. Ain’t that right?”

Your cheeks burned, heart slamming against your ribs. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, but I did,” he drawled, that accent dripping like honey, thick and slow. “I meant every damn second of it.” His hands fisted in your skirts, dragging the fabric up over your thighs, exposing skin to the cool night air. You gasped, but Remmick only chuckled, low and pleased.

“Look at you… so soft ‘n sweet,” he whispered, almost to himself. His hands skimmed your bare skin, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs with greedy reverence. “Ain’t nobody touched you like this, have they?”

You tried to shake your head, but the words stuck in your throat, and Remmick hummed low, satisfied. “Didn’t think so. Ain’t nobody would’ve let you outta their sight if they had.” He leaned down, mouth brushing the back of your neck, and you shivered under the sensation. “Guess that makes you mine now, huh?”

His hands tightened, spreading your thighs with a deliberate slowness that had your breath stuttering. “Gonna take my time with you, darlin’,” he promised, voice thick with want. “Make you cry out my name ‘til the whole damn forest knows who you belong to.”

Your hands clenched against the dirt, eyes squeezing shut as his touch grew bolder, rough palms sliding up the inside of your thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there. “Shh,” he crooned, his drawl a slow murmur. “Ain’t no need to be shy now… not when I’ve been waitin’ so long to have you.”

His fingers traced the edge of your underwear, nails scraping lightly, sending sparks up your spine. “Pretty lil’ thing… all soft ‘n mine for the takin’.” His teeth grazed your neck, sharper than they should’ve been, and you cried out softly.

“Mmm, that’s it… makin’ all them sweet sounds just for me.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down with agonizing slowness, cool air licking over exposed flesh. “Ain’t nobody gonna hear you out here, sweetheart,” he crooned. “So go on… let me hear it.”

The night wrapped around you like a heavy cloak, the cool air licking over your exposed skin as Remmick dragged your underwear down your thighs with agonizing slowness. His hands were rough and deliberate, fingertips grazing the softness of your flesh, mapping each dip and curve like he wanted to memorize it.

“There we go,” he cooed, his Southern drawl thickening with every word. “Knew you’d be pretty under all that. Soft ‘n sweet… like you were made just for me.”

You shivered beneath him, instinctively trying to close your legs, but his hands shot out, fingers digging into your thighs with enough force to make you gasp. “Now, now…” he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted hot over your ear. “Ain’t no sense in hidin’ from me, darlin’. I wanna see all of you.”

Your cheeks burned, but his hands were unyielding, spreading your thighs apart with ease. The chill of the night bit at your skin, but the warmth of his body was scorching, a living furnace pressed tight against you. He hovered over you, gaze raking down the length of your body like he was savoring every inch.

“Look at you,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All spread out for me… all soft ‘n plush.” His hands roamed your hips, squeezing with greedy affection. “Ain’t nothin’ I love more than a woman with a little bit of softness,” he purred. “Somethin’ I can hold on to… somethin’ I can sink my teeth into.”

His teeth scraped the side of your neck, sharp and lingering, and you gasped, the sound high and breathless. He chuckled low, pleased. “There it is,” he drawled, hands sliding back up, rough palms caressing the swell of your hips. “Sweet lil’ sounds… you gonna keep makin’ those for me?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat when his fingers brushed over the slickness pooling between your thighs. Remmick went still, his breath catching. “Well, I’ll be damned…” he murmured, accent thick with satisfaction. “You’re soaked, darlin’. Were you hopin’ I’d catch you out here?”

“N-no,” you stammered, shaking your head, but he only chuckled, low and dark.

“Lyin’ ain’t gonna do you no good out here,” he crooned, circling his fingers with deliberate slowness, teasing you until your hips arched against him involuntarily. “Mmm, that’s it… go on. Show me how much you want it.”

His touch grew bolder, fingers slipping through your slick folds with practiced ease. “So wet for me… look at you, sugar. Drippin’ like you were just waitin’ for me to find you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, and Remmick hummed in approval. “Gonna make you feel real good, sweetheart,” he promised, leaning down to nip at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “Right here… out in the open where anybody could see. Ain’t that somethin’?”

His fingers slipped inside, stretching you slowly, possessively, and you bit back a gasp. Remmick groaned low in his throat, like the feel of you was too much, too good. “Hell… you’re tight,” he rasped, voice thick with want. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else, darlin’. Make sure you remember just who made you feel this way.”

He pumped his fingers slow and deliberate, curling just right to have your back arching off the ground. “That’s it, pretty girl… let me hear you,” he crooned, his accent like velvet and whiskey, smooth and intoxicating. “Ain’t nobody else around… just you ‘n me. Let it out.”

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped free, and his grin widened, sharp and hungry. “Good girl… knew you’d sound pretty when you broke.”

His pace quickened, fingers curling deeper, thumb brushing over that aching bundle of nerves until your legs shook beneath him. He watched you the whole time, gaze fixed on every twitch, every gasp, like he was savoring the way you unraveled for him.

“You gonna come for me, darlin’?” he whispered, voice low and dripping with want. “Right here in the dirt… with my hands buried inside ya? C’mon now… show me.”

His fingers worked you open with a deliberate pace, dragging out every slick sound and whimper that spilled from your lips. Remmick’s grin only widened, sharp and predatory, as he watched you writhe beneath him, your body reacting to every curl of his fingers.

“There we go,” he crooned, accent thickening with every whisper. “Such a good girl for me… takin’ what I give you like you were made for it.” His thumb circled your clit with just enough pressure to have your back arching off the forest floor, a breathless cry slipping from your mouth.

His hand was unyielding, fingers stretching you open as his thumb continued its slow, torturous rhythm. “You like that?” he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Bet you ain’t ever been touched like this before… all soft ‘n perfect, drippin’ down my hand.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, every nerve lit up with fire as his hand worked you closer and closer to the edge. His voice stayed low and soft, whispering dark promises against your skin. “Gonna make you come, darlin’… right here with your thighs spread wide for me.”

His fingers curled just right, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, and your hands flew to grasp at the leaves and dirt beneath you, nails digging into the earth. “That’s it,” he praised, his breath hot against your neck. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Let me feel you clenchin’ around my fingers?”

You whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily as the pressure built, white-hot and unrelenting. Remmick’s grin turned wicked, and he pressed his lips to the side of your throat, sharp teeth grazing the skin there. “Let go,” he whispered, voice dripping with command. “Come for me.”

The words snapped something inside you, the coil of tension unraveling with a rush of heat and pleasure that left you gasping. Your body clenched around his fingers, thighs trembling as he worked you through it, his touch never faltering. “That’s it,” he drawled, almost proud. “Knew you’d be pretty when you came.”

Your body sagged against the ground, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. But Remmick wasn’t done. Not even close. He pulled his hand away, and you shivered as he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. “Sweet as honey,” he praised, voice husky. “Reckon I might have to taste you proper next time.”

You barely had a chance to recover before his hands were on you again, dragging you up from the ground and into his lap. His strength was effortless, like you weighed nothing at all, and before you could blink, you were straddling him, your skirts bunched around your hips.

He leaned back against the trunk of a tree, hands gripping your thighs possessively. “Ain’t done with you yet, darlin’,” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “Not by a long shot.” His hands skimmed up your sides, curling around your waist as he pulled you flush against him. The hard press of him against your core made your breath hitch, and he grinned, sharp and dangerous.

“You feel that?” he purred, grinding up against you with slow, deliberate movements. “That’s what you did to me… runnin’ around all soft ‘n sweet like you were beggin’ me to catch you.”

His hands moved to your hips, gripping tight as he rolled his own, dragging you against him again and again, the friction sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. “Think you’re ready to take me, sugar?” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “Think you can handle it?”

The forest was silent around you, shadows stretching long and unyielding as Remmick cradled you against him, his breath still coming in ragged bursts. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, grounding you even as your mind swirled with the aftermath of what just happened. You should have been terrified—should have run the second his grip loosened—but your body stayed pliant and soft against his, boneless in his arms.

Remmick’s hands smoothed over your back, large and warm, palms pressing possessively against your spine. “Did so good for me, darlin’,” he murmured, voice softening to a honeyed drawl. His lips brushed your temple, almost reverent. “Knew you were meant to be mine… knew it the moment I saw you.”

You swallowed hard, head spinning, but the words wouldn’t come. How could you respond? How could you even breathe when he was still pressed so close, body solid and unyielding, keeping you right where he wanted you?

But Remmick didn’t seem to mind your silence. If anything, it pleased him, the soft hum of satisfaction rumbling through his chest. His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, almost affectionate. “Gonna take you somewhere safe now,” he whispered, voice low and conspiratorial, like you were sharing a secret. “Somewhere they can’t find you.”

You stiffened instinctively, but his hands only tightened, pressing you closer until the hard bark of the tree bit into your back. “Ah, ah… none of that now,” he chided gently, his Irish lilt curling around the words. “Ain’t no sense in runnin’. I’d only catch you again.”

His eyes met yours then, pale and burning with something you couldn’t name. Obsession, maybe. Possession. It sat heavy in his gaze, pinning you in place as his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re mine now, sugar,” he murmured, the promise thick and unyielding. “Gonna keep you all for myself.”

Before you could so much as blink, he scooped you into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, but his grip was firm and steady, unyielding as he strode through the shadows of the forest.

“W-where are you taking me?” you managed, voice trembling.

His grin spread slow and wicked, eyes glimmering with dark satisfaction. “Home, darlin’,” he drawled. “Gonna take you back to my place… keep you tucked away where nobody else can touch you.”

Your heart stuttered, panic clawing at the edges of your mind. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” he interrupted smoothly, not even breaking stride. “And I will.” His gaze dropped to yours, sharp and unyielding. “Ain’t nobody gonna take you from me, sugar. Not now, not ever.”

The trees thickened around you, shadows stretching long and twisted as he carried you deeper into the woods. His arms were unyielding, every step purposeful, like he’d walked this path a thousand times before. You tried to memorize the way, counting the turns and bends, but it all blurred together, the darkness swallowing each landmark whole.

And then you saw it. Hidden among the thick branches and creeping ivy was a cabin—dark and looming, half-consumed by nature. Its windows were covered, shadows shifting behind the glass, and the door stood slightly ajar, like it had been waiting.

“There we are,” Remmick crooned, voice thick with satisfaction. “Home sweet home.”

He nudged the door open with his boot, carrying you inside with practiced ease. The air was heavy, scented with cedar and smoke, and the low flicker of candlelight bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. It was almost… cozy. But there was something lurking just beneath the surface—something dark and possessive, clinging to the shadows like an unwelcome guest.

Remmick set you down gently, hands never leaving your waist as he guided you toward the center of the room. His gaze flickered over you, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the bruises his hands left on your hips. He grinned, pleased. “You look real good like that, darlin’,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “All marked up and mine.”

You shivered under his touch, the weight of his stare making it impossible to think clearly. “Remmick… I…”

“Hush now,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your temple. “Ain’t no need for talkin’. We got all the time in the world now.”

[ronearoundblindly]

🧚🏻‍♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now you must share a hoe thot about: CE!babe + “Sir, I think you misunderstood.”

I'm SO HONORED, you have no idea. 🧚‍♀️👸🏽❤️🪄🧚✨⚡️❤️‍🔥🧚‍♂️

*While this follows Super-Human Resources as a story, it is not necessary to read that to understand. Reader is female and 'older' but no specifics about her body or age are given. For context, you believe that you and Steve are f***-buddies and nothing more (he does not believe that).

Summary: Steve is more eager to than you realized...

A shameless fic deserves a shameless gif, don't you think? **Warnings for smut: unprotected sex (established consent/relationship) in a semi-public space, oral (m receiving), horny gremlin!Steve, and not a whole hell of a lot of editing utilized, folks... MINORS DNI. There's all-age friendly fic on my Light Masterlist, but not here. WC ~2k

Busy.

Busy day. Busy week. Busy month really, if you stop to think about it, but you can’t stop right now. There’s work to be done. Agents to clear, trainees to make agents, and it’ll be done as soon as you file these…

“Shit,” you mutter as Maria Hill is about to take the documents from you. You were almost done with this closed-door meeting. “Rogers hasn’t signed off on them yet.”

For the tiniest of split-seconds, Hill looks annoyed, her eyes half roll while she sighs. “He’s been just as slammed as all of us.” She doesn’t seem thrilled by the chaos of spring either. Say what you will about seasonal depression sucking, but there is a notable uptick in enemy aggression once the weather warms.

Does that make winter less crazy? No. What it does is make the internal workings of the Compound go bonkers until everyone can fight out there. In HR’s case, winter is the worst and busiest time. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Your off-hours understanding with Steve Rogers aside, there are few seasonal bright spots beyond actually liking your job.

You dial up Rogers’ number. It rings only once before he answers.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

He’s so sweet with you in private, and though diligent about keeping work strictly professional, you imagine you can tell the barest of warmth laced into the words.

“Sorry to bother, Captain—“

Hill slaps down a new file you’ve not seen yet.

“—but I need you—“ you cover the mic with your palm, whispering ‘and what’s this?’ but she waves you off “—to come down and…hello?”

The dial tone starts again.

“Hello? I think he just hung up on me.”

Hill simply shrugs. “Maybe even he’s at wit’s end,” she muses. “Just bring the rest to my office whenever, but I’ll need a review of this contract. The lawyers approve, but if you ask me they kept the wording too technical. We need a—let’s say a nicer spin on it.”

Fine. Toss it on the pile. In fact, that’s exactly what you do, move it from corner A to corner B of your desk.

Above you, Maria makes a shocked sort of chirping noise.

“Cap! You scared me there.”

“Sorry,” Steve huffs in the doorway, arms braced on either side of the frame. “Sorry. Sorry, I just—“ clearing his throat “—was already on this floor when you called, so…I’m here.”

His stealth training with Natasha really paid off. There was zero sound when he came in.

“Right, well, if you could—“

Steve holds up a finger. “Actually, I have something to ask…to discuss with…”

“I’ll bring them by your office later,” you offer Hill.

She nods and leaves, none the wiser to Rogers speedily (and silently) locking the door behind her. 

You push out your chair to greet him, but Steve rounds the desk before the seat even rolls past touching your calves.

“I need you, too,” he husks, big hand gripping your waist, maneuvering you back against the wall. His mouth finds the tender spot below your ear immediately. “‘m glad you called.”

Oh.

Oh wow, he’s—

“Love when you wear these.” Steve drops to one knee, fingers dancing at the hem of your skirt and over the thin shield of your pantyhose.

He does love him some nylons, cheeky boy.

Good thing your office blinds were already closed, or the whole cubicle pool would see Captain America six inches from your crotch with a hand sneaking up your thigh.

“Sir,” you whimper in the suddenness of his desire, “I think you misunderstood.”

A flicker of questioning darts across Steve’s features.

“I actually just need you to sign those,” you clarify with a wave to the desk.

“Oh.” Steve presses his head into your leg for a second. “So not…?”

“Sex? Here? No, not what I called for,” you chuckle.

He gets up from the floor, looking embarrassed and guilty, a bulge in his pants betraying how seriously he intended to take you right there. It has been two weeks since you’ve gotten to sleep over. He was away on mission last weekend and who knows when he’ll be called up again. Shame to let that enthusiasm go to waste…

“But,” you drawl, creeping forward, your hand cupping him gently.

He stirs so easily at contact. Steve’s always been eager to ‘practice,’ to build prowess in knowing the female body, and he’s used yours to do it, but you never expected him to whine in desire.

Without waiting for more encouragement, he lowers his mouth to your neck again. “Yeah?” 

His fingers use their rough friction to nudge your skirt up over your hips until he can run one digit along the waistband of your stockings.

You feel the fabric in your palm stretch tighter. Steve twitches.

“It’s okay to do this,” he breaths, “even if it’s uncalled for?”

The spider-walking of his touch down your stomach is deliberate. He’s giving you time to tell him you’re not interested or this isn’t the place, but you are, in fact, pretty interested and do not care if this is the place.

When no response comes as he finds your mound, Steve drags one finger through your folds. He lets a hot sigh roll across your skin in satisfaction of discovering the slick spot he can stoke back to life.

Ever since he first asked how he could please you, it’s been about Steve wanting to learn a woman’s pleasure, but his desire always seems incidental. He’ll come anyway. He’s getting off in addition. You get that; it’s the whole deal, but there are other lessons Steve, in particular, could learn. One of them is that he can be the focus, too.

Instead, he’s focused on holding back, apparently, because he bites his lip and doesn’t lean into your hand. He doesn’t pull away either. He moves to slip two fingers into you and curl them.

This leads you to a theory of why, though you’re surprised to have the brainpower. “Have you not…touched yourself in weeks?”

Steve grunts in annoyance. “I didn’t think it would be that long.”

“So—“ keeping your voice silky and sweet “—no need to edge yourself after all that.”

“Edge?” he asks.

Lessons, lessons, lessons.

“It’s called ‘edging’ or ‘delayed gratification,’ yeah.”

You can practically hear his thoughts as his eyes roam your body. Should he stop? Should he continue? Should he tough it out and wait the few hours till the workday is done? Steve is the type to think of denial as the height of self-control, so you don’t know which side he’ll land on when he’s needy with his finger on the button of satisfaction.

He can have it all, and he can have it right now. You tentatively roll his tender balls to prove a point, but that seems only to make his inner conflict worse, his brows knitting together, strained.

Until it doesn’t.

“No,” Steve says, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, staring at you feverishly. “No, I don’t want to delay anymore.”

To put him out of his misery, you offer your help, pulling his hand away, rolling down the layers in his way until mid-thigh (look, hose are a bitch to take off and put on, so at work, you’re improvising), and bending directly over your desk. Head turned to the side, you watch the shadow of him stepping up behind you, lowering the fly of his slacks and pumping his shaft until he’s hard.

All in total, it takes four seconds or so, but the performance of breaking the man’s character down to a lustful mess plays out an entire scene.

Steve squats down slightly to roll his cockhead through your folds and thrusts shallowly. The delicious stretch and rising fullness make your eyes flutter shut.

He’s always worth the wait. You’ll miss this when he’s done with you.

His feet spread apart as he kneads your ass and opens you wide.

“So good,” he groans. “Did you think of me? Did you touch yourself thinking of this?”

“Yes,” you gasp on a deep thrust.

If he’s expecting more words, he’s not getting them, not when the drag of him inside and out pools all your attention like a tide away from your brain.

The afternoon sun’s angle shows the silhouette of Steve stretching tall so he can fuck toward that spongy spot sending tingles all over your body, but just as soon as he sets a rhythm, he pulls out.

“Uh, no,” he moans, gripping his dick like it’s hurting him, “’s why I wanted my mouth on you first…so…so close.”

Steve’s ready to cum within minutes of sinking into your pussy. That’s a boost to your ego if there ever was one. However, he needs release, and from the look of his blown pupils, he needs it to be as intense as possible. He needs connection not just physically.

If Steve desires a more connective experience, you’ll have to give him eye contact.

Mirroring his starting position, you drop delicately to your knees in front of him, head inches away from your desktop.

“Oh god,” he whines from somewhere deep in his chest, but his eyes never leave you while your hand replaces his. 

The first brush of your lips sends him lurching forward to grip the poor particleboard behind you, and you do blink long and languid at the musky taste of him.

His mouth hangs open, too, as you bob, taking only a few inches each time, focusing on the sensitive head. You make the tip of your tongue firm and pointed to draw patterns along veins you know by heart. His hips buck against his will, and though you can’t teach it him without words, this is called ‘fucking your face.’

It’s delightful to see the hazy blue of his eyes soften in wonder. It’s validation itself to hear him praise the sheer perfection of you.

“Shit,” Steve moans, “I—I—“ but he breaks off in a euphoric (and loud) exhale.

Cum begins to flood your throat and mouth, and there’s a rustle of something knocked over above you. A soft wad of tissues tucks under your chin just as the overflow breeches the corner of your lips.

“Too long. Waited too long. Sorry, should have warned you,” he admits brokenly. It is significantly more than usual, you note.

Steve pulls out to finish coming in his makeshift pad and tries to bat the box closer to you for more.

You rip out a few to spit in.

All-in-all, you’re pleased to have such a wild affect on a man, and Steve is not just any man at that.

He takes all the tissues and buries them under some papers in your trashcan. He collects himself, zipping his dignity back into place while you shimmy up your tights and panties.

Steve then pulls you into his chest, leaving a gentle kiss as the last taste on your lips. “I’ll give you back threefold tonight, okay?” he assures, low and intimate. “Sorry, I got…overexcited.”

He releases you from the hug.

“Well, I’ll only be there at a decent hour if you sign these damn papers, Captain.”

Steve looks confused, eyes darting to the stack he luckily did not tip off the edge of your desk. It takes another four seconds for him to remember that there was a real reason he was called.

“Yes, ma’am, right away, but also—” he scrunches his nose “—I’m just going to crack this because—“ Steve doesn’t bother completing the thought. He simply props the window open at the lowest notch. Across the small room, he stares at you smoothing a hand over your hair, beaming.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Goofy. Honest. Adorable.

“It’s a good line, Cap,” you chuckle then double tap the stack of forms.

He rushes over, ever the fast-learner, ever the eager participant, ever ready (usually) to get down to business.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

Thank god it’s Friday.

a/n: is it acceptable?

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

@Supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare

[targaryenluvs]

REAL LOVE BABY! / CLARK KENT

PAIRING: Red Kryptonite!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: To make your ex jealous, your best friend suggests the two of you work together. But it’s not like you knew, he was never planning on letting you go.

WARNINGS: Fake Dating Trope, Obsession, Jealousy, Dark themes, Cursing, Non-Consensual Kissing/Touching, Implied Sex, Baby Trapping, Red Kryptonite Clark

WORDCOUNT: 1,390 Words

A/N: Hello folks! This fic is apart of the lovely @lady-ashfades collab event! Here is the masterlist, go over and give it a look and read with a lot of great writers and tropes ❤️ You can imagine this with any Clark but I was leaning towards Smallville Clark!

Your teeth were bound to be ground into nothing if you kept going at this pace. The drink in your hand was warm, despite the ice inside. Your entire face was flushed as you watched your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, stand around and laugh.

His footsteps surprisingly weren’t heavy, “The longer you stare, the creepier it gets.” Clark laughed as you turned his way, eyebrows knitted together in anger. “Who cares, why the hell is he allowed to be so happy. If a girl moves on that fast it’s a shit show.” You downed your drink before turning to the barkeep, he didn’t even need to ask, nor did you.

Another glass slid your way.

Clark was quicker than you, he always was. “This isn’t how you get over someone Y/n/n.” You couldn’t help but whine as you stared at the small glass, it wasn’t small but Clark made it look tiny. “You want me to switch to ice cream Kent?” Clark scoffed, his teeth as white ever.

His hand came to hold yours once he’d placed the glass out of your reach, “Anything, as long as it won’t hurt you.” You couldn’t help but smile at him, “Always looking out for me aren’t you?”

Oh you have no idea.

“Always, you’re my best girl.”

“And you’re my best friend too.” You stood on your toes to kiss his cheek, not noticing how time seemed to stand still to him. His hand came to your waist to steady you, “What if we could make him jealous?” Clark kept hold of your arms, which you found odd. “Uh, how do you mean?” You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eye, so you glanced at his hands taking note of the tacky red ring. His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it before leaning in, “I mean this.”

Clarks lips connected with yours as your eyes widened, this was definitely not how you expected your night to go.

You pulled away after what felt like a lifetime to be met with a wide smile, “I— you,” Clark’s head was turned towards your ex Jake. “Well he’s definitely noticed you now.” Taking. a quick glance, you viewed an angry man not taking notice of the girl clinging on his arms.

Shaking your head to try and clear your mind did nothing. What the hell was going on? Pinching the bridge of your nose, you looked back to Clark, “You kissed me to make him jealous? You’re my best friend Clark and this isn’t a movie.”

“Oh come on, a macho guy like him never thinks before getting angry. And would you rather use some random friend or your best friend? You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you Y/n/n.” Tucking your hair behind your ear you nodded along, maybe this would pay off. Either it would help you get over him or get him back.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Clarks eyes shifted, whether it was just the lighting or something more, you didn’t take notice.

“Baby I’m gonna treat you so good—,”

“Don’t quote Pretty Woman on me Kent!”

Bliss. The next few weeks with Clark by your side were pure bliss in your opinion. Almost every day you woke up to a nice message from him wishing you a good morning. Before, unluckily for you, your ex worked with both yourself and Clark. But now it was the best thing since it was undeniably easy to rub your glee in his face.

“Coffee M’lady?” He had a mug in his hand, outstretched in your direction as you took in the lovely smell of the love of your life, and Clark was there too. “I love you.” Your hands practically snatched the mug from his grip, “Oh I guess I like you too.”

Clark shook his head as you giggled sweetly before taking a sip of heaven to start your day, “You wound me.” You raised your eyebrows, “I keep you on your toes baby.” The word slipped so easily you didn’t even notice, but Clark did. So did Jake as he entered the break room.

You used to call him baby.

Taking your coffee, you mobilised and left the room, leaving your ex and best friend fake boyfriend with tension galore radiating from the room. “Kent.” Jake grunted in acknowledgement, “Jake.” The smirk on Clark’s face was infuriating, “Stop.”

He played dumb as he twisted the Ruby like ring, “Stop what?” Clark tilted his head as he questioned him, “Rubbing her in my face.” His laugh screamed superiority somehow, “Trust me, Y/n wouldn’t want to rub herself on you any-day or anyhow. She has me for that anyways.”

“Oh you fucking—,”

“Clark!” Your shout from down the hall caused both of the men to turn immediately, “Watch yourself Kent.” Clark snickered in his face, “Yeah, cause I’m so scared of you right? Chin up Jakey.”

Jake watched as Clark walked away, jaw close the to the floor at the audacity and arrogance around the sweetheart that was Clark Kent. How the hell was he your best friend?

For some reason you just keep going. Never announcing that you were dating but falling into this calm stage of friendship? A relationship? You were fake dating, or supposed to be, but it felt almost normal now. And whenever you’d bring forwards the topic of what you were Clark would always shut it down.

Especially when it came to the two of you returning to friends.

So after a consultation with Lois, you ended up taking him out for a night on the town. Drinks, fun and hopefully enough time for a talk.

You wiped your eyes as Clark laughed at your wheezing, “I can never imagine you acting so confident! Not in a bad way but— oh god, half the time when your food is too salty you just buck up and eat it. I don’t know why you confronting someone is so foreign!”

Clark shook his head as he crossed his arms, “That’s the old Clark. Don’t you like someone who takes control?” Suddenly the jacket you had on was far too warm and restricting as you choked on air, “Uhh, sure.” You absentmindedly answered before ordering another drink.

Not realising it was already your fourth, Clark hadn’t touched his drink.

“It’s so dark.” Clark nodded as you clung onto bicep, “Luckily I’m here no?” He glanced down at you with a sinister smile and he couldn’t help but admire the glee on your face. “Lucky you’re here.” You agreed.

He was in for a good night.

The sun was harsh in your eyes, attempting to roll over to escape you were met with a human blockade in the form of, Clark?

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.”

Clarks eyes fluttered open at your exclamation, “What’s wrong Sweetheart?” You shot up, clutching the sheet to your chest as he laughed at your actions, “I’ve already done that to you Y/n/n.” Clutching your head in your hands you tried to make sense of how you ended up in your best friend’s bed naked after a normal night out.

You shook your head vehemently, “That’s— that’s not the point Clark! How the hell did we end up at your place when we were walking to mine? And how… please tell me we didn’t.” Your eyes were beginning to gloss over as guilt pinched at his heart, “Hey, hey I’ve got you. I’m so sorry I don’t know either. We both drank a lot but I would never take advantage of you I swear. It was mutual but you trust me right?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, especially not with the soreness resting in your body, “I just, I’m confused Clark. I don’t know why I got into bed with you, or you got in with me. Don’t you think this would ruin our friendship?”

He sighed as he managed to slowly lull you into his arms with a gentle smile, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve been more than friends for a while. Tell me you’ve hated these past few weeks and I’ll stop. This is Real Love Baby. He never deserved you.” Having someone with you, constantly doting on you. Especially when it was so easy to talk to them since they were your best friend.

You gave in that night, and gave in again.