#*barely keeping himself from passing out*

[himasgod]

Would it be to soon to ask for a "where you suddenly stop giving them attention" part with the third years?

THIRD YEARS X READER

Where you suddenly stop giving them attention

Cater was living for your affection.

Seriously, you were his favorite notification. You always knew how to brighten his day, a kiss on the cheek before class, selfies together, random “thinking of you~” texts that made his heart skip. He acted all chill about it, but inside?

He was twirling his hair, giggling and kicking his feet like a teen in love.

So when you stopped? When your texts slowed down to dry busy rn, when you walked past him without that sparkle, when you skipped Magicam photos for days? Cater noticed. At first, he played it off with humor.

"Whoa, my number one fan vanished! Was I canceled and no one told me~?"

He scrolls back through your message thread at night, wondering if he said something wrong. Tries to post a cute story hoping you’ll react. Even sneaks by your class to “casually” spot you.

And when he sees you — head down on the desk, dark circles under your eyes, shoulders trembling, it hits him. You didn’t stop caring. You just stopped having the energy.

He walks right in, pulls you up from your chair, and takes your hand. You barely react, exhausted, letting him lead you. He brings you to the empty pop music club room, shuts the door, and wraps you in his arms.

"You don’t have to smile for me, kay? You don’t have to be “on.” Just be real with me, babe. I’m not going anywhere."

You finally let go and cry a little, muttering “I’m sorry” into his hoodie. He hugs you tighter.

"Nah, none of that. You gave me real love, and I’m keeping it. So if you need a break, I’ll be your filter. I gotchu."

Leona had long since decided that affection wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. Or deserved.

But then you came along. With your sleepy kisses. Your hands in his hair. Your little “I missed you, lazybones” messages. Your way of plopping down beside him like you belonged there. It made him soft. He hated it. He loved it.

So when it disappears, when you stop curling up next to him during naps, when you barely say “hi” in the hallways, when the only messages you send are “Sorry, can’t today. Too tired”, Leona’s first instinct is annoyance. He’s gruff. Snappy. Sulking like a big cat who’s been denied his favorite sunspot.

"So that’s it? Done spoiling your prince, herbivore?"

But he doesn’t press it. Not yet. Not until he finds you passed out in the botanical garden, curled under a tree with your bag still slung on one shoulder. You don’t wake up when he calls your name.

He kneels beside you, frowning, brushing your hair out of your face. Your skin is warm. Your body limp with exhaustion. And suddenly he sees it, the sleepless nights in your eyes, the way you’ve been dragging your feet through the week. This wasn’t you ignoring him. This was you falling apart.

When you finally blink awake he doesn’t let you speak. He just pulls you against his chest, sighing into your shoulder.

"You idiot. You think I need all your attention if it costs you this much?"

You try to explain, apologize, but Leona tightens his hold and cuts you off.

"You gave me something warm for the first time in a long damn time. You think I’m gonna throw that away because you forgot to say “good morning” a few days?"

"Next time, just tell me you’re burning out. I’ll carry you if I have to. I’ll drag your overworked ass into bed myself."

And he does. He carries you to his room like it’s nothing, tucks you under his thickest blanket, and curls around you.

"You spoiled me rotten, herbivore. Let me spoil you back."

Vil took note the second it started.

The first time you didn’t compliment him. The first time you didn’t send your good morning text. The first time you passed him in the hallway, eyes on your phone, and didn’t so much as glance up. He noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t act on it immediately. He gave you space, told himself you were probably dealing with something. That it was just a phase. He wasn’t going to be the clingy insecure type. And yet…

"Why haven’t they noticed my new look? They always say something…"

"They haven’t visited the dorm in over a week. Why?"

The questions start to pile up in his mind, and with them, a tightness in his chest he hates admitting is worry. When he finally seeks you out, you’re in the library, fast asleep over books, dark circles under your eyes, your lunch untouched beside you. And everything clicks. It wasn’t about him. It was about you. Pushing yourself too hard again. Giving too much and leaving nothing for yourself.

Vil lets out a sigh and gently wakes you. You blink at him, confused, guilty, already trying to explain. But he stops you with a finger pressed to your lips.

"Enough. You don’t owe me affection when your body is falling apart."

He takes your hands, helps you stand, and brushes the hair out of your face.

"You’ve been overworking yourself again. Look at your complexion. Look at your posture. Have you even slept properly this week?"

You shake your head, ready to apologize again, but Vil frowns and holds your face with both hands.

"You showered me in love when I needed it. Now let me return the favor."

That evening, he takes you to Pomefiore. Runs you a bath with herbs for your fatigue. Makes you a skin treatment himself. Feeds you something warm, nothing fancy, just what you need. And when you lie down, eyes drooping, he sits beside you with a book and reads aloud until you drift off.

The next morning, when you wake up and whisper, “Sorry for worrying you,” he only scoffs.

"You’re lucky I love you… Because darling, letting yourself fall apart is never a good look. So next time, tell me. You don’t have to be perfect — just let me in."

You were his safe place. That’s it.

Idia had never, ever been good with people, but somehow, you slipped through him like a virus. You installed yourself into every part of his daily life: calling him nicknames, hugging him out of nowhere, holding his hand even when he flinched like a malfunctioning Chatgpt.

So when you stop showing up to his room after class, when your daily “I love you, you nerd” texts vanish into silence, Idia panics. But he doesn’t know how to confront you. Not directly. So he goes through his mental folders.

"Did I say something cringe? Did I scare them off? Oh no. Oh fuck—what if they’re ghosting me?!"

He pings you in-game. No reply. He messages you on Magicam. Nothing. Eventually, he decides to do something terrifying: he leaves his room. He finds you half-asleep in a corner booth, head down on your arms, a tray of snacks beside you. You look pale. Tired. Your phone buzzes with unread messages, mostly from group projects. And his. He shuffles over, hoodie up, hands in sleeves.

"Hey… hey… you okay?"

You lift your head, dazed. When you realize it’s him, you try to smile, but it comes out cracked. “I’m sorry, I just… forgot to reply. I’m so tired.”

Idia sits beside you. He just pulls his sleeve over your hand and gives it a squeeze. "You’re running out of stamina, huh? You chuckle weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

"You don’t have to be good all the time just for me. But next time, let me know, okay? I can carry the team for a while."

Then he gently drapes his oversized jacket over your shoulders.

Lilia always used to tease you a little about how much you pampered him.

"Another treat? You’re going to spoil me rotten, little one. I might start expecting this every day~"

He would laugh, flutter his lashes, feign dramatic swoons every time you brought fixed his hair without warning, or clung to his arm calling him “old man.” But the truth? He loved it. Every second of it.

So when all that stops? When you start pulling away with tired excuses and absent eyes, when your touch disappears, your laughter fades, and your texts become “sorry, I’m busy” Lilia notices. Of course he does. He notices everything. At first, he jokes about it, as usual.

"Ara~ have I lost my most devoted fan? Say it isn’t so"

But you just smile weakly, wave him off, and walk past him. And Lilia stays behind, lips still curved, but eyes narrowed. Concerned.

He doesn’t chase after you, he waits. Watches. He sees how you stumble over your steps in class, how you barely eat. And suddenly, everything makes sense. You weren’t ignoring him. You were burning out.

The next time he sees you, you're dozing off, a stack of notes on your lap and your pen still in hand. He crouches beside you, brushes a strand of hair from your face, and whispers. "Silly human… You give and give until there’s nothing left. And now you’re forgetting to take care of yourself."

He doesn’t wake you. Instead, he scoops you up in his arms and takes you to his room. He sets you on the bed, tucks you in, and sits beside you. Humming something low. And when you finally stir awake, blinking at him with confusion, he just smiles.

"You stopped spoiling me… so I’ll spoil you now. Rest, darling. I’ll watch over you."

Malleus had never known what it was like to be loved in the small ways.

Not just respected or fond like Lilia, Silver or Sebek, But openly loved, with warm hands brushing his hair, with nicknames whispered, with kisses on the cheek followed by playful grins and “did you miss me prince?”

That’s why, when it suddenly stops, he doesn’t know how to process it. You no longer greet him with your usual bright voice. You stop reaching for his hand. You avoid going to Diasomnia. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even speak of it at first. He just watches.

"Have I displeased you?" He asks himself this more times than he’d ever admit.

At first, he assumes it's distance — that perhaps your heart had grown bored of him. But then he begins to see the truth, your slowed pace, the way you rub your eyes and mumble apologies without reason. You weren’t pushing him away, you were exhausted. So one night, he appears outside Ramshackle, as he used to do in the beginning when your bond was still new. You hear the gentle knock, and when you open the door, there he is.

"May I come in, child of man?"

You nod tiredly, and let him sit beside you on the edge of the bed. You try to explain. Try to apologize. But Malleus just shakes his head, placing a hand over yours.

"You gifted me a kind of love I never imagined I’d have. You do not need to apologize for needing to rest. But I ask you this. Do not shut me out. Let me carry some of your burdens, if only a little. Let me stay beside you, even in silence.·

You feel tears sting your eyes, but Malleus simply leans forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

"Even if you have no strength left to call me “my prince,” I will still be yours."

Trey never asked for much.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to expect grand displays or dramatic affection. But ever since you started spoiling him, slipping love notes into his apron pocket, kissing his temple while he baked, calling him “sweetheart” when you thought no one was listening, he’d gotten used to it. Too used to it.

So when you suddenly go quiet, when your touches vanish and your little “I brought this just for you” moments dry up, Trey pretends not to mind. At first.

"Everything alright? You’ve been… quiet lately. Busy?"

You nod. Tell him not to worry. That you’re just tired, that homwork's overwhelming you a bit. He doesn’t push. But it nags at him. He watches how your shoulders slump, how you chew your lower lip while working through assignments, how your phone lights up with unread messages you don’t even glance at.

And one afternoon, when he sees you curled up, asleep with a half-eaten snack and your notebook clutched to your chest, something in him clicks. He sighs softly, kneels beside you, and gently takes the notebook from your arms. He sits down pulling out a small container from his bag. Inside is your favorite treat. One you once made together. He leaves a note beside it:

“For when you wake up. You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here too.”

When you wake up hours later, groggy, you find Trey still sitting across from you, reading calmly, as if nothing ever happened. But when your eyes meet, he smiles, the kind of smile that says “You don’t owe me anything, but I’m not going anywhere.”

And later, as he walks you back to your dorm, he gently bumps your shoulder.

"Next time you feel like the world’s too heavy, tell me. You’ve always been sweet to me… Let me return the favor, yeah?"

Rook noticed the change before anyone else in all the 3 parts.

He always noticed you. The way your eyes lit up when you saw him. The rhythm of your voice when you called him, the tender way you touched his arm when you thought no one was looking. Your affection was art. And he had memorized every stroke of it.

So when your energy faded, when your “good mornings” dulled to distracted nods, when your hands stopped reaching for his, Rook didn’t need an explanation. He read your body like poetry. At first, he gave you space. Like a hunter watching from a distance. But Rook isn’t passive. He’s passion incarnate. And watching the light fade from you? It ached.

So one afternoon, when you sat alone in the library, head heavy in your arms, unmoving, he couldn’t stay silent. He approached quietly.

"Mon cherie… what burden weighs your wings so deeply?"

You flinch and try to sit up, but he kneels beside your chair, taking your hand gently. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a tired whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Rook kisses your knuckles.

"Ah, no. Do not apologize for enduring. You have not ignored me. You have simply... forgotten to care for yourself."

You shake your head, tears building, shame rising, but he hushes you with a finger to your lips.

"You who gave me such beauty, such devotion, how could I abandon you now, in this moment? Let me cherish you now, ma lumière. Let me carry you."

He lifts you as if you’re made of petals and takes you somewhere quiet. He wraps you in blankets, brings you tea, brushes your hair.

"Rest, my treasure. You gave your light to so many — now let me be the one to shine for you."

[brights-place]

[KPDH] ━━━ ．°˖✧ Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ ˚₊ ⊹ x Reader

Contains: Slightly Suggestive, Cursing, Collar, Barking, Teasing, making out, Baby just calling shit out

A/N: I WAS LISTENING TO SIR MIX ALOT OKAY! LISTEN AND I HAD A WHOLE IDEA NGL I FEEL LIKE I COULD MAKE A FULL FIC FOR THIS? but also I feel like I could make angst guys BRO I HAVE A DEVIOUS ANGST PLAN also I really hope people won't just start writing Mystery like he's just a guy who barks and all that because after this and one more writing about mystery I have an angsty idea that I'mma write whehehe!

Summary: BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT, He’s barking at fans in meet and greets if they pass a boundary like they owe him rent. He’s quiet and mysterious on stage like always and somehow Mystery Saja is your boyfriend. Sure, he barely talks, sneaks around slyly like a cat, and barks like a dog with an attitude problem… but he’s yours. Off-stage, he's all sneaky footsteps, silver hair in his eyes, and low growls when you're not paying him enough attention. So, obviously, you bought him a collar with a bell because if he’s gonna act like a dog, he might as well look the part. But here’s the thing there’s something weirdly real behind those sharp teeth and silent being keeping to himself. Something darker...Something… hidden and now that you’ve tugged the leash, you’re not sure who’s really in control. So go on. Bark like you want it

Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ was, well… true to his stage name. A mystery.

He didn’t talk unless he really had to, kept to himself, and always moved like he was running on empty. Quiet, reserved, and perpetually slouched after long idol schedules. It was clear the spotlight wasn’t his natural habitat. Not like Jinu, who somehow thrived in the chaos of fan service and flashing cameras even if it was all an act.

Mystery wasn’t one for acts. Not unless growling at a fan during a fan signing counted.

You watched the clip from the safety of your phone screen, eyebrows raised as he practically barked like fully barked at a fan who’d leaned just a little too close, fingers outstretched like she tried to invade hsi personal space. The way he snapped, lips curling, sharp eyes glinting beneath his silver fringe… it was less “idol charm” and more “try that again and I bite.” and god help you, it was kind of hot to see him act like that. You couldn't help but pause and side eye something in your bag you bought for your friends pet dog as a gift yet you couldn't help but snicker at an idea popping up in your head.

You were curled up in one of the hidden lounges far from the chaos of the Saja boys and their over-scheduled madness, Mystery slumped beside you on the couch.

His head dipped lazily toward your shoulder. Hair damp from a recent shower, his silver strands tickled your neck. His body was heavy tired but not enough to stop him from nuzzling into your side like a sleep-deprived stray.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to but you? Oh, you had plans for your boyfriend with a mischievous grin, you reached into your bag and pulled out a collar a sleek black collar with a delicate silver bell that jingled softly between your fingers.

You dangled it just out of his reach, eyes glittering “Mystery,” you cooed slyly his head jerked up. Slowly. Narrow-eyed. Like a cat catching movement out of the corner of its eye. His gaze flicked from the collar to your face, then back again, as if trying to figure out if you were serious or just dangerously bold.

He didn’t speak blinking and inching forward you wiggled the collar a little higher. “C’mon. You bark at fans like they owe you rent. You gonna let me tease you and get away with it?” Mystery tilted his head slightly more tense, almost curious. Almost but you weren’t fooled.

His lips parted just enough to let out the smallest, softest sound from deep in his throat. Not a word, Not quite a bark. Not quite a growl. Something in between. “Mm-mm.” You shook your head. “Not good enough.” and that’s when he lurched forward.

You squeaked as he suddenly lunged forward, not aggressively, but fast enough that your back hit the cushions behind you. He climbed into your space, straddling your hips, the weight of his body pressing you down. Silver hair fell like curtains around your faces, hiding you both from the world. His hands braced on either side of your head, and his lips were just inches from yours.

“You’re so tired,” you teased breathlessly, still clutching the collar. “Didn’t you just say you needed rest?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned in, mouth grazing the curve of your neck, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw like a lazy nuzzle.

You giggled with a smile on your face as the bell jingled again, trapped between your fingers “Don’t think I won’t put this on you.” you said in-between small snorts and mystery he froze for a moment… then moved even closer. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice raspy and low spoke for the first time that night.

“Then do it.”

You blinked mouth agape as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His fringe framed his face, making his expression unreadable except for the slight, smug curve of his mouth.

“Put it on,” he whispered. “If you’re brave enough.” Your heart slammed. The collar in your hand felt a little less like a joke and a lot more like a dare now. You swallowed slowly as you felt it how he was so quiet, calculating, and worst of all waiting.

Somewhere deep down, you remembered that Mystery wasn’t just your mysterious, slouchy boyfriend. He was a demon. A being with teeth and claws and something else hiding just behind that unreadable gaze. Still… you weren’t scared.

You slipped the collar around his neck and clicked it shut the bell jingled as you stared up at him as he didn't move. You leaned forward, lips brushing his as your finger tugged onto the collar.

“Good boy.”

And that was the moment he grabbed your hips kissing you deeply messy, tired, intense. A little desperate. A little smug. Like someone who’d been holding back just enough to let you think you had control, only to steal it all back with a single kiss.

The bell jingled again as your fingers curled into Mystery’s shoulders. You kissed him back, slow and soft, eyes fluttered shut completely unaware of the way that tiny bell kept chiming with every movement. Lost in the moment, you didn’t even register the cool brush of something leathery sliding around your neck. You felt it kind of but waved it off as nothing, too busy melting into him.

A smile tugged at your lips mid-kiss, only for it to drop the second you heard the unmistakable click of the apartment door unlocking.

“We’re back!” Jinu’s voice rang out, loud like always Your eyes flew open. Panic shot down your spine. You turned toward the door just as Mystery leaned in again, deepening the kiss very much not helping. His lips moved with slow, deliberate dominance, smug in every motion as you frantically tried to push him off.

“Mystery-!” you hissed into the kiss, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he smirked against your mouth, like this was all just another casual Tuesday, before finally pulling away smooth and unbothered, standing tall like he hadn’t just tried to make out with you in full view of the incoming chaos.

Your face burned. You side-eyed him, flustered, breath caught in your throat only to realize something was off. The collar... It was gone. You blinked. Tilted your head slightly, trying to find it only to freeze when the soft chime of a bell echoed again but not from him.

From you

You froze as your hand slowly reached up and felt the firm press of leather and cold metal against your neck. The bell jingled again as your fingers touched it.

You could feel the heat rush up your neck as you sat there, stunned, just in time for Baby to plop down beside you on the couch. He blinked lazily at the collar, lips curled around a lollipop, then reached out and flicked the bell with one finger as it chimed. His expression unreadable, but his eyes sparkling with silent laughter.

Mystery? He didn’t even look your way. Just stared forward like he’d ascended to a higher plane of peace. Baby smirked wider, unbothered, pulling away just as Romance, Abby, and Jinu entered the room in a cluster of conversation and snacks.

Romance caught sight of you first. Stifled a laugh behind his hand. Abby’s eyes widened. And Jinu? He blinked. Paused. "A collar with a bell?" he repeated, eyebrow arching, gaze sliding toward Mystery. Mystery shrugged casual, chill, innocent. The picture of saying “Who, me?” even though he didn't even need to say anything.

You dropped your face into your hands, groaning in pure shame. “Oh my god,” you mumbled. Baby popped his lollipop from his mouth just long enough to say, “Didn’t know we were into pet play now.”

You considered evaporating on the spot

۶ৎ ⌗ 𝐊-𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝

[malsmind]

shut up for a second

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains ➛ ★ big dick!chris ★ size kink ★ crying ★ mentions of smoking weed ★ praising ★ dirty talk ★ slight dumbification ★ pet names ★ creampie ★

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1.3k

you don’t really know how you ended up here.

well, that’s not true. you do — you remember the smoke swirling around the living room, the low hum of music in the background, the lazy conversation that turned into lazy touches. the way chris had looked at you with that smirk, those heavy-lidded eyes that meant trouble, the slow way his fingers ran over your thigh while you passed the blunt back and forth. and now… now you’re straddling him on the couch, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his waist, your hoodie pushed up around your ribs, your shorts long gone. he’s warm under you, hands already resting on your hips like he belongs there. like this is something you both do all the time. it’s not. not exactly.

but maybe it should be.

“you feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmurs, voice already breathy, already dragging through his throat like he’s deep in it. “so tight—holy shit.”

you’re only halfway down.

your jaw clenches, breath catching in your throat. the stretch is slow and heavy, the high making it ten times worse—every nerve dialed up, every breath in your lungs tasting like smoke and tension. he’s not small. you’ve known that. you should’ve remembered that. but you’re too far in to stop now.

“chris…” you whisper, barely a warning. not sure if it’s a plea or a threat.

but he keeps going, hands tightening on your waist like he can’t help himself. “can’t believe how warm you are, shit—look at you. takin’ me so slow. bein’ so good for me.”

your eyes flutter shut, face scrunching, lips parting as you try to focus on breathing. he might be enjoying this part, but you’re hovering between pain and pleasure, trying to find the edge where one bleeds into the other. he groans again—loud, needy—and starts to say something else and nope, you’re done.

you reach out and slap your hand over his mouth.

“chris, shut up for a fuckin’ second…” you breathe, voice cracking, barely able to get the words out as your thighs tremble and you slowly, finally, sink down the rest of the way.

his eyes widen a little, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch. just grins under your hand, groaning into your palm as you bottom out on him with a soft, broken whimper. your head spins. your body goes hot all over. you stay there, not daring to move yet, just breathing, letting your body adjust. your fingers are still pressed against his cheek, your palm over his lips, and he looks so amused by all of this. he raises his brows at you, as if to say, are you done yet? you slowly pull your hand away from his mouth. roll your hips once. then again.

he groans out loud, head tipping back against the couch. “that big, huh?” he huffs a laugh, the cockiness returning full force. “needed to fuckin’ concentrate on takin’ my dick.”

you roll your eyes, leaning forward slightly, your palms flat against his chest now. “i swear to god,” you mumble, “i’ll hold your mouth shut again.”

he’s grinning up at you now, hands moving to your hips again, helping you move, slow and steady.

“ion think you will, ma,” he says, his voice smug. too smug. “not when you feel this good. not when you’re grippin’ me like that.”

you breathe out hard through your nose, trying to hold onto your pace, trying not to lose yourself in how full you feel, how good the pressure is, how he fits like you were built to take him. every roll of your hips makes your stomach flutter and your thighs tremble. he watches you like you’re a damn piece of art.

“c’mon,” he murmurs, guiding your movements, fingers pressing into your skin just right. “tell me how it feels. tell me how fuckin’ big that dick is.”

“chris—” you warn, but your voice falters, choked with need.

“nah, nah. you know you love it,” he keeps going, voice low. “look at that pussy. fuckin’ milkin’ me dry.”

you let out a broken sound, head dropping forward, forehead resting against his shoulder as your pace falters for a second. your whole body feels like it’s on fire. overstimulated and desperate and high—like every word out of his mouth is crawling under your skin in the worst, and best way.

he kisses the side of your face, grinning against your cheek. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. dumb n’ needy. can’t even ride me properly, hm?”

you gasp softly, hips stuttering. “shut up—”

“you can’t even stop,” he says, voice dropping lower now. less teasing. more wrecked. “feels too good, huh? that it?”

you nod, barely. lips brushing his collarbone. you’re too far gone to argue. the way he fills you is too much. too perfect. it hurts a little still, but you love it—you live for this kind of overwhelming stretch. and he knows it. he knows what he’s doing to you. he lifts his hips a little, meeting you halfway.

“fuck, ’s so big…” you moan.

“mhmmm. there it is,” he breathes, hands tightening on you. “ride me, baby. just like that.”

you try. god, you try. your legs are shaking and your thoughts are scattered and you’re doing your best to keep going but it’s getting harder and harder to keep control.

“chris,” you whimper, voice barely there.

he kisses your jaw, still smiling. “you gonna cum?”

you nod, lips parting, breath catching.

“use me, then,” he murmurs, his voice low and hot and sweet like honey. “take what you need.”

and you do. you roll your hips faster now, harder, your thighs burning and your moans getting louder as your body takes over. chris groans under you, hands moving up your back, pulling you closer. your chest is flush against his now, your face buried in his neck, breath hitching every few seconds as the knot in your stomach coils tight and hot.

“thereee ya go,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “come on, baby. fuckin’ cum on this big dick. lemme feel it.”

his hands move to your ass, helping you grind down harder, deeper, until you’re trembling and crying out against his throat. you come hard, body curling in on itself, nails digging into his shoulders as you gasp and whimper, shaking. he holds you through it, whispering praises into your skin, voice cracking with how hard he’s trying not to lose it himself.

“that’s it… that’s it, ma… fuck—”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he touches your cheek, brushing away the tears.

“you okay?” he asks softly, suddenly all gentle again.

you nod into his neck. “feels too good,” you mumble.

“i know,” he says. “i know, baby.”

you start moving again, slowly, almost mindlessly. still riding the high. still chasing something. he groans, hands on your hips again, letting you keep going even though your legs are weak and you’re still shaking.

“you’re insane,” he mutters. “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. can’t believe—shit—”

you feel him twitch inside you. and then his voice breaks.

“fuck, i’m gonna—”

you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel him throb, his whole body tensing underneath you. he pulls you down hard, hips jerking up once, twice—and then he groans loud into your neck, teeth sinking lightly into your skin as he comes. deep. warm. thick. you both go still.

just breathing. his arms stay around you. your head stays on his shoulder. the air is thick and quiet and buzzing with whatever just happened. a minute passes.

“i really did have to concentrate,” you mumble, half-laughing.

he laughs too, breathless. “yeah? and i made it hard?”

“you never shut up.”

“that’s crazy,” he says, grinning. “because you still came all over me.”

you smack his chest. “shut up.”

he kissed your forehead. “you love it.”

[lazy-ahh]

hihihi I love your work, can you do a omni mark x a hero make reader

COLD HANDS, WARM HEART

pairing omni! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

winter always made your bones ache. the cold seeped into old scars, the silence pressed too close, and patrols felt longer without someone to share the quiet with. until him—until mark, with his sharp edges and sharper tongue, started showing up uninvited. until his cape became your blanket, his gloved hands your warmth, and his presence the one thing that made the cold feel worth enduring.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the winter air bites at your skin, sharp and unrelenting as you perch on the edge of the rooftop, your breath curling in front of you in hazy puffs of white. you watch the mist dissolve into the night, fleeting, like so many things in this city. below, the streets pulse with life—neon signs painting the snow-dusted sidewalks in streaks of pink and gold, laughter spilling out from packed bars, couples huddled close under shared scarves. your gaze lingers on a family of four, the parents tugging their kids along, their cheeks flushed from the cold, their laughter bright and unburdened. something warm flickers in your chest despite the chill.

you hate winter. always have. it’s too quiet in the worst ways, too full of memories that cling like frost—cold hospital rooms, the hollow silence after sirens, the way grief settles like snow, heavy and suffocating. but nights like this? they make it worth it. if braving the cold means people get to go home safe, if it means kids get to keep laughing like that, then you’ll freeze on this rooftop every damn night.

stretching your arms above your head, you roll your shoulders, wincing as the cold stiffens your muscles. patrol’s been quiet tonight. too quiet. either a good sign or the calm before the storm.

"you’re slower than usual."

the voice cuts through the silence, smooth as ice, and you don’t even flinch. you’ve gotten used to him appearing out of nowhere—like a shadow given sentience, like the winter itself decided to take shape behind you. your lips quirk into a grin before you even turn around, your breath still fogging the air between you.

"or maybe you’re just getting faster," you shoot back, twisting to face him with a playful tilt of your head.

mark stands there, arms crossed, his red cape barely stirring in the frozen air. the black lenses of his mask give nothing away, but you don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s studying you—that slight tilt of his chin, the way his mouth twitches, just barely, like he’s caught between annoyance and something dangerously close to fondness.

you grin wider, just to see if you can pull that expression out of him again.

"doubtful," he says, but there’s no real bite to it—just that low, measured tone that always makes you want to poke at him until it cracks.

you hop down from the ledge, landing in a crouch before springing up lightly in front of him. the snow crunches under your boots as you straighten, already grinning, your breath a visible puff between you. "what, did you miss me?" you tease, leaning in just enough to invade his space—close enough to watch the way his mask tilts ever so slightly downward to track your movement. "couldn’t resist tagging along on my super thrilling patrol once again?" your voice lilts, all mischief, and you punctuate it with a wink, just to see if you can get a reaction. (you always can. it’s your favorite game.)

"i had nothing better to do," he replies, monotone as ever—but there it is, that tell: the faintest tilt of his head, the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides like he’s stopping himself from reaching out.

"uh-huh. sure. definitely," you draw out the word, slow and syrupy, just to watch his jaw tighten under the mask. you nudge his shoulder with yours as you pass, the contact lingering just a beat too long—his cape brushes against your arm, cold and smooth, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth of him. "well, since you’re here," you call over your shoulder, already breaking into a jog, "you can be my backup. try to keep up."

you don’t look back. you don’t need to. you already know he’s right behind you. you take off running, leaping across the gap to the next building. you don’t need to look back to know he’s right behind you—his presence is like a shadow, steady and inevitable.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

patrolling with mark is... different. not in the way it is with other heroes—no boisterous banter bouncing between fire escapes, no synchronized flips off billboards just for the thrill of it. when it was just you, nights were quieter, lonelier; just the hum of the city and your own breath fogging in the cold as you kept watch from shadowed ledges, a solitary guardian in the dark. you'd learned the rhythm of these streets alone—the way moonlight pooled in alleyways, the particular creak of that one fire escape on 5th, how silence could be either comforting or ominous depending on the hour.

but mark? he moves through the night like he owns it, all silent certainty and effortless power. he doesn't fill the spaces with jokes or pointless chatter, but his presence changes everything. where you used to weave through shadows, now you move through pools of streetlight unafraid. where silence used to sit heavy on your shoulders, now there's the quiet sound of his cape whispering against concrete when he lands beside you. he listens in that intense way of his—head tilted just so, like every word you say is being filed away somewhere important. and sometimes, when you say something particularly ridiculous (usually mid-swing between buildings), you catch it: that tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of a smirk he thinks the dark hides. (it doesn't.)

you stop a mugging with your usual flair (minimal property damage this time, a new personal best), help a swaying drunk guy who squints up at you with bleary reverence—"you're either a tall an' really ripped angel or i died at the bar. both?"—and even rescue a hissing ball of fluff from a tree.

mark observes it all with his arms crossed, the picture of detached amusement, right up until the moment the terrified feline decides his shoulder is the safest perch in the city. the way he goes perfectly still—back rigid, fingers twitching like he's calculating sixteen different ways to remove the creature without looking like he's fleeing—makes him resemble some ancient statue of a very confused, very murderous saint. you press your lips together so hard they tremble, shoulders shaking with silent laughter you can't quite contain.

"you're wasting time," he says, voice impressively level considering there's now a puffball of claws and fury draped across his shoulders like some bizarre living epaulet. you scratch the cat behind its ears, grinning when it starts purring loud enough to rival a motorcycle engine.

"it's called community service, markus," you croon, dragging out his name like it's some private joke between you. "look it up. chapter four: 'how to not be a grumpy hero 101'."

then, because you've never been able to resist poking the bear (especially when the bear is currently being used as a cat tree), you scoop up the feline and deposit it directly into his arms. the way he freezes is nothing short of art—hands held out like he's been handed a live grenade, shoulders hiking up toward his ears. the cat, sensing his utter lack of cat-holding expertise, takes exactly three seconds to scramble up his chest, use his face as a stepping stone, and plant itself triumphantly atop his head like some fuzzy, self-appointed crown.

you lose it. completely. your laughter bursts out bright and uncontained, head thrown back as you clutch at your sides. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, and you're pretty sure you look ridiculous—bent double, one hand braced against your knee as you try (and fail) to catch your breath—but you can't bring yourself to care. not when mark is standing there like some bizarre holiday display, all sharp edges and simmering annoyance topped with the world's most self-satisfied cat.

and if you catch the way his mask can't quite hide the way his lips twitch, the way his shoulders lose just a fraction of their usual tension—if you notice how his gaze lingers on you a second too long, like he's memorizing the sound of your laughter, the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up when you're this unbearably happy—well. that just makes you laugh harder, until your ribs ache and your cheeks hurt and the cold night air feels warmer than it has any right to be.

"get it off," he says, voice eerily calm despite the fact that there's now a very smug cat sitting atop the terrifying omni-man successor like it's claimed its rightful throne. the feline kneads its paws against his scalp, purring loud enough to vibrate his mask, and you watch with absolute delight as one of his eyebrows twitches through the mask—the only crack in that perfect veneer of control.

your grin stretches wide enough to hurt, eyes sparkling with mischief as you whip out your phone with a flourish. "nah, i think it likes you," you sing-song, snapping a quick picture of the ridiculous scene. the camera click echoes between you, and you immediately angle the screen to admire your handiwork—mark, all brooding intensity, topped with a fluffy white cat that looks absurdly pleased with itself. "oh this," you declare, tapping at your screen with exaggerated importance, "is going in the hall of fame. right between that time you face-planted into a dumpster and that other time you face-planted into a dumpster."

"delete that." his voice drops into that dangerous register that makes lesser villains wet themselves, but you've never been lesser anything. not in mark's eyes. never in mark's eyes.

you pocket your phone with a wink, leaning into his space until you can see your own reflection in his dark lenses. "make me," you challenge, crossing your arms with all the bravado of someone who absolutely knows they're playing with fire.

he could, obviously. he's faster, stronger, and you're pretty sure he could vaporize your phone with just a glare if he really wanted to. but he doesn't. instead, he just stands there—a living statue of long-suffering patience—with the cat now grooming itself atop his head like it's settling in for the long haul. the way he exhales through his nose is nothing short of cinematic, his entire body radiating the energy of a man replaying every life choice that led him to this exact, undignified moment.

you can't help it—your expression softens into something unbearably fond, lips quirking at the corners as you take in the sight. there's something almost... soft about it, this terrifyingly powerful man letting you get away with this nonsense. your fingers itch to reach out, to brush away the strand of hair the cat has dislodged from its perfect place, but you settle for nudging his shoulder with yours instead, your smile turning warm and just a little bit smug. "alright, come on pretty boy," you murmur, "patrol ain't over yet."

his jaw clenches at the pet name. his chest rises with a breath that's just a fraction too deep, like he's physically holding back everything threatening to spill out—all those carefully guarded words and dangerous feelings that hover between you like static in the air before a storm. the cat ruins it with a dramatic sneeze that sends its whole body shuddering. somewhere in the distance, a siren wails its mournful song, the sound weaving through the city canyons to find you here, in this ridiculous, perfect moment where the most dangerous man you know stands frozen with a disgruntled feline perched on his head like some absurd crown. yep, perfect.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

later, when the city's finally settled into that rare pre-dawn hush and the sky bleeds from inky black to soft violet at the edges, you both find yourselves on your favorite rooftop—the one with the cracked concrete ledge that fits your backs just right, the one that frames the sunrise like it was put there just for you. you sink onto the familiar spot, legs swinging carelessly over the sixty-story drop, and after a beat of hesitation that's more habit than anything, mark folds himself down beside you with that unnatural grace of his.

"thanks for hanging out tonight," you say, bumping your elbow against his ribs with just enough force to make him grunt. your smile is all soft edges now, the playful bravado from earlier melted into something more genuine—lips quirking unevenly, eyes crinkling at the corners as you watch the first streaks of gold cut across his sharp profile. "even if you did complain the whole time."

"i didn't complain." his voice is its usual low rumble, but there's something different about it now—less polished, rough around the edges like he's been awake as long as you have.

you snort, leaning further into his space until your shoulders press together from elbow to elbow. "you exuded complaint. it was very loud." you can feel the vibration of his sigh through the contact, the way his muscles tense and release under your weight. "like, impressively loud. olympic-level silent bitching."

he gives you a quick glance, eyebrow lifting slightly before he looks back at the view in front of him. you almost chuckle. right, forgot about how 'swearing doesn't make you cool'. mark doesn't answer, but then—he doesn't need to. not when he shifts just slightly to accommodate your leaning, not when his cape rustles as he tugs it around your shoulders without being asked. the fabric is still warm from his body heat, carrying that faint ozone-and-leather scent that's become as familiar as your own. you let your head tilt against him, cheek pressing into the curve of his shoulder, and if your heart does something complicated in your chest when he doesn't pull away—well. that's between you and... you.

it's different like this. patrols alone had their own rhythm, sure—the quiet solidarity of watching over a sleeping city, the satisfaction of knowing you were enough to keep the darkness at bay. but with mark? the shadows don't just retreat; they reshape themselves around you both, like the night itself knows better than to interfere. there's safety in the way he moves with you, not behind or in front but beside, always beside, even when he pretends he'd rather be anywhere else.

(especially then.)

his mask is off now, discarded somewhere to your left, and when you sneak a glance up through your lashes, you catch the exact moment a sliver of sunlight paints across his face—gilding the stubborn set of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the barely-there quirk of his mouth that no one but you would ever think to call a smile.

yeah. you could get used to this.

"you're cold," he mutters, the words rough around the edges like gravel, but his thumb is already brushing over your knuckles—once, twice—as if he could chase the winter from your skin through touch alone.

"yeah, well," you laugh, breath clouding between you in a hazy puff, "not all of us have built-in space heater genes." your fingers flex instinctively toward his warmth, pink-tipped and stiff from the cold, and you don't miss the way his gaze drops to them, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

he huffs—a sound that's almost a laugh, almost surrender—and then, after a heartbeat suspended between you, his hand finds yours properly. his fingers slide between yours with a certainty that steals your breath, his grip firm and steady like an unspoken promise. his palm is furnace-hot against your chilled skin, callouses rough in all the right places, and you can feel his pulse where your wrists press together—steady as sunrise, relentless as tides.

your smile comes unbidden, soft at the edges and brighter than the dawn creeping over the skyline. you squeeze back, just once, just enough to say i know, i know, me too.

and maybe—with his warmth seeping into your bones, with his thumb tracing absent circles over your wrist, with the first golden light of morning gilding the snow-dusted rooftops around you—maybe winter wasn't something to endure after all. maybe it was just the universe holding its breath before handing you this: his hand in yours, the quiet between heartbeats, the slow unfurling of spring hidden in the spaces where your fingers intertwine.

huh. maybe you didn't have to wait for spring as long as you thought.

ayeee!! the writing grind is slowly but surely making its comeback—and honestly? i’m kinda proud of myself for it lol. hope you guys enjoyed this little 2.7k word dose of emotionally constipated omni-mark and his (very patient) disaster of a... 'comrade'. term break starts next thursday for me, which means more time to write, less time to stress (theoretically), and a self-imposed mission to finally tackle that mountain of requests i’ve been hoarding like a dragon with a blank word document. no promises, but maybe… just maybe… i’ll actually finish them soon. (pray for me.)

[beyondbluess]

with you

dallas winston x fem! reader

summary: dallas decides to join you on the front porch one chilly night. warning: fluff fluff fluff. not sure why i keep putting out fluff when i really love angst. not proofread; wrote this at two in the morning and didn't finish much later. author's note: so sorry for the lack of fics! definitely would've something out sooner but writer's block has been terrible. i'm trying to work on requests so bare with me.

Laughter was bouncing off every corner of the Curtis residence, a contrast to the chill nipping at your skin on the front porch. You couldn’t remember why you were out there or how long—you just needed to get away from the noise, at least for a while.

The front door opens and shuts from behind in a matter of seconds, but you didn’t bother to check to see who it was. 

“Y’alright?” 

You finally turned around to see Dallas, a hint of concern in his eyes. When you didn’t respond, he muttered something inaudible before sitting beside you on the cold concrete—his eyes never leaving your form. 

“Just.. needed to get away from the noise,” you replied, hugging yourself to keep warm. Dallas noticed this, taking off his leather jacket and placing it over your shoulders. An action that surprised you. 

Both of you sat in silence, the only thing that could be heard was the sounds of the crickets chirping. Something about the combination gave Dallas a sense of unease. 

“Doll, c’mon,” he bursts out, turning his whole body to look at you, brows creasing in further concern. “What’s eatin’ at you?”

You shrugged, lifting your knee to rest your arm on it. Dallas groaned in annoyance, lifting his hip to grab a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket to offer you one, but ended up respectfully declining. He soon pulled out his own to light it before easing into another moment of silence with you.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

Dallas didn’t respond to this at first, as if he didn’t even know how to answer the question himself. He debated on putting out the cigarette, but stopped in his tracks. “Dunno, sometimes.”

“It’s just,” you started, finally turning your body to look at him. It’s probably the first time you’ve really looked at him all night—you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked over the moonlight. “I’ve grown up here, gotten used to seeing the same people, same places. I want to see what life is like outside of Tulsa, Dal.” 

Dallas listened to you ramble on, a smirk appearing on his face. He always liked how you were always so comfortable with him, never straying away from speaking your mind. 

“You’ve been to New York, right?” you ask, not even realizing that you’ve scooted closer to him, your hand just centimeters away from his. “What’s it like?” 

“Mainly got arrested there, sweetheart,” he replies, taking a drag out of his cigarette. His gaze followed the car that passed by, his lips forming a thin line. “Wasn’t there for fun, it’s that’s what ya askin.” 

You hummed at this, shifting your attention towards the ground in front of you. Dallas’ hand moved closer to yours, fingers now lightly touching. Neither of you felt like moving. 

Eventually, the excitement inside fizzled out, leaving the occasional chatter and the sound of footsteps throughout the house. Dallas knew that the conversation from earlier still lingered on your mind—what life is like outside of Tulsa. He wanted you to have that experience; he wanted to be with you for it. 

“Hey, doll?”

You turned to face him, raising your eyebrow in curiosity. There were a few seconds where he didn’t say anything, simply just looked at you with those eyes. Before you could speak, he leaned in, cutting you off with a kiss. You didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. 

“Y’know, we can always go,” he murmured, a small but hopeful smile gracing his lips. He gently caressed your cheek with his thumb, his touch so uncharacteristically soft. 

“What are you—”

The front door opened, revealing Darry, shoulders tense from working two jobs that paid little. By now, he’s usually cleaning up and getting ready for bed, so you were surprised when he allowed everyone to stay over this late. 

“You two alright out here?” he asks, his eyes shifting between you and Dallas. He muttered out a curse at how chilly it was, pulling the door back slightly so the air wouldn’t come in completely. You wearing Dallas’ jacket doesn’t go unnoticed by him. 

“Yeah, we’re fine. Just… talking,” You answered softly, eyes lingering on Dallas a moment longer before looking up at Darry. “Everything okay?” 

“Jus’ realized that y’all haven’t eaten yet,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, a soft groan escaping from exhaustion. “Figured ya wanted somethin’.”

You were about to answer, but your stomach did it for you—grumbling. A small chuckle escaped Dallas’ lips, making you swat his shoulder playfully. You got up from the porch, dusting off your jeans, looking down at him.

“You coming, Dally?”

“Uh, yeah, jus’ give me a minute,” he muttered, taking another cigarette out of the pack to light, but instead just held it between his fingers, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer, something about your presence giving him a sense of ease. 

You were about to take off his jacket to give it back, but he shook his head—something about how it looked better on you than it did him. Darry moved aside so you could come inside, the warmth welcoming and inviting. He looked down at Dallas, giving him a knowing look.

“So you and—“

“Shut up.”

requests are open !

[honestsunmoon]

HI AGAIN !! This time, I want a Shadow milk cookie x baby reader platonic, but like he raised them even before he got corrupted, and he's not using them but keeping their innocent mind as they got some sort of cursed they they can very much grow up. And I want Candy Apple and Black Sapphire cookie as their brother/sister figure and they also adore them !!

😼

'the light he held onto'

Shadow milk cookie + baby!reader

(ft.candyApple cookie and

Black Sapphire cookie)

---

Long before his form turned dark and shadows dripped from his frame like syrup, Shadow Milk Cookie had been a gentle, quiet guardian.

Back then, his cloak was crisp, his boots steady, and his presence more soothing than ominous. He wasn't born of darkness—he had only embraced it to protect what truly mattered.

You.

You, the little Cookie with bright frosting eyes and stubby sugar-dough fingers. You, who came into his life wrapped in a soft caramel blanket, asleep and cursed.

The curse was a cruel one: you would grow—but ever so slowly. Decades might pass, and you’d still be barely older than a toddling baby Cookie, still speaking in babbles and giggles. But your heart… your heart was so bright it hurt. Bright enough to burn through the curse’s gloom.

Shadow Milk Cookie had found you abandoned by a crumbled shrine, runes cracked and warding spells faintly buzzing. The moment he picked you up and your tiny fingers curled around his, something in him changed.

And then the years came.

Even after his descent into shadow, when bitterness and fury gnawed at his soul, you remained untouched. You would reach for his hand with sticky fingers, laughing, clinging to his tattered cloak with blind trust—and he would kneel, let you braid his hair with flowers, let you rest curled up beside his side at night. His corruption never reached you. He wouldn’t let it.

He couldn’t.

> “You are… my last light,” he once whispered, when you fell asleep under the branches of a cursed tree. “Even if I am lost… I will never let them touch you.”

---

It was Candy Apple Cookie who visited next. Whimsical, sharp-tongued, and always balancing a glimmer of mischief with care. She was the one who brought you sweet-sour candies and scarves shaped like fruit slices.

> “You’re too soft on them,” she teased, nudging Shadow Milk’s side while you tried to balance a candy apple on your head. “You let them climb on you like you’re some playground.”

> “Let them,” he murmured. “They are… safe.”

And Black Sapphire Cookie—quiet, graceful, eyes deep like the night. He became your silent protector too. He never said much, but always carved little crystal figures for you. A tiny dragon. A bunny. A little version of Shadow Milk himself.

You would squeal with delight every time he arrived, crawling up to him with your arms out. And for you alone, he smiled.

---

Years passed.

You still looked like a baby Cookie, but your soul grew—aware of your family, your protectors. You weren’t clueless. You saw how Shadow Milk Cookie’s form darkened further each season. How Candy Apple’s voice turned sadder when she thought you weren’t listening. How Black Sapphire’s eyes lingered on the horizon longer each day, watching for dangers none of them dared mention aloud.

But they stayed. For you.

Your curse may slow your growth, but it didn’t slow your heart. You loved them fiercely. You made them laugh. You gave them hope.

One night, you woke up to Shadow Milk Cookie humming—something he hadn’t done in years. You crawled over, climbing into his lap, curling there like you always did.

> “You’re getting heavier,” he said softly, a ghost of amusement in his voice.

> “Me growin’,” you mumbled sleepily, resting your head on his chest.

His arms wrapped around you tightly. And for a long moment, the shadows around him stilled.

> “Good,” he whispered. “Grow… free. Even if I must hold back the world myself… you will have your tomorrow.”

---

And with Candy Apple draping a blanket over both of you, and Black Sapphire quietly standing guard at the mouth of the cave, the cursed child slept peacefully…

Surrounded by cookies who were no longer just protectors—but a family who would never let the darkness take you.

---

[bunniebarnes]

even after war.

pairing: 1940s!Bucky x 1940s!fem!reader

summary: Bucky didn't mean to fall in love with his little sister's best friend, but you were just so sweet and caring, he just couldn't help himself, you were younger, but when you looked a him, he suddenly didn't care about people's whispers.

content warnings: age gap (Bucky is 26, reader is 19. both legal!!) mentions of war, waayyyy too many fluff. /if i'm missing any, please lmk!/

a/n: i am so excited about this fic because i love me a good soft 40's Bucky fic. hope u guys enjoy this and don't forget that requests are open!

It was the 1940s, and the world was at war. Rules were different then. Women wore red lipstick to keep morale high, men left with only duffel bags and hope, and people clung to love like it was the last cigarette in a storm.

No one really cared if a girl dated a guy older than her—at least, not out loud. But Bucky Barnes cared. God, did he care.

You were nineteen, barely out of school and still clinging to the naivety of youth. He was twenty-six, a soldier wrapped in leather, grief, and duty. But more than that—he was your best friend’s older brother.

Rebecca Barnes had been your best friend since you were six, and you’d practically grown up inside her brother’s Brooklyn apartment. At first, he barely noticed you. You were just the quiet girl with the big eyes who always had her nose in a book and offered to do the dishes after dinner.

But as time passed and you grew into yourself, he started seeing you differently. You weren’t a child anymore. You laughed louder, teased him more, brought sugar cookies every time he came home on leave. And each time you knocked on that door, you unknowingly chipped away at whatever walls he tried so hard to build.

Bucky had always tried to keep it casual. Just Becca’s best friend. Just the girl who lingered after movie nights. Just the kid who smiled too brightly. But the truth crept in when he least expected it—when you fell asleep on his shoulder, your breath soft and steady. When you patched up a tear in his uniform, sitting cross-legged on the floor. When you cried the night the news reported another battalion lost and he held you through it all.

He fought it at first. Of course he did.

“I’m not good for her,” he told Steve one night on the rooftop. They both had cigarettes hanging between their lips, the stars above doing little to light the city. “She’s just a kid.”

Steve gave him a knowing look. “She’s not a kid, Buck. And you’re not as bad as you think.”

But Bucky wasn’t convinced. He was used to getting blood on his hands. You were all cream and softness and Sunday morning warmth. He didn’t want to ruin that.

Still… he couldn’t stay away.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

The moment it shifted between you two wasn’t dramatic. It was soft, almost quiet. You had stayed late after Becca fell asleep early with a headache. It was just you and Bucky on the worn-out couch, listening to the radio hum jazz through the static.

You leaned your head on his shoulder without asking.

“Hey, Buck?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

“Do you ever think about the future?”

He stiffened. That was dangerous territory.

“All the time,” he admitted. “But lately… I only think about it when you’re in it.”

Your heart skipped. “I didn’t think you noticed me like that.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “That’s the problem, doll. I noticed you too much.”

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

After that, it became harder to pretend. Harder to brush his hand against yours and act like it meant nothing. Harder to watch you laugh with someone else and keep his fists from curling at his sides. He was gone more often than not, but whenever he came back, you were always the first person he wanted to see.

It wasn’t easy. Rebecca wasn’t thrilled when she found out.

“You’re my best friend. He’s my brother. Do you know what kind of mess this could turn into?” she had snapped, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I know,” you’d whispered. “But I love him.”

Rebecca stared at you for a long time, then shook her head. “You better not break him.”

Funny. Because Bucky said the same thing about you.

He didn’t care what people said, especially not Steve, who always tried to be the voice of reason.

“People are gonna talk, Buck. She’s young. They’ll think—”

“I don’t care,” Bucky interrupted, sharp but not angry. “They can talk all they want. As long as I have her, I’m fine.”

And he meant it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

Behind closed doors, he called you his baby. He kissed your forehead every morning, even when he had to leave before sunrise. He read the little notes you left in his coat pocket, sometimes tearing up when no one was around.

You weren’t just a distraction from war. You were the only piece of peace he ever found.

“I ever get out of this thing alive,” he whispered one night as you laid on his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his ribs, “I’m gonna marry you. I don’t care what anyone says. We’ll get a little house, you’ll bake those cookies I love, and I’ll finally get to sleep in past five.”

You laughed softly. “You never sleep in.”

“Exactly. You’ll wear me out.”

You smacked his chest and he laughed. But then he kissed you—slow, like the world wasn’t burning around you.

It was a strange time, and you were a strange couple. But it worked. Because for every explosion overseas, there was a quiet moment between you. For every wound he brought home, there was your voice reading poetry into the night.

No one else needed to understand. It was enough that you had each other.

And maybe that was all anyone could hope for in a world at war. But then, he got sent away, again.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

The day he was supposed to come home, you didn’t sleep the night before. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your heart wouldn’t slow down. Bucky’s last letter had been short, urgent— “Orders changed. I’ll be home sooner than we thought. Wait for me.”

You re-read it so many times the ink was beginning to fade. The words blurred together in your mind like a prayer you didn’t know you were whispering.

He was coming back. Bucky was finally coming home.

You stood on the platform at the train station, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. You’d picked the one he liked best—the soft blue one with buttons down the front. Becca had offered to come with you, but you told her no. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because this moment… it had to be yours and his.

The whistle blew.

And your breath caught.

Dozens of soldiers stepped down onto the platform, some greeted with cheers, others with tears. And then you saw him.

He was thinner. His face looked a little sharper, like the boyish roundness had been scraped away by war. His uniform hung differently on him, and there was a weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

But when his eyes found yours—That same boy, the one who used to blush when you offered him cookies, was still there.

“Bucky!”

You didn’t mean to shout it, but your body moved before your mind could catch up. You ran, and he dropped his duffle bag and caught you mid-step, wrapping you in his arms and lifting you slightly off the ground. You clung to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“I missed you so much,” you breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you more.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands cupping your face like he was memorizing every inch.

“You didn’t change a bit,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

You smiled through tears. “You did.”

He nodded. “But I still love you. That didn’t change.”

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

Back at the apartment, Becca wasn’t home when you brought him back. The air was quiet, the soft light of dusk slipping through the windows. Bucky stood just inside the doorway, looking around as if everything had changed in his absence.

“You hungry?” you asked gently.

He shook his head, eyes still scanning the familiar furniture. “I’m home, but I don’t feel home yet.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“You’re safe now,” you whispered. “You’re home, with me.”

He turned, his arms finding your waist, holding you tighter than he ever had before.

“You know what got me through over there?” he asked softly, looking down at you.

“What?”

“You.”

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. “Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about you baking in my kitchen, waiting for me to walk through the door.”

You let out a soft laugh, tears falling freely now. “That’s exactly what I did yesterday, actually. Just… you didn’t walk through the door.”

He tilted his head, his thumb brushing under your eye. “Well,” he said, voice quiet and full of meaning, “I’m here now.”

That night, you lay curled into his side, his fingers tracing gentle lines down your arm. The room smelled like soap and laundry powder and something distinctively him. He was quiet for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

“You think I’m different now?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You looked up at him. “I think… you’ve been through things I’ll never understand. But no, Buck. You’re still you. You’re still mine.”

He looked down at you with such open vulnerability it nearly broke you.

“I don’t know how long peace will last,” he said. “But if it doesn’t—if they call me again—”

“Then I’ll wait again,” you interrupted. “Every time. Always.”

He leaned in and kissed you softly, like a promise sealed in silence.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

A few days later, Steve came by, wearing that sheepish smile of his. Bucky welcomed him in with a hug, and you gave him some coffee. The three of you sat around the kitchen table, and for a moment, it felt like the world was normal again.

“So,” Steve said with a grin, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, “you gonna tell her yet?”

“Tell me what?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly bashful. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small velvet box—worn, like it had been carried across oceans.

“I’ve had this since before I left,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold ring. “I just didn’t want to give it to you until I could do it properly.”

Your heart stopped.

“Bucky…”

“You waited for me. Through the worst. Through all of it. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He got down on one knee.

“Will you marry me, baby?”

You barely got the “yes” out before you were in his arms again.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

The wedding came three months later.

You married him in the back of a small church, wearing your mother’s old dress and a veil sewn by Rebecca herself. Steve was there, tears in his eyes, smiling like he’d waited forever to see Bucky happy.

And Bucky? He didn’t take his eyes off you for a second.

“My baby,” he whispered as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

“My wife,” he whispered later that night, holding you under warm blankets as the snow fell outside.

“My always.” he promised, again and again, long after the lights were out and the city was asleep.

And you believed him.

Because he came back. Because he chose you. Because love—real love—waits, survives, and heals.

Even after war.

a/n: ahh im gonna cry, i love them!! also, i've been trying to write ome smut but i've come to the realization thatt i'm not THAT good at writing it, so it'll definitely be a while before i post or add any smut to my fics. i know, i know, we all love smut and i AM trying to read more smut so i get inspired to write it.

anyway, remember, reblogs and likes are incrdibly appreciated! <333

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act III : Chapter eight

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: None

Mr. Weaver’s office was still a mess.

Same cracked lava lamp. Same eternal stack of papers leaning like a dying tree. A new addition: a coffee mug that read “I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m right.”

You dropped into the chair across from his desk, backpack slumped at your feet. “This place is a fire hazard. Pretty sure OSHA would pass out walking in here.”

Mr. Weaver didn’t look up. “Made it to senior year, and WOW. Still not expelled. I’m proud of you.”

“Give me a week.”

He cracked a grin, then rifled through a manila folder until he found what he was looking for. “I have something for you.”

“If it’s a pamphlet on anger management, I already went. Twice.”

“No,” he said, sliding a sheet of paper across the desk. “It’s a letter. From Emerson College.”

You blinked, mind blanking on the random name. “What’s Emerson?”

“Only one of the best journalism programs in the country. But sure, shrug it off.”

You picked up the paper, eyes scanning quickly, her name printed in serif type near the top. It wasn’t junk mail. It was real. You felt a wave of suspicion flood you. What the fuck is this? Why do they know you? Also what the fuck is this?

“What is this?” You asked, cautiously.

Mr. Weaver leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head like a man extremely pleased with himself. “Remember that piece you wrote for the school paper? About the Yellowjackets’ win and how it brought the school together?”

You narrowed your eyes, already not liking where he was going with this. “What did you do?”

“I submitted it.”

You stared, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “To who?”

“To a national student journalism contest. Sponsored by Emerson. They wanted samples tied to community impact and editorial voice.” He smiled. “And your piece had both.”

“You sent my stuff without asking?”

He shrugged. “If I’d asked, you’d have said no.”

You opened your mouth, and then after a beat closed it. “I-still-what?”

“They loved it,” he said, his tone softening. “Like, not ‘cute high school paper’ loved it. They flagged your writing and your photo layout. Said it had a real voice. Something raw. You got shortlisted for a merit scholarship. Full ride if you make it to the finalist round.”

You blinked. And after a beat of silence, and a staring contest. Your face saying ‘be fucking serious.’ and his saying ‘I am fucking serious.’. You scoffed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m many things. A liar? Not when it comes to good news.”

You stared at the paper again, something warm and flickering pressing behind her ribs. “I never even thought about college. Not seriously. Also, NEVER this kind.”

“Well,” Mr. Weaver said, “start.”

You shook your head. Your mind racing. You don’t have the funds, or the support to do this. How the hell do you start? “I don’t know what I’m doing. I barely got here to this school in one piece. No one in my family’s gone to college. I-respectfully this feels fucking fake.”

Mr. Weaver leaned forward now, elbows on the desk. His sarcasm slipped for once, voice level and sure. “Y/N, you’ve lived through more before seventeen than most people do in fifty. You survived things that would’ve knocked other kids flat. You didn’t just float-you created. You documented the world around you when it was trying to swallow you whole.”

You looked down, throat tightening.

“That’s what great journalists do,” he continued. “You’ve got the eye. The gut. The grit. You think you don’t belong in those spaces, but maybe those spaces have been waiting for someone exactly like you.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “What if I can’t keep it up?”

“Then you fail forward. You fall, get up, and write about it. But I’d bet on you, Y/N. Every time.”

You swallowed hard. Your heart clenching at the softness in his voice. He sounded so sure. So convinced. “You really think I could…do this?”

“I don’t just think it,” he said, offering a small smile, “I already submitted the application.”

You gaped, eyes wide in shock. “WHAT?”

“I said I’d treat you like a grown-up, didn’t I? Well, here’s adulthood, kid: sometimes people believe in you before you believe in yourself. And that’s not cheating. That’s just the luck of finally getting the right people in your corner.”

For the first time, you didn’t deflect. You didn’t joke. You just nodded, eyes glassy but grateful.

“Thanks, Weaver.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, already shuffling through a new stack. “Wait until you see how much essay editing I’m about to make you do. You’ve got potential, Y/L/N. But potential is just unused muscle. Time to work.”

You chuckled, and it made way for a smile. A smile goofier than you would've wanted to smile. You stood, letter still in your hand. As you walked out, you felt something flicker in your chest. Hope. And maybe, for the first time in a long time, a glimpse of a future that belonged to no one else but you.

[bojackbaby]

iwaizume hajime, 27, minimum wage employee - 18+

coworker!iwa is a good man. a man of morals, a man of discipline, a man of dignity.

it doesn't matter that the last time he fisted his cock in his lap he came so hard he passed out. it matters even less that the star of his hypnotic fantasy happened to be his younger, softer coworker.

it doesn't matter that after overhearing you mention your obsession with big biceps he swaps his usual uniform for a top that's one size too small. not to mention how arm days have begun to frequent his gym routine more and more, so the veins in his forearm would be on full display when his fingers push into your aching cunt.

or how after a beverage mishap leaves him shirtless and disgruntled in the break room, he finds you ogling his defined pecs only for you to dash around the corner, a squeaky apology hanging in the air.

it especially does not matter that when he catches you asleep mid shift, drool staining the corner of your lip, all he can think about is parting your lips open with his thumb and sinking his cock into the saturated heat of your mouth. and if your mouth could barely fit him, how your pussy would grip onto his cock, practically overfilled, stomach protruding slightly. how much restraint he would have to exercise to keep himself from splitting you in half.

he's forced to pause his brooding when his closing routine is disrupted by a persistent tap tap tap! coming from the walk-in freezer. he opens the door to your tearful face, figure bounding towards him as you thrust yourself into his embrace, nose painfully colliding with his solid chest, so grateful that your 'favorite coworker came to the rescue.' he wonders if you're aware of your pert nipples pressing against his abdomen, or the way he shivers when your hands slowly slide down his broad shoulders, almost like you’re savoring it. 

he doesn’t have to wonder, however, if you can feel his heart beating out of his chest. not when your cheeks flush, tips of your ears growing hot. not when your eyes lower to his plump, rosy lips, slightly chapped from the cold emanating out of the freezer. not when you lean in, breath coming out in subtle pants, the rhythm of your heartbeat in sync with the pulse between your legs. 

his hands unwrap themselves from your waist, instead beginning to push your shirt up slightly, stepping closer and closer to the wall, eventually pushing you against it.

you assume he's being cocky, a little overly confident, maybe. surely, he's noticed the way you avert his gaze on closing shifts, when you’re just a little too tired to hide the pull you feel towards him. or, god forbid, he happened to glance at your favorite chair and notice a small damp spot after he found your gaze lingering on his thick, rideable thighs.

(he doesn't have to know about the way you lust over him at home, plush pillow trapped between the heat of your own thighs, clit catching just right, the way you imagine it would if he flexed his quad under you.)

but maybe it does matter just a little when he dodges your puckered lips just to latch his mouth onto something else. his mouth envelopes your cold nipple, large hand palming your other breast. whether the whine you let slip is out of shock or pleasure, you’re unsure. iwa doesn’t seem phased, thumb and forefinger rolling your neglected nipple in tight circles as more soft noises escape you. 

and it absolutely matters when his ankle shoves your calf further to the left, leaving you spread and wanting, still in the back of house, where anyone could walk in on you. the thought sends a rush of blood to your clit and the air out of your lungs, suddenly breathless with iwa’s knee slotted under your damp panties.

coworker!iwa is a man caught between a rock and a hard place, you pliant against the wall, the ghost of his given name dancing on your tongue as his leg bounces slightly. the moment it relents, a weak “haji-” slipping through, he accepts that he doesn’t give a fuck what kind of man he is. not when it comes to you.

[horny-marbles]

I haven’t been active lately but I saw that sally face post and girl I would go absolutely BERSERK over some written work from you!!! ( I have a tattoo of him on my arm 😛 )

And I hope you’re doing well❤️

LET'S FUCKING GO BABYYYYY im doing so well now that i got this off my chest 🙏🏻 ill be shitting out some of these in the next week because i have so many ideas AND NO WRITER'S BLOCK CAN HOLD A BITCH BACK

Your Hands (Sal Fisher x F!Reader)

CW: lovey dovey sex with a lot of care beforehand (tf do you call that cause its not foreplay), handjob, a bit of edging, riding, creampie

a/n: this isn't completely canon, we're pretending there's no cult or death or trial in this one

summary: you love pampering your boyfriend 🩵

wordcount 4.5k

The room is quieted to a warm, comforting light from the bedside lamp and fairylights stretched haphazardly across the walls like webs — some christmas tree decorations you thought were too pretty to only take out once a year. The sheets are halfway pulled back, and Sal’s laid out flat on his back, face turned your way, prosthetic set aside neatly on the nightstand beside him.

He looks relaxed in that him kind of way: shoulders loose but still a little guarded, jaw set like he’s trying not to let himself enjoy the attention too fully. But he’s not moving away either. He’s letting you work, limp and unavoidably loved.

You’re sat next to him on your knees, bent over the bed with the tiny jar of ointment he used to keep tucked away when you first moved in together. Your fingers are slow and methodical as you press into the scarred flesh of his left cheek, free hand gingerly unsticking stray blue hairs from the oily sheen of the cream. The skin there is pink and and taut over twisted muscle and missing bone, but he never flinches away. Not from you.

You see the way his eye flutters shut at the first pass of your knuckles.

“…You okay?” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper, thumb dragging just under his empty eye socket.

Sal hums, the sound low and lazy. “Mhm. Feels nice.”

Then, after a beat:

“Still weird sometimes. Not bad weird, just—y’know.” He gestures vaguely with one hand, bare arm shifting with the motion. You do know. You've spent countless nights in this same position, palms light and tentative over skin that used to jump, willing old habits away.

“I get it,” you say gently. You lean down, pressing your lips to the uneven angle of his jaw where you were yet to lather the ointment, before smoothing your knuckles over your kiss. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He doesn’t. Just breathes a little deeper through his nose and lets his spine curve into the mattress like that's where he belongs — and he does.

Once you’ve finished smoothing the salve over the angry pink ridges of his scars, you swap it out for a light moisturizer—something scentless and barely there that he used to tease you about until he felt how soft it made his skin feel. You rub a little between your palms before tracing it over his forehead and the edge of his jaw, down his neck. He goes pliant under your hands, like melting wax.

It’s not even about skin care at this point. It’s just an excuse to touch him.

You pause for a moment, just watching him. He’s beautiful in this light: sleepy and half-undone, hair messy from how he’d pulled it out of its piggies earlier, the strands soft and curling where they rest against the pillow. You brush them aside before leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He makes a quiet noise, not quite a word.

You smile. “C’mere. Sit up for a second.”

Sal cracks open his eye, then grunts softly when he shifts, slow and heavy like gravity’s tripled. He hauls himself up to sit at the edge of the bed while you reach over to grab the cream you keep for massages, thicker than lotion, with a faint smell of vanilla and something herbal — supposed to work as a muscle relaxant, but Sal insists it's your hands doing the work. You warm it between your palms and step behind him where he sits shirtless in the lampglow, spine still curved like he’s resisting the urge to just collapse face-down.

But then your hands slide onto his shoulders, and he melts. Audibly.

He lets out this deep, involuntary sigh from his chest, head tipping forward a little like he’s already half asleep. His body slackens under your touch as you begin to work the cream into his shoulders and the nape of his neck, thumbs kneading into the knots buried deep under skin and bone, tight like he always carries something that won't leave his body without help.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse with how relaxed he is. “Feels fuckin' incredible.”

“Yeah?,” you hum, smiling a little. “I like taking care of you.”

You press into a tight spot at the base of his neck, and he groans again, quiet and strained, the kind of sound that makes your stomach flip just a little.

“I know.” His voice cracks when you move down between his shoulder blades. He sounds embarrassed — not ashamed, just not used to saying it out loud.

“You're getting better at letting me,” you murmur into the back of his neck, just barely grazing your lips over his skin.

He shivers. Just once.

You move further down his back, palms smoothing wide and slow, working your way to his lower spine before traveling back up again, dragging your nails lightly this time. His breath snags in his throat before puffing out in a shudder.

There’s no rush in any of it. It’s languid and quiet and intimate, the kind of care that doesn't require payment. The kind of care that repays you with a softness in his eye that undoes you.

Eventually your hands trace along his biceps, his forearms, the narrow slopes of his wrists, lingering there, massaging gently into his palms, his knuckles. He watches you do it, fingers twitching with stimulation. Quiet. Eyes a little hazy.

He shifts his leg slightly and you catch the movement. The faint bulge in his sweats is there but soft, lazy, like the rest of him. Not urgent, just… responsive. A little foggy. Warmed up by touch and trust and the way your thumbs are circling the heel of his palm right now.

“…You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice low.

You glance up. “Hmm?”

Sal just shakes his head slightly, hair falling into his face, and gives you a tired, barely-there smile. “Nothing. Just… you're unreal.”

He doesn’t pull away when you kiss the inside of his wrist.

Doesn’t stop you when your fingers start to trail back up his arms again, slow and soft and attentive. Doesn’t say a word when you press your chest to his back and wrap your arms around him loosely from behind, letting your chin rest on his shoulder as your hands splay gently over his ribs.

"You want me to stop?" you whisper behind his ear, low and breathy and just a hint teasing, nails ghosting over the ridges of his ribs.

He twitches and huffs. "Fuck no."

So you don't. He stays in that loose, half-draped sprawl on the edge of the bed for a while, boneless while you rake your fingers in one more pass down his sides, up do his chest and down to the clenching plane of his stomach, stopping just above his navel, where a thin trail of hair blends into puff. Strands of hair stick to his cheek, eyes unfocused and heavy-lidded like he could pass out sitting up. But when you press a kiss to the slope of his neck and trail your hand down his arm, guiding him back into the sheets and crawling slowly in sync with his body, he goes without argument.

You’re straddling his lap. Sort of.

More like kneeling over him, legs tucked on either side of his hips as he leans back against the headboard, shirtless, flushed, and very much not hiding the way he’s slowly hardening in his sweats. The lamp light kisses every inch of his bare chest, from the soft dip of his collarbones to the tight line of his abdomen, all the way down to the waistband that’s just barely hanging on.

He watches you through his bangs, hair mussed and falling into his face. The scarred half of his face is raw and glossy from the ointment, but his gaze lingers.

You're not really trying to be seductive, but the way your tank top clings when you shift your weight forward —climbing up his thighs to kneel just above his stomach — doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. It’s a worn-in scrap of fabric, washed soft, stretched paper-thin at the chest with low, sagging armholes that show the sides of your tits every time you lean in. And you do lean in; palms pressed to either side of his neck, hovering over him now as your thumbs start to work into the base of his throat.

His Adam’s apple shifts under your fingers as he swallows.

“Eyes up here, Fish,” you murmur with a crooked smile, even though your tits are half-out and you’re clearly not planning to hide them.

“Can’t help it,” he says, voice soft and a little hoarse. “They’re right there.”

You snort under your breath. “Honesty is the best policy, huh?”

He shrugs with a lopsided, exhausted looking grin. “Figured you’d rather hear the truth than pretend I’m not about to pop a boner during a shoulder rub.”

“About to?” You glance down. Nope, definitely already popped.

Sal flushes slightly, pink spreading from the bridge of his nose to his temples, but he doesn’t backtrack. If anything, his head leans back against the wall with a small, breathy laugh, the kind you only get from him when he’s just relaxed enough to admit he’s fucked in the best way.

His sweats are doing a terrible job hiding how hard he’s gotten, and your position sure as hell isn’t making it better. But you don’t move. You let your fingers smooth gently up his neck, rubbing slow, comforting circles into the sides of his throat and under his ears, letting your thumbs barely graze his collarbones.

“You know you can stop me,” you murmur, and you mean it.

Sal just looks up at you, half-lidded and smiling again, this time with a little more teeth. “You better fucking not.”

You laugh low, and lean down further to kiss the corner of his mouth, quick and sweet, before dragging your palms over his chest.

Your fingers slow at his sternum, pressing down gently, spreading more cream into his chest. You don’t say anything right away. Just let that little admission hang in the air between you, sweet and open and filthy in its own way. You know he means it; this isn’t seduction, it’s vulnerability with a hard-on.

Sal inhales sharply as your hands trail up again, slower now, crawling wide over his chest before curling back toward his throat. You’re careful here — fingers light, thumbs sweeping gently along the sides of his neck, not squeezing, just exploring. His pulse is jumping under your touch. You feel it throb when you graze just below his jaw, tilting his face toward you a little, eyes drinking his mouth.

He’s flushed deeper now. His eye is hazy. He looks up at you like he might actually die if you stopped.

“You’re not even touching my dick,” he mutters, “and I feel like I’m gonna blow a fuse.”

“You like it that much?”

His breath hitches.

“Are you joking?” He laughs, but it’s breathless. “You could be reading me a fucking bill right now and I’d still be hard with you sitting on me like this.”

You smile lazily, letting your fingers brush up the column of his throat, gentle, delicate.

“Oh yeah?” you murmur. “You want me to read you your water bill, baby?”

He groans loud, head falling back against the pillows. “Don’t do that.”

“What? You said you’d still be hard.”

“That was not an invitation.”

You’re both grinning now. Your hands don’t stop moving—rubbing, kneading, massaging every inch of his chest and stomach, soft and attentive, every touch sending little shockwaves of pleasure straight to where he’s already aching. You’re not trying to tease him, not really. The tension between you is already thick enough to chew through, and if he looked any more blissed-out and desperate under your hands, you’d start worrying about his blood pressure.

So, when you slip your hands back from his chest to your own body, tug that excuse of fabric up and over your head and toss it aside without fanfare, your boyfriend's eyes still go wide like you’ve just thrown a live grenade into his lap.

He swallows hard. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares.

You don’t call him out. You like the way he stares—eyes hungry but somehow still making you feel like you're being admired rather than preyed on. Jaw slack, breath catching like he forgot what oxygen was for a second. You just smile slow and sweet, and lean forward to press your palms back to his shoulders, skin to skin, chest to chest.

The warmth of your tits brushing against him draws a sound out of him he probably didn’t mean to make—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth, followed by a groan that stays caught somewhere in his throat.

“...Holy shit,” he mutters.

You pretend to hum innocently. “What?”

“You—just—you know what.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you slide your hands down again, over his stomach, trailing slow, slick paths with the leftover massage cream. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers slide under the waistband of his pants.

He just lifts his hips wordlessly so you can tug them down.

You push his sweats and boxers off in one slow motion, and his cock bounces free, flushed red and aching, laying against his stomach, tip sparkling like glitter in the cozy light.

You stare at it for a second. You can’t help it, you always stare. Flushed pink and pretty. Smooth. He’s not obnoxiously big — maybe a little above average — but the shape of it always makes your stomach clench with the memory of how it fills you with the slight curve upward, the thickness at the middle. The way the vein curves along the underside. The way it twitches like your eyes hold weight against it.

You glance up at him, and he’s got one arm thrown over his face now, blushing hard, chest rising and falling.

“...Don’t look at it like that,” he says, voice strangled.

“Like what?” you laugh, already shifting your weight to sit properly between his legs now, hands still lathered and slippery as you reach out and finally wrap your fingers around him.

He shudders. Jaw clenched, hips stiffening. His cock throbs immediately, in sync with his heartbeat.

“Like you’re about to narrate a crime scene,” he huffs.

You smile. “No crime here. Just admiring the evidence.”

Then you start stroking. Slowly.

Your palm slides up from the base to the head, twisting just a little on the way up. The lube of the cream makes it glide so smooth he lets out a full-body groan before he can stop himself. His hips buck slightly again, not on purpose. Just a natural response to how good it feels, to being touched like this by you.

“You okay?” you ask, voice syrupy.

“Fffuck,” he breathes, arm still covering his face. “That’s not a real question. You know how okay I am.”

You giggle, and your other hand comes in to cradle his balls lightly, thumbing gently at the soft skin there while your main grip works a slow rhythm up and down his shaft. He’s leaking already, a bead of precum pearling at the tip, and you spread it with your thumb, twisting lazily at the crown.

His legs twitch.

“You’re so sensitive today,” you murmur, biting your lip.

“Because you’re—fuck—because you’re doing this, with your tits out and your fucking hands—Jesus.”

You start stroking a little firmer, a little tighter, still slow, still relaxed, but more purposeful now. He’s throbbing hard, and your slick palm glides up and down with wet, lewd sounds that are only barely covered by the pipes moaning from nextdoor.

His head tips back against the wall with a dull thud. His voice comes out shaky.

“Gonna cum—seriously, I’m close already, I don’t—”

“Nope,” you cut in gently. “Not yet.”

You ease up just slightly, teasing a little swirl around the head with your fingertips, dragging your nails gently along the underside, then working your fist slow and deep again from base to tip, watching his cock pulse in your grip.

“You’re edging me?” he pants, cracking his eye open, mouth parted in a needy slit.

“No,” you say sweetly, stroking again. “I just know you can hold out a little longer.”

“...God,” he groans, hips twitching again. “That feels so good.”

You lean in close, tits pressed to his thighs now, your hand still working him in slow, even pumps. His cock is flushed, stiff, leaking freely now. You press a kiss to his hipbone, not looking up.

“I want to enjoy you,” you murmur. “You look so pretty like this."

Sal whimpers.

You stroke him long and slow, your other hand massaging lightly between his legs, and every once in a while you glance up to catch him peeking under the crook of his arm, eyes glassy and dark with need. He throbs harder, more urgent, like a heartbeat in your fist, but he doesn't beg or ask for more. He never does, and he never needs to.

You finally pry your hand off his length and pull your panties off your hips while his chest deflates with relief. You climb him, full body bare and skin warm from the lamp-lit room, calves bracketing his hips as you ease into a squat, your palms resting on his chest for balance, and fuck, the look on his face?

Wrecked. Reverent. Like he’s witnessing the second coming in real time and barely surviving it.

His good eye is already unfocused, droopy-lidded, tracking the slow roll of your hips as you press your slick heat down onto his cock. Not taking him in yet, just letting your folds glide along the length of him. Coating him. Teasing him. The whole head of his cock disappears beneath your pussy for a second, only to pop out again slick and twitching, shiny with how wet you are.

“Fffffuck,” he hisses, head lolling. “That—that is so—fuck, baby, you know how that looks?”

You do. That’s why you’re doing it.

Because you know what it does to him when you squat over him like this: tits hanging soft and heavy, thighs tight, hips dragging in long, smooth rolls, and using his cock to rub yourself off like it’s your favorite toy. His mouth is open now, chest stuttering with every breath, eyes barely hanging on to your form.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice cracking.

You reach down, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to keep him in place, and grind your cunt down against the underside again, slow and hot, your clit catching on the swollen ridge of his head every time.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck—please, just—”

You lift your hips slightly, cutting him off, line him up, and sink down.

No showboating, no dramatics. Just the slick, perfect glide of your pussy stretching around him, slow and smooth and hot, until he’s buried inside you all the way to the hilt.

Sal chokes. His back arches. His hands fly to your hips like instinct, like he’s trying not to black out.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps, voice gone completely hoarse. “You’re—you’re—”

You rock your hips forward and down, and his sentence dies in his throat.

You lean back just slightly, keeping your thighs spread, keeping that squat tight and low, and start riding him in slow, delicious bounces, controlled and deliberate. The way your pussy squeezes around him every time you lift, then drags down again has his mouth dropping open in this slack-jawed awe. Like he’s not even in his body anymore. Like you don't do this every few days.

You’re not trying to perform. It’s just good. So good you feel it in your teeth.

His voice is barely working. Little whines, wet groans, shaky breaths.

He looks up at you with wide, glassy-eyed look you love — and it’s desperate, but not begging. Just overwhelmed. Overcome. He’s not doing anything but taking it, just barely managing to keep his hips from jerking up.

You let one hand slip up from his chest to his throat. Not tight. Just holding him there. Thumb brushing his pulse, fingers wrapped around the soft skin under his jaw. You feel his heartbeat slam against your palm.

His eye rolls back.

“Oh my god,” he croaks. “You feel—fuck me, fuck—”

Every muscle in your legs is starting to sting, but it’s worth it. Because every single time you sink back down on him, you can see his whole body twitch. You can hear the wet slap of your ass against his hips, the obscene squelch where your bodies meet.

“I’m gonna cum,” he whispers, almost shocked.

“Not yet,” you pant. “Just let it feel good.”

You lean in more. Your tits brush his chest again, sweat slicking the space between you. His hands slip up your back, trembling just slightly. His mouth keeps falling open like he wants to say something but his brain is skipping like a record every time your pussy strangles him.

You’re watching him. He’s watching you. It’s all heat and eye contact and the feeling of his cock punching just shy of your cervix everytime you drop.

He’s wrecked. You fucking love seeing him this slutted out and unguarded. There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. His bangs are stuck to his forehead. His chest is heaving, every muscle tight, thighs shaking and bucking up just barely like he can't help it.

You press down hard and stay there, whining quiet and sticky behind your teeth, clenching tight around him, and his hips jerk so hard it knocks a sound out of him —something cracked and gorgeous, like he’s trying not to scream.

“I’m—oh my god,” he gasps.

You squeeze your hand just a little firmer around his neck, and raise your hips again once the burn eased in your thighs.

You can't slow down. You’re so deep on him you swear you can feel him in your throat, and every single time you plop your weight down, the stretch hits perfect, like he was made to fill you and your cunt was molded in the shape of his cock, made to take it.

Sal is barely breathing underneath you. His hands are gripping whatever they can find; your thighs, the sheets, the meat of your ass, your waist. He’s long past trying to be quiet about it. He’s making sounds, open and wet, like he’s too full of you to hold anything in.

And when you catch the shine of spit at the corner of his mouth — just this tiny glint on his flushed, panting face — you reach down without thinking. Swipe your thumb across it, and then lick the pad clean. Right in front of him.

He blinks up at you, stunned and smitten, jaw slack like he’s actually about to ascend through the ceiling. Like he cannot believe you just did that, but also please do it again.

“…That was—fuck, that was hot,” he mumbles, voice ruined.

You smirk, but it slips fast. The pressure's getting overwhelming. Your hips are slowing just enough now for depth, not pace —each drop has you bottoming out so perfectly it makes your toes curl. You’re soaked. He’s twitching inside you, every vein dragging against your walls, his cock so hard you can feel it pulsing behind your clit like some god-made rose toy.

Then you feel his hand slide between you, a little awkward but determined.

His thumb finds your clit without fumbling, palm gripping the inside of your thigh so he doesn't tremble away. Just presses down, firm and slow, rubbing in twitchy circles like he knows you’re right there on the edge and he needs you to cum like he needs air.

Your breath snags.

“Sal—fuck—”

“Need to feel it,” he pants, eye locked on your face. “Need to feel you cum on me, I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it anymore.”

You whimper.

You keep bouncing, barely now, more like rolling and grinding, letting him stay deep while his thumb works just right, pressure steady, no teasing, no delay. You’re so close it’s already burning.

“Come on,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it. Please.”

That does it.

Your whole body locks for a second, like every muscle’s bracing against the quake of it, and then it washes through you in hot, fast waves, pussy clenching tight and wet and shuddering around him. You cry out loud and sudden. Legs trembling, back arching so deep you almost fold backwards.

Sal gasps like he’s just been electrocuted. His cock jumps inside you so hard it almost punches another orgasm out of you on the spot.

“Oh my god,” he moans. “That—that, baby, it— Fuck yes—”

He’s babbling now, voice shaky and low and almost breaking. “Please—please can I cum? Inside you? Please—fuck—I’ll lose it if you say no—”

You grab his face, pressinj your forehead to his. Your hips still moving, grinding through your own aftershocks, knocking his body back and forth under you with the urgency of it, squeezing around him like your body’s begging for it too.

“Yes,” you choke. “Yes, fuck, please—”

And Sal breaks.

He makes this low, guttural sound that cuts short in his throat, fingers digging into your hips, and then he’s thrusting up into you, sudden and deep, once, twice, again. You feel him spill inside you, hot and messy and so much, like he’s been holding it back for hours. He chokes high on a moan, wraps his arms around you, clutches you to his chest as he empties himself inside you in thick pulses.

You don’t stop moving.

You ride him through every second of it, tight and slow and sweet, until he’s sagging underneath you, twitching, body limp but still inside, still gasping softly against your collarbone.

Your thighs shake. Your whole lower half is dripping.

He finally exhales, ragged and wrecked.

“…I think I just saw God,” he mutters into your skin.

You laugh, breathless and still sticking to him like velcro.

“No,” you whisper back, voice hoarse. “That was just me.”

[olliepop718]

“Ruin You, Worship You”

Wooyoung doesn’t just take you—he makes sure you’ll never forget who owns every inch of you.

⸻

“Face down. Now.”

His voice was low, calm, but filled with that dangerous edge that made your stomach clench. You scrambled into position on the bed, heart pounding, the cool air kissing your skin as you dropped to your elbows and knees—completely bared to him.

“Good girl,” he murmured behind you.

You could hear the rustle of his clothes hitting the floor, then his warm hands on your hips, spreading you open. Wide. Completely exposed. You flushed hard, but the groan he let out as he took in the view made your breath catch.

“Fuck, baby… Look at you,” Wooyoung growled. “Dripping. Open. Just waiting for me to ruin this pretty ass.”

He dropped to his knees behind you, hands firm on your cheeks, spreading you apart slowly—like he wanted to admire everything. You felt the heat of his breath, and then—

His tongue was suddenly on you. Right there. Long, deliberate strokes over your hole, slow at first, then hungrier. You gasped, back arching, the intensity of it unlike anything else.

“Yeah… you love this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Letting me bury my face in your ass like it’s mine to own.”

He licked deeper, wetter, the sounds loud and obscene. He didn’t care. In fact, the messier it got, the more into it he became—sliding his tongue in tight circles, then pushing in deeper with every pass. He moaned against you like he was getting off just from tasting you.

Then he spat—loud, warm—letting it drip down between your cheeks before diving in again, licking it all up. You whimpered, fists gripping the sheets, unable to stop the way your body rocked back into him.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice hoarse. “Rub this little hole all over my tongue. Let me fuck it with my mouth.”

And that’s exactly what he did. He spread you wider, flattened his tongue, then pushed it in—fucking you with it, relentless and nasty. His mouth sealed around you while he tongue-fucked you deep, moaning like he was addicted to it.

Your hands flew to the sheets, back arched high as your body trembled. You were gone—completely undone.

“You’re gonna let me wreck your ass tonight, baby,” he said, breath hot as he pulled back to drag his spit-slick fingers between your cheeks. “Gonna fuck it till you cry.”

He rubbed slow circles around your hole, then pushed one finger in—deep, steady, confident. The stretch made you gasp, but the heat in his voice made you wetter than anything else.

“Feel that?” he whispered, sliding it deeper. “That’s just the start.”

Then he leaned back in, tongue working alongside his finger, wet and filthy and so fucking good you were melting underneath him. His free hand gripped your waist tight, keeping you in place like he knew you’d try to squirm away.

“Don’t run,” he warned. “You begged for this, remember?”

You could only nod, helpless, moaning his name like a prayer as he devoured you—tongue and fingers deep inside you, owning every part of you.

You could barely catch your breath. Your thighs were trembling, your arms limp, and your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out. Wooyoung hadn’t stopped—not once. His mouth, his fingers, his voice had all worked in sync, breaking you down until you were a soaking, whimpering mess.

He finally pulled back, lips shiny, his mouth twisted into a wicked grin as he ran his hand slowly over your ass.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered. “Open. Obedient. Mine.”

You heard him spit again—deliberate—and felt it land warm right between your cheeks, mixing with everything else already dripping down. Then, his hands gripped your hips as he aligned himself behind you. You felt the thick weight of his cock, sliding between your cheeks, teasing slow and heavy. You whimpered.

“Oh, you want it?” he teased, grinding himself against your hole. “Say it.”

“Please…” Your voice was wrecked, barely a breath. “Wooyoung… please, I need it.”

That was enough.

He pressed forward, slow, steady. You gasped—tight stretch, deep burn, but he didn’t stop. He held your hips firm as he pushed in inch by inch, letting you feel every second of it.

“Breathe,” he murmured, almost too tender for how filthy the moment was. “You’re taking me so well.”

Once he was fully inside, buried to the hilt, he paused—just to let you feel it. Full. Possessed. His cock stretching your ass completely, deeper than anything else ever had. Then he started to move.

Slow thrusts. Deep. Grinding. Every roll of his hips hit perfectly, stealing your breath as he fucked you deliberately—like he was trying to ruin you.

The sound of skin slapping skin, the soft broken moans you couldn’t hold back, the filthy praise pouring from his mouth—it was overwhelming.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “This ass was made for me. Only me.”

He slid one hand up your back, then grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled, arching your spine.

“Let them see,” he whispered. “If anyone ever looked at you, this is what I want them to picture. Bent over, stuffed full of my cock.”

You couldn’t answer—you could barely think. All you could do was take it.

He shifted his angle, slamming in harder now, rougher. You choked on a cry, clawing at the sheets as his rhythm picked up.

“You’re so fucking good,” he growled, completely gone. “You let me in every part of you. There’s nothing you won’t give me.”

Your orgasm hit fast, hard, without warning. You came around him with a scream, your body clenching, shuddering. He fucked you through it, relentless, until he suddenly stilled—deep inside—and came with a low, broken moan, collapsing over your back as he pulsed inside you.

For a few moments, there was only the sound of both your breathing—uneven, ragged, overwhelmed.

Then, soft lips at your shoulder.

“Shh… I got you,” he whispered, pulling out slowly, gently. “You did so good for me.”

He laid you down carefully, kissing every inch of your back as you settled into the bed, still shaking.

Wooyoung disappeared for a moment—then returned with a warm cloth, cleaned you up with the most tender hands. He climbed in beside you, pulled you into his chest, and wrapped both arms around you like he was scared you might vanish.

“You’re mine,” he whispered into your hair. “I don’t care about anything else. Just you. Always you.”

You drifted off in his arms—body aching, soul full, knowing he meant every word.

[candydollface]

where the silence lives (i can’t quit you)

while reading listen to:

oh my love — john lennon

lonesome town — ricky nelson

thoroughfare — ethel cain

lover, you should come over — jeff buckley

word count: 1,000+

warnings: internalized homophobia, emotional repression, drug use, drug dealing, emotionally destructive relationship dynamics, cheating (implied), rural homophobia (implied), non-explicit sexual content, bittersweet ending / unresolved grief, self-destructive behavior, emotionally abusive upbringing (implied for rafe)

a/n: inspired by the movie brokeback mountain! also i’m 🧁 anon from @starfxkrinc blog so blog reveal! also thank you @cameronsbabydoll for proofreading this bby!

the first time barry laid eyes on rafe cameron, he thought: fuck no.

he was a pretty boy with blood on his boots and hate in his mouth, hands always in motion like he didn’t know what stillness was.

too clean. too careless.

barry didn’t like him.

didn’t trust him.

but then they got sent up into the mountains together—two weeks alone, checking fencing and counting cattle for some old man barry owed a favor to.

rafe didn’t have a reason. he said he was bored. said he wanted out of figure eight for a while.

barry didn’t ask questions.

didn’t realize then that rafe wasn’t running away.

he was running toward something. he just didn’t know what yet.

they drove up in silence.

barry at the wheel, rafe hanging out the window like a dog.

they didn’t talk much the first few days—just worked. set up camp. drank in the evenings by the fire while the cicadas screamed.

and then it rained.

cold, hard, unrelenting. soaked their tent and their clothes and their bones.

rafe couldn’t stop shivering. too proud to say anything.

barry just opened his sleeping bag and looked away.

the first night they slept like that—back to back, heat pressed close, breath fogging—it wasn’t anything.

just survival.

but the second night, it was different.

rafe turned over.

touched barry’s chest.

didn’t say a word.

barry let him.

that first kiss was clumsy and fast, all teeth and panic and hunger.

like they were trying to undo years of being told not to feel.

rafe’s hands were shaking. barry’s jaw was clenched tight.

they didn’t talk about it the next morning.

barry cleaned his gun like he always did.

rafe smoked two cigarettes back to back, eyes fixed on the trees.

—

but it kept happening.

every night, a little closer. a little softer.

the touches turned tender.

kisses slowed down.

hands found places that made them both ache.

rafe would pull away after, sitting out by the fire with a far-off look in his eyes.

he’d throw rocks into the dark like he wanted to break the night open.

“this ain’t real,” he muttered once, almost to himself.

barry didn’t answer.

because it was.

and they both knew it.

—

when the job ended, they didn’t say goodbye.

just packed up and drove down the mountain in silence.

barry watched rafe out the corner of his eye the whole way home—jaw tight, fingers tapping against his thigh like a ticking clock.

he dropped him off outside the cameron estate. rafe didn’t look back.

barry sat in his truck long after he was gone, palms aching from how hard he’d gripped the wheel.

months passed.

they didn’t talk.

barry went back to the usual: late nights, cheap deals, silence.

but sometimes, late at night, he’d still wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

someone he never should’ve touched in the first place.

and then one night, rafe showed up.

drunk. bruised. jacket half-off one shoulder like he’d been in a fight.

barry opened the door before he could knock.

they didn’t speak.

just moved.

rafe pushed him back against the wall and kissed him like he wanted to crawl inside his skin.

when they were tangled up in bed after—bare skin, heavy breath, hearts pounding out of rhythm—rafe said it again:

“this don’t mean nothin’.”

barry stared at the ceiling.

“then why do you keep coming back?”

rafe didn’t answer.

just curled into barry’s side like he always did, like it meant everything.

—

it became a pattern.

rafe would disappear for weeks.

months.

sometimes he’d show up with another man’s cologne still on him.

sometimes he’d come fresh from a bar fight, knuckles split and bleeding.

sometimes he’d cry into barry’s chest like a little boy.

and barry—barry never turned him away.

not once.

because rafe cameron was the only person who ever made him feel alive.

and barry knew he’d ruin himself before he ever let him go.

—

“we could leave,” rafe whispered once, drunk on cheap whiskey and moonlight.

they were out by the river. clothes half-off, skin flushed, laughter still stuck between their teeth.

barry had never seen him look younger.

“just go. start over. somewhere no one knows us.”

barry looked at him.

“you don’t mean that.”

“don’t i?”

barry kissed him, slow and full of grief.

“no, rafe. you don’t.”

because rafe loved the idea of freedom.

but he was raised on power. on pride. on legacy.

he’d never leave figure eight.

never leave the cameron name behind.

he’d choose the cage every time.

—

barry got older.

his hands started shaking more.

he stopped sleeping.

he heard rafe got engaged.

to a girl from charleston.

her father owned banks.

her smile looked plastic.

barry didn’t go to the wedding.

but he saw rafe three months later.

outside a gas station.

middle of nowhere.

they locked eyes.

neither spoke.

and then rafe just said: “i had to.”

and barry said: “i know.”

and then they walked away.

—

the last time rafe came to see him, it was raining.

not like the first time. softer. like something was being washed away.

he didn’t kiss barry.

just sat beside him on the porch, hands curled tight in his lap.

“i can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he said.

voice low. shaky.

“even when i try.”

barry swallowed hard.

“you don’t try that hard.”

rafe looked up, eyes glassy.

“i wish i was braver.”

barry nodded.

“i wish you were too.”

—

and then rafe left.

for good.

—

years later, barry kept a box.

inside:

a photograph of the mountain.

a note rafe had once scribbled on the back of a bar receipt.

and an old, beat-up flannel shirt that still smelled like sweat and smoke.

he never opened it.

just kept it on the top shelf, collecting dust.

like a wound he didn’t want to touch.

but sometimes—on cold nights, when the world was too quiet—he’d pull it down and press it to his face.

and remember.

—

he never loved anyone else.

not the way he loved rafe cameron.

not with that kind of devastation.

not with that kind of ache.

—

“truth is,” barry whispered once, years later, to no one at all—just the wind, and the woods, and the long-empty bed beside him—

“i never could quit you.���

[borderlineex]

₊˚⊹౨ late night flirting ৎ ₊˚⊹

sam winchester x reader

read part 2 here

a/n: i'll be posting nearly all of my drafts one by one so there might be a slight spam !! (might be a bit suggestive? idk)

The bunker was quiet, too quiet for 11:47 PM. Dean had passed out hours ago, and Cas had long since disappeared to who-knows-where. You were curled on the couch in the library with a well-worn book half open in your lap, the words blurring together thanks to your traitorous eyelids. And then there was Sam.

He was still at the long wooden table, hunched over a laptop, hair falling into his eyes as he scrolled through lore. His flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and you pretended not to notice the way the light glinted off his forearms.

“You should go to bed,” he murmured suddenly, eyes still on the screen.

You smirked. “You should take your own advice.”

Sam looked over his laptop, that half-smile playing on his lips. “I’m working.”

“And I’m providing moral support,” you shot back, stretching like a cat. His gaze flickered down, just for a second, but you caught it. You always caught it.

“You’re distracting,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“Is that so?” you said, pretending to sound scandalized, even as you closed your book and stood. Slowly. Deliberately. “What would you do if I really tried to distract you?”

Sam leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable but his eyes suddenly darker. “Depends. Are you trying now?”

You sauntered over, heart thudding but voice light. “Would it be such a bad thing if I was?”

He looked up at you from his chair, and you felt your breath hitch. That gaze? Pure honey and heat. “You know,” he said, voice low and thick, “there are more effective ways to keep me up than reciting Latin translations.”

You felt your face flush, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you leaned down, hands on the table, putting you at his eye level. “That so, Winchester?”

His hand came to rest lightly on your waist—barely touching, but very much there. “You keep looking at me like that, I might forget how to read.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Then maybe you’ll finally take a break.”

He stood slowly, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “Is this the break you’re offering?”

You grinned. “You’ll have to follow me and find out.”

Sam chuckled low in his throat. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You’re trouble.”

You bit your lip. “And you love it.”

[thelovelywriteress]

FACE THAT WON'T LEAVE MY MIND𓂃 ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ

─ Nero x Reader

Nero, was a boy of lesser words especially when he was in Fortuna. He usually prefer to be alone or least to least just talk to Kyrie and Credo.

"Good morning Nero!" You passed him a smile as he frowned. Last time he remembered─he wasn't being any friendly towards you.

His lack of you response didn't hurt you as he was silent not ignorant, he did give you a nodded.

Kyrie soon joined you both as you greet her with same enthusiasm which she matched and then enquired Nero if he did the same, as she knew his tendencies to get more than usual anti-social around you, to which you simply laughed and told her atleast he acknowledged your greet.

Hours passed from that interaction yet Nero wouldn't forgot it. Nero clenched his gloved fist tighter, trying to shut out the echo of your laugh from earlier. It had caught him off-guard—light, carefree, like it belonged in some other world, not this one littered with demons and memories that wouldn’t die.

He would shake his head off, trying make these weird thoughts related to your ago away. Hell why were you in his mind so much these days? He wondered. And what was the weird feeling in his stomach whenever he thought about you.

Like bro was in the middle of cleaning Blue Rose, minding his own business, when he suddenly thought about the way you scrunched your nose when trying to understand something about demon related . The memory hit him out of nowhere, and then—boom. Stomach swirl. Head heat. Complete glitch in system.

"God—what the—" He rubbed his forehead like the dumb memory gave him a migraine. "The hell is wrong with me?"

"Are you fine?"

Where the hell problem i.e you, itself appear out of?

Was his reflexes getting weaker? Cause how the hell he didn't heard you approaching and now he was faced with your lean in face when he opened his eyes after rubbing forehead.

"The hell you doing here?" He asked, masking his flustered red face as angry.

He sits a couch as to create some distance between both of you but it is in vain as you popped besides him like it was most natural thing in world.

You had brought him coffee. Again.

“Looked like you needed something warm. Besides that scowl,” you teased him through despite his annoyance he did accept your coffee as start speaking about some funny scenes you witnessed today.

He didn't responded.

He never responded.

And still, you came back.

Every damn day.

And every time, he told himself it was just annoying. That your kindness was a trick of pity. That you couldn’t possibly see past the jagged edges and mess that made him who he was.

But then—why did he notice the way your fingers curled around the mug? Why did he keep the empty cups you left behind on his desk for just a little longer before throwing them out? Why did his heart skip every time your shadow stretched around the corner before you even said a word?

He was just so close to just see a doctor and get checked if anything was wrong with his system.

"I think the problem you have Nero, can't be cured by doctor."

Kyrie told Nero who confessed his concern to her and now frown at her reply. Now what was that supposed to mean?

"I think you like (name)." What?

"Like you said yourself that (name) is always in your mind." Yeah cause you always greet him with your stupid smile and just always pop out of nowhere near him.

"Oh Nero don't be stubborn now, you are into her and that's a fact."

No. He was not into you. He couldn’t be. You were... sunshine and laughter and good coffee. He was sarcasm, trauma, and barely contained rage. You both were in different ends of rope so you guys can't be connected, he told himself something like that but when have heart ever listened to someone's word anyways. It loves whom it wants to love.

More and more Nero tried to suppressed his growing feelings towards you, more they were shown on surface and it pissed Nero because now every time you were near, his stomach turned into some kind of punk rock concert. Even at the night, his mind now started to create various scenarios─where you were getting saved by him or you confessed that you can't live without him. He growled, smacking himself, hoping it will stop next day.

Next day when you spotted him around the town─alone, you decided to accompany him. It was casual, comfortable.

Well—you were comfortable.

Nero was a nervous wreck pretending to be a person.

He kept his eyes forward, hyper-aware of every single move you made. Every laugh. Every step. Every time your shoulder brushed his. He counted each one like they were time bombs.

Then you take a rest on a bench, it was silent but it didn't feel awkward.

"Nero do you hate me?"

You questioned him as his emotions turn wild─he didn't hate you but wouldn't that mean he like you but he don't likes you─okay maybe he does a little but he is not ready to accept it.

"What makes you think so?" He let out, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well you always have being anti-social but now days it you looked super awkward around me." His breath almost stop. Were you playing with him or you truly don't understand the situation despite literally saying it.

"I like being around you so I always seek ways to get that but if it is bother to you then I can back down."

From all of your genuine confession 'I like being around you' was the only one his ears transmit to his brain and it keep on repeating it.

You frowned at his lack of reply. So were you right?

Nero hadn’t been cold exactly. Just... distant. Quieter than usual. More grunts than words. More brooding silences that stretched a bit too long. And you’d noticed the way he sometimes looked away when you walked into a room, like he didn’t know what to do with your presence anymore.

"I will give you some space," you said quietly. Maybe he was still feeling awkward to agree with you. Cause you know deep down he sure do have a humble heart.

You stand as Nero looked in your direction, panicking. Shouldn't be be happy? Maybe now that weird feeling in his stomach can finally go. He would be able to close his eyes at night without seeing your face. If he wanted these things to happened then why his hand grabbed yours.

You looked back. He looked panicked. Like a kicked puppy". . . Don't," he mumbled, eyes locked on yours.

You tilted your head. "Don't what?" Nero turn his gaze on the ground─unable to hold eye contact. He felt so vulnerable and he hated it.

"I don't hate you. . ." You didn't comment anything yet because he felt there was more to come which Nero after internal war with himself let out,"I just—" He exhaled. "I am not used to. . . people. You. Being so—close. Most of time they just left but you didn't." He took breath once again before saying,"And I didn't knew how to handle the feelings you brought with your presence."

Your eyes widened on his words,"What kind of feelings Nero?" You questioned through you already realised it. Oh how dumb of you, to be so obvious to something which was literally in front of you. Now Kyrie's conversation regarding what you think of Nero, made sense.

He glanced at you, eyes sharp and vulnerable all at once. "The kind that makes me wanna pull you closer but also punch a wall cause I don't know why."

Silence.

You blinked. Slowly.

He realized what he just said and before he could defend his words, you blurted out something which made his face went white and cheeks go red!

"You have feelings for me Nero."

It wasn't a question, it was a pure statement. You catch him and now he can't even defend himself. He can deny all he want but he knows you are not believing him.

"That's so cute. So that awkwardness was just you crus─" Nero screamed you to not continue as he felt so humiliating. Not even his feelings but his past actions were getting exposed to.

You laugh, not at Nero technically but rather the humourous situation as Nero turn away with a scoffed.

"For what matters, I like you too and won't mind a getting all lovely-dovely with you." You confessed with mischievous sly.

"Then did you guys start going out?" Nico asked getting bored of this whole story, she just wanted to hear the main part.

"(name) just told you this whole ass story with me sitting beside. Take a wild guess?" Nero replied with sarcasm.

Nico rolled her eyes at Nero's reply and whined about wanting to hear excited,"I don't want to take guesses! Tell me the real part─did you guys kissed? Who kiss whom first? Bet it definitely wasn't him!" She mocked Nero who looked ready to hit her as you laughed at her words

"Well that's story for another day now."

[slytherinshua]

⪧　STAGE LIGHTS　( 유기현 )

genre fluff , sort of sickfic , slight angst , established relationship , rockstar/popstar au , husband!kihyun x fem!reader   cw mentions of overworking , migraines , unhealthy tour schedules , not proofread fully   wc 1214   request yes   note finally, my monsta x writing debut has come   net @kstrucknet

The stage lights shone brightly on Kihyun’s pale skin, causing beads of sweat to start gathering on his forehead. The backtrack was loud in his ear, ticking with the beats for his cue. With one of his inner-ears pulled out, he could hear the microphone volume echoing through the entire empty stadium as he belted out the notes of the chorus. He hadn’t been feeling the best recently, and he was still getting over a slight cough. But world tours didn’t wait for the act to get it together, and he had a sold out show to do tonight. There wasn’t time for resting, as much as he would like to take a day off. 

Sometimes it still felt weird being a solo act after so long in a band. It was just him up on the big stage, expected to charm the entire audience by himself. No one else to rely on. No one else who could give him a break when he needed one. Somehow, he always made it through each painfully long three hour show. And somehow, he still hadn’t collapsed on stage.

You stood backstage, watching your husband run through his rehearsal in the stadium. It was quite routine at this point, and most rehearsals ended early. He knew exactly what tweaking to the sound he wanted done before the lights dimmed at 7PM without even having to think. He’d done over a hundred shows before as a solo act, and eighteen on this world tour alone. By now, the only challenging part of it was his stamina.

That was what you were worried about the most recently. This morning when he had woken up in your arms, you noticed how he clung closer to you— how he seemed to not want to get out of bed at all. When you asked him if he still felt sick, he assured you it was just fatigue, as if that would ease your mind at all. He had been pushing himself too much lately. You always told him to rest as much as he needed; cancel a show if necessary, but he always refused. 

His fans were his second priority (thankfully, he had enough sense and twice as much adoration in his body to put his wife first every time). But that left him lower on the list than you would like. You wished he would take care of himself more, but he was the most stubborn man you had ever met. The tickets had already been bought, stadiums already booked for over a year now. Kihyun would be damned if he didn’t put on a show for the forty thousand people here to see him tonight. They were going to get their money’s worth, and he was going to prove once again that professionalism reeked from his blood, sweat, and tears.

When he finished his run through of his latest headlining single, marking the choreo in time with his rich vocals, you could see how his body relaxed in relief. He walked back to you slowly, like he barely had the energy to pick up his feet. You weren’t sure how he would be dancing and singing for 3 hours straight this evening. Before even reaching the dressing room, he was leaning almost entirely against you, trusting you to support him as you always did.

“You are so stubborn,” you muttered, guiding Kihyun to the couch in the green room. He sighed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the couch.

“It’s my job. I don’t feel it as much when I’m on the stage. The adrenaline will keep me going.”

“And then you’ll crash even harder once it’s all over. You’ve almost passed out before, Kihyun. You know that’s not healthy. If you won’t listen to your wife, at least listen to your doctor,” you urged. Your husband was silent. Too silent. Even when he was feeling his worst, he always had a reply for you. One glance told you everything you needed to know.

“You’re doing that little frowny thing you do when you’re about to get a migraine,” you pointed out softly, brushing your hand over his forehead just to make sure he wasn’t coming down with something again. The temperature felt normal, thankfully, but Kihyun’s frown only grew.

“I didn’t think this day could get any worse… but apparently the universe had other plans.”

Your heart ached a little for him. He sounded exhausted and it was barely 10 in the morning. His migraines had gotten better over the years. Less frequent. Less debilitating to his work schedule. But, while not having to deal with migraines was comforting, it had caused him to push himself even harder than in his earlier years. There was little to stop his ambition to be the top artist in the world, especially when his record label was so ecstatic at how he was doing on the charts globally lately. No doubt, his music and audience was in its prime. But Kihyun? He could feel his body giving up on him with each show. Maybe he truly wasn’t cut out for the level of stardom he had reached.

His staff and management had started to notice it more with the most recent stops on the tour, but nobody knew the full extent of it like you did. How he had been pushing himself since his last album came out. Performances aside, he was always tight on deadlines for new music, and you saw how it affected him creatively. In your opinion, he had been needing a break since last year. 

You wondered whether the cost of a long-lasting career at the top was worth it, or if your husband was unknowingly sabotaging his longevity in the process. The thought worried you, of course. Music and performing was always something Kihyun had been passionate about. And he was damn good at it, too. The best in the industry, in your probably biased opinion. An industry so competitive and intense was known for burning out its artists, handing them short-lived careers and a dissatisfaction with only a brief moment at the top.

All things considered, your husband had gotten lucky. With the launch of his solo career, he quickly made headlines. His music was good, his fanbase dedicated, and his talent spoke for itself. While he had been thriving for over five years now, you knew he had his sights set on another fifteen at least. His life simply wasn’t complete if he wasn’t performing. 

Thanks to the stage rehearsal ending early, he had some time to nap before he had to get ready for the fansigning event and photos. You made sure he had food and his meds before he collapsed completely on the couch, ready to rest for as long as he could afford. You would have left the dressing room to let him rest better if he hadn’t insisted you stay. Prone to being slightly clingier when he was feeling tired, you couldn’t help but melt at his request to sleep with his head in your lap. 

Kihyun might’ve been a world-class performer, but at the end of the day, he was still just your husband. The only thing he loved more than performing would always be you. 

monsta x taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @yudaies,, @lexeees,, @loserlvrss

[sunarots]

guys my age ━━━ sakusa kiyoomi

21. that was scary… ♡

The game was going smoothly, halfway through the second round with a five point lead. This time, you spent the entirety of the game standing at the barrier with Hirano, Osamu and Suna, bouncing on the tips of your toes and cheering as loud as possible. You grip Hirano's arm as it becomes Sakusa's turn to serve, pointing at him excitedly. You stay quiet out of habit, screaming in excitement when he scores a service ace. He manages to score another one before his streak is cut off. You watch him as he leaps, slamming the ball back as hard as he can and scoring a third.

"That's my boyfriend!" you scream, wrapping your arms around Hirano.

His grip loosens and he jerks. "Wait, what happened?"

You pull back, frowning at the court as you try to see what the commotion is. There's a huddle grouped together, blocking view of the one on the floor. "Who is that?" Bokuto spins around and spots you, waving his hands in the air. "Oh my god. Is that Kiyoomi?"

"Hey, y/n, let's go," Suna ushers, lightly nudging your arm to follow him from your seats.

He keeps a slow pace to make sure he doesn't lose you, running down the corridors like he lives here. He slows to a stop and raps his knuckles on the door, waiting for you to catch up before entering the room.

"I'm fine."

"We need to assess you first-"

You push past Suna, looking between the manager and Sakusa. You can't help the anxious look taken over your expression, one you hope Sakusa believes as acting. You scan over him to make sure he's awake and breathing before letting out a small breath of relief. "Are you okay?" When you run over, it takes all your strength not to run and throw your arms around him for a hug. Instead, you settle on your feet and look frantically between the three in front of you.

"I'm fine. I'm dehydrated, that's all," he assures you. "They'll give me a solution to drink and I'll be good to go."

"Okay." Your voice is barely above a whisper, nodding slowly. "I'll wait with you." Sakusa nods, gesturing to the empty seat beside his bed.

You watch him stay calm whilst the doctor gets his drink fixed. Leaning back, you drift away from the conversation, playing with the hem of your jersey. Though observing, you're not too sure of what's happening, too focused on keeping your breathing steady.

"Y/n." Your eyes drift back to Suna, looking at you in concern from the doorway. You hum a reply, now noticing everyone else's eyes on you. "You okay?"

Nodding, you seal your lips and let your hands settle on your knees. "Yep."

Suna raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Seriously?"

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding. "Yeah... Yeah, just relieved."

"You looked constipated."

Your jaw drops at his statement, letting out an ugly laugh. "Wow, how nice of you to say. Kiyoomi, are you hearing this abuse." You turn full focus back to him when he doesn't respond. His eyes are set on the floor, gripping the cup as hard as he can in his hands. "Kiyoomi?"

He nods his head in what he hopes to be an assuring way, passing you the mug and lying back. "My head hurts."

You're quick to rise onto your feet, looking around everyone. "What? Is it a concussion?" You watch as the doctor starts to do some more checks, shaking your head at him. "Hey, don't close your eyes. If it's a concussion you can't go to sleep."

Slowly opening them, he clenches his jaw and looks over at you. "It's not a concussion. It just hurts."

"I'm sorry, I can't let you go back to the match. It could be a concussion."

Sakusa jumps upright, arguing that he's fine and that they need him out on the court. The doctor won't have any of his arguments, shooting down everything he can come up with. You sit back in your seat carefully, listening to Sakusa arguing with the doctor and mumbling a farewell when his team's manager excuses himself to get back to the game. Suna does the same, leaving the two of you alone with the doctor.

"I'm sorry. You need to stay here so I can assess you."

You sink back in the seat, eyes flickering back down to rest on the floor. Sighing, you take your buzzing phone from the pocket of jeans and read Hirano's name. Part of you considers not answering, but you know that would ignite even more anxiety in him. You lift the phone to your ear, holding it away when the people around him erupt in cheers.

"Oh my god, y/n, is he okay? What happened?"

You catch Sakusa's furrowed eyebrows, watching you suspiciously. You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker. "It's Hirano. Um, Kiyoomi's okay, dehydrated. He might have a concussion so he might not be back in the game."

"What's the score?" Sakusa asks, his fingers digging into his knees.

"Jackals are still winning. They have a two point lead, they've scored more. So, he's okay?"

Sakusa sighs. "Yeah. I'm fine. If we win, I'm fine."

You mumble a quick goodbye to Hirano, ending the call. "You'll win," you attempt to assure him, but his only response is a scoff whilst following the doctor's instructions. "Hey, if you believe it, it'll happen. Manifest it." Another attempt of reassurance falls upon ignorant ears, continuing to sulk over the fact he's not playing the game. "Are we able to go back and watch?"

The doctor looks between the two of you and sighs, gesturing towards the door. "You can watch. I'm trusting you to not let him back in the game."

Sakusa nods his head, pushing himself up from the bed and waiting for you to stand before approaching the door. You smile at the doctor and thank him before following Sakusa out. He takes slow, reluctant steps down towards the hall.

"Is your head okay? I can get you some ibuprofen," you offer, but he just shakes his head and keeps his eyes forward. "Are you coming up with me or going to sit on the bench?"

"I'm going to sit on the bench so I can watch with my team."

You can't help but flinch at his tone, mumbling an agreement and turning the corner to make your way back to your seat and friends. You don't bother saying a goodbye, putting all your focus into making it back without letting your tears fall.

When you step through the doors, you spot Osamu and Suna standing by the railing in front of you, Hirano back in his seat between Akaashi and Kageyama. You stop beside Suna, gripping tight onto the railing and leaning forwards. You spot Sakusa sat on the bench with his back to you, watching the game intently, as though he doesn't believe the Jackals can win another two points and take the game without him.

"Hey." A hand on your shoulder pulls you back into reality, Akaashi by your side. "Are you okay?"

You take in a sharp breath, the tears finally starting to fall. "That was really scary," you whisper, bringing a hand up to cover your face. You turn to look at Akaashi. "I couldn't even help him."

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summary. sakusa kiyoomi, middle blocker for the famous msby black jackals, is known for his clean reputation, never drawing attention to himself through scandals. ever since joining the jackals, he's kept himself out of the headlines unless over something good. that is until he drinks a little too much and finds himself in the news for going home with someone he doesn't know.

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