#C-Jam Blues

[saint-hymn]

haunted

[chaptertwo-thepacnw]

duke ellington |1942|

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Oscar Peterson Trio - C Jam Blues (Denmark, 1964)

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

📷 Vivian Maier , 1953

[jt1674]

[patchworkgargoyle]

:C

[lvrclerc]

✶ FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL

summary: the italian sun shines on you and oliver's summer idyll, but the month of august trickles away rapidly─ what will happen when it reaches an end? ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « will you love me in december as you do in may? »

F1 MASTERLIST | OB87 MASTERLIST

pairing: oliver bearman x f!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: summer romance, bittersweet, fluff, hopeful ending, reader has an anxiety disorder, use of y/n, oliver has an injury for plot purposes

note: requested here! first time writing for ollie so i'm kinda nervous, hope i did him justice! also there's not near enough fics of the '25 rookies it's scandalous

♫ like real people do - hozier, august - taylor swift, let it happen - gracie abram

THE LASTING WEIGHT on your shoulders was something you became accustomed to. It settled there long ago. The quickened breaths, the sharp sting behind your eyes almost comforting in its regularity. The clatter of your pen dropping to the floor during another restless study session and the ache in your ribcage as you fought for hopeless takes of serrated air no longer startled you. Your newly-appointed therapist told you, scribbling away on her notepad— “Maybe you need fresh air, time away from university.” As if sunlight could smooth out the tension etched into your bones.

That was what the seaside house was meant to be.

It wasn’t a cottage per se. Just a weather-worn brick-walled home tucked near the Italian coast, kissed by salt and sun and blue shutters faded to memory, ivy hugging the balcony tenderly. You rented it with the help of your parents, who insisted that you go on this trip, but the silence you were standing in was yours alone. You, twenty years old, burnt out, along with a diary you promised your therapist you’ll write in every day, from the soft, sunlit beginnings of May to the cold end of August.

The house in itself was as isolated as it could get, perched above the sea along eroded rocks and concealed from the nearest town and its tourists. It stood alone, in all likeness to you, waiting for inhabitation. The only hint of human life you noticed, as you mindlessly sipped your iced tea from the back doorway, sun warming your knees, was the distant outline of another house, a few kilometers down the coast. Far enough that it’d take a good ten-minute walk to reach it, but close enough so that you could discern the silhouette of a tall man standing in its overgrown backyard.

You didn’t linger much on it. He was but the ghost of civilization— a shadow at the edge of your retreat you weren’t ready to let back in. This was the time to center on your thoughts, peel back the numbness eating at your heart, and relearn yourself. You stepped back inside, glass empty, and didn’t think about him again.

At least, not then.

The month of May passed slowly, honey dripping down the rim of a jar. You mostly stayed in your little alcove of the world, letting the days stretch out in silence. Mornings were slow— toast with jam, milk coffee, the dog-eared pages of half-read books sitting on the sunlounger outside. You wrote in your diary about it, about how you’d paint your nails one day and chip them off the next, or how on other days you’d lie out on the balcony, the crash of the waves lulling you in and out of sleep. You watched the ivy grow and the sky change. For a while, it was nice, soft, and still.

But solitude, even chosen, eventually turns sharp at the edges. By the third week, the silence wasn’t so romantic: you started counting the hours between meals, pacing the kitchen tiles barefoot, and you reread your own diary entries even if you hadn’t spoken aloud in days. The stillness you once craved had started to feel like a trap— yet the worst of it was yourself: thoughts of precious hours you were wasting away instead of sitting at the desk of your dorm room haunted your boredom, similar to a ghost.

Which is why, now and then, when the breeze shifted just right, you found your gaze drifting down a few centimeters down the coast, toward the other house, and the man you suspected might still be there.

To the unknowing eye, you’re sure it could have looked unsettling, but truthfully, you didn’t have anything else to do but to observe. He was a welcoming presence, something that didn’t make you feel so secluded. Some days, the man would tinker with a bike for hours until the sun bled orange. Other times, he’d vanish with a towel slung over his shoulders and goggles in his hand, not returning until dusk. Occasionally, he’d mirror you, barefoot in the garden, basking in the sun. And sometimes—only sometimes—you swore he tilted his head upwards and caught your eyes. On those days, you always turned away first, slipped back inside, and retreated for the night.

Your personal game of people-watching stretched for a week or two before you spoke for the first time.

You spent the afternoon on a small, sheltered beach just a few minutes away from your house. The dry air had nipped at your skin just enough for it to become uncomfortable after a few hours, and the sun-turned—from warm to punishing—had your cheeks tight with the start of a sunburn. You packed up as the sky began to blush with the first hints of sunset, already fantasizing about the cool shade of your living room and the steady hum of the fan. It would have been glorious.

Would have, if you hadn’t locked yourself out.

You jiggled the handle once, twice, but nothing. Your towel slipped from your arms, and you cursed under your breath, pressing your forehead to the wooden door. Saltwater still clung to your skin, your hair stuck to the back of your neck, and the stupid key was sitting smugly on the kitchen counter inside.

A posh, British accent spoke from behind you. “Do you need some help?”

You turned, confused about the origin of the sudden voice, and there he was. The man from the neighboring house.

It was unmistakably him— there was just something about the tousled mess of brown, semi-curls falling in front of his face, the soft eyes crinkled at the corners with barely contained amusement. His skin, darkened by the sweep of summer, looked like it had soaked up every hour of its beginnings. There was familiarity in the delicate shape of him and the easy way he stood, towering over you. The towel in his hand was the same deep navy you’d seen slung over his shoulder days before. His gaze—sharp, steady, curious—felt exactly like it had when you’d caught him looking up at you.

“I, uh… I might?” You stumbled on your words as you answered.

He chuckled, leaning slightly against the fence in front of your house. “Locked yourself out?”

“I wish I could say no,” you nodded, making a noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh.

The man, who looked increasingly more boyish the more steps he took toward you, gripped the door handle. He twisted it a few times before kicking the bottom of the wooden plank and, before your stunned expression, it snapped open. He looked at you with a proud smile. “Don’t worry, people who rent this house usually don’t know about this trick.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Does that mean you come here often?”

Mortification crashed over you along with realization— you threw an accidental pick-up line at a complete stranger. A stranger who, objectively speaking, was very cute, yes, but still a stranger. You opened your mouth, already halfway through a flustered attempt to walk it back. “Wait— I didn’t mean that like— I wasn’t trying to—”

He let out a surprised, wheezy laugh. “No, no- you’re fine,” he said, grinning now. “I come here every summer, actually. I’m in the house further down the coast.” He seemed to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes and gave you a knowing smile. “My name’s Oliver, by the way.”

“I’m Y/N,” you replied. “I… I think I’ve seen you around. Sometimes.”

Oliver’s traits softened, and you could see the playful interest behind the darkness of his irises. “Yeah.” His voice dipped slightly. “I think I saw you, too.”

Both of you stood there with the hesitant awkwardness usually reserved for teenagers— which, to be fair, you weren’t far from. He couldn’t have been older than you, early twenties at most. The silence stretched until he announced he had to go, something about needing to work on his bike. You had to abstain to say I know. 

Yet, before he could disappear completely around the corner, Oliver paused. He looked back over his shoulder. “If you ever want company, it’s just me down there. Come by whenever.” You didn’t have to add that you were alone as well. In a strangely comforting sort of way, it looked like he knew.

And it didn’t take you long to take him up on his offer.

It started when your trips to the beach began to align— first by coincidence, but then by something more deliberate. You came to realize that you and Oliver had claimed the same forgotten stretch of land where the sea kissed the rocks, and you drifted toward each other like its tide. At first, it was just run-ins: you, stretched out on your towels, half-asleep due to the sizzling heat; Oliver, standing over you, droplets of salt water falling from his hair onto your flushed cheeks. “What are you doing here?” you’d ask, squinting up at him.

“I like running,” he’d say with a shrug, before his characteristic, mischievous smile reached his lips once again. “And a dip after a run keeps me motivated.”

Oliver started sticking around. He’d keep the last of his water bottle to rinse the sand off your feet, sharing watermelon he’d always accidentally cut a little extra from. He would walk you home, and you’d lead him with slow, lazy steps, to drag the moment longer. Your laughter would echo against the rock and sea walls paving the way to your house, and he’d talk about little things—the birds and the heat—then about bigger things, how the ocean seems to always stay the same but feels different every year, for example. You’d match him, word for word, stories unfurling like waves, and miss him when he’d continue his way without you.

It wasn’t long before the space between your houses stopped mattering. One afternoon turned into an invitation to see the inside of his cluttered living room, and that was it. The next week, Oliver was sitting on your ivy-covered balcony, sipping homemade iced tea with your legs draped over his. Eventually, your days began to blur— his shirt left on the back of your chair, your books forgotten on his windowsill. You stopped counting whose house you were in until it became the house you were in together.

The month of May slipped into June in tentative brushes of the hand and peals of laughter lost to the warm air of summer nights. Oliver had become Ollie by the fifteenth—the nickname fell off your lips naturally—and you spent most, if not all, of your days in each other’s presence. The rhythm between you was almost domestic: you’d wake up and see his bare back at work in the kitchen along with the scent of coffee and discarded pans, or how you now knew his schedule by heart. He’d spend most of his Wednesdays and Fridays fixing up the old bike he’d found rusting in the garage, and he was partial to running on Saturdays. Swimming, however, was reserved for when you were with him. Any day. Every day, if he could have it.

By the time Ollie finished repairing the bike, the first month of summer was waning. One golden morning, with grease all over his fingers, he turned to you and asked if you wanted to visit the nearby town— a trip made easier now that the bike worked. To your own surprise, you said yes.

The town had become another stepping stone in whatever you and Ollie were building. The days spent weaving through the local market were your favorites, brushing past stalls of sun-ripened fruits and handmade trinkets, among which you both stumbled through clumsy Italian that vendors gently poke fun at you for. You’d mangle a greeting, and Ollie would butcher a question about apricots, and still, they’d smile like they knew what you were saying. You chuckled and asked him what the point of living in Modena was if he didn’t speak Italian. “My family’s still British, you know,” he answered. It only made you laugh harder, a sound he seemed to chase.

You never discussed the reason that brought you both to this isolated part of the Italian coast. It never came up, the questions drifted in the periphery— hinted at in the pauses between conversation, but never spoke out loud. It was a silent agreement: you didn’t ask, and neither did he.

But there was one evening, on the crumbling stone wall nearing the edge of town. Your legs were swinging gently over the drop— the cicadas had begun to quiet, the last smear of strawberry gelato clung to your fingertips, and the world was exhaling into night. Somewhere below, a dog barked once and fell quiet. That was when Ollie asked. “So… what brought you here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You wiped your fingers on a napkin that smelled faintly of lemon, tossing and turning the way you could shape your response in your head. “Uni,” you said finally. “Or… me, I guess. Everything just got really loud, and I could barely think about anything else. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating… setting myself up for failure before I even started, basically.”

Ollie nodded, yet no pity or needless apologies fell off his tongue. “My therapist sent me there to remember how to be a person again,” you added to his silence.

“What about you?” You quickly asked, hasty to get the attention off.

He looked at you, mouth agape in a desire to say something, but ultimately deciding against it. Long seconds passed before the British spoke again. “I race professionally, right now I’m in Formula One.” One look at your face was enough for him to understand you didn’t know anything about motorsports. He continued with a crooked smile. “I, uh… I crashed back in March. Nothing huge, but enough to knock me out for the season, apparently. The doctors told me to rest and take it easy.”

You glanced over, catching the way his profile softened in the lamplight. You had noticed his grimace after long days spent walking around, the painful stretches in his living room when he thought you were still deep in slumber. You never brought it up.

“No one tells you how hard that part is—” Ollie continued. “The not-doing-anything part. I figured I’d go somewhere familiar to make it better, you know?”

Taking your mind off an obsession, when you made it a part of yourself so integral you’re unable to define yourself outside of it, can feel similar to the tearing of a limb— it’s something you carry around, an itch you can’t scratch because your fingernails will start digging for blood. It’s something you knew all too well, it was the reason for your presence on this stone wall.

“Well,” you murmured. “I think you’re going to get into your car next season and show them all the talent they’d missed.”

Ollie huffed a laugh. “Thanks for believing in me, but the car isn’t even—”

“You worked on your bike. You can work on a car.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

He laughed, curls catching the breeze, nudging his knees with yours. “Then you’re going to make every teacher regret putting you in this state when you go back.”

“That’d be assuming they care.” You rolled your eyes with nothing but fondness. “You’re too nice for the ruthless world of university, Ollie.”

The realization came as gently as the brush of his fingers above yours: you hadn’t thought about it at all. The tint of your skin had darkened, moles and sun-born freckles dusted your shoulders, your voice had picked up hoarser inflections from laughing, salt stuck to you like a robe, and you hadn’t noticed the oppressing heaviness of your shoulder ever since you ran into Ollie. You noticed, though, with a pleasant warmness swirling in your chest, that it seemed to have vanished. You couldn’t recall the last time you felt like the air around you wasn’t enough for your lungs.

In that moment, as the sky bruised deep violet and you could still taste the faint hint of strawberry on your tongue, it didn’t really matter what had broken you both to get there. You were here now, and that was what mattered.

The bike ride back to your house was spent in a sleep-induced haze. Your arms were loosely wrapped around Ollie’s middle, and he was pedaling slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere else but to you. When you reached the front door, you didn’t ask. He just followed you inside, barefoot and spent, and slept in the spare twin bed across from yours. The window stayed open all night. You could hear the sea mixing with his breathing. For the first time in a while, sleep came easy.

June made way for July, arriving in harsh, blinding sunlight, and days that stretched lazily into midnight. With it came a quiet shift, the startling and fluttering understanding that you might want to kiss Oliver Bearman.

It wasn’t in theory, in some hypothetical sunset-glazed movie scene. You wanted to kiss the real him, your Ollie, the one on the stone wall: the boy who stole your sandals to water your neglected garden, the one who wrangled in catastrophic Italian with a vendor for a pack of cherries you craved, the same one who read aloud from whatever your liking had set upon to make fun of it, only to keep reading when you weren’t paying attention.

In the delicate dance of almosts that blossomed over the month of July, you allowed yourself to think he might want to kiss you, too.

The first time it happened, you were both locked out of his house— for a change. A tragic incident involving a missing key and a dinner reservation you were already late for had left you standing outside, your arms crossed, and his sheepish grin doing nothing to help the situation. Ollie suggested the bedroom window. You, naturally, thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

You’d both ended up clambering through the fragile wooden frame like teenagers sneaking in past curfew, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It was stupid, and maybe a little childish, but it was part of why it always felt so easy with Ollie. When it was your turn to hop off the ledge, he helped you, hands steady around your waist. His hands lingered there a moment too long and as laughter died down, leaving you breathless and dazed, something pulled you closer ever so slightly. Never close enough to break, however.

There was a second time, when Ollie brushed a stray strand of hair after you’d both ran from a summer shower and the touch warmed your forehead for hours. A third, when you fell asleep over each other in the garden during a heat-drenched day and you woke up with his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. There was a fourth, a fifth, an amalgamation of disarming instances during which your breath hitched in anticipation of what never seemed to come. When he caught you watching him, and never looked away.

The day you kissed him, you found yourself in a predicament you never thought would happen to you. Ollie had just leapt off the cliff.

There was no hesitation or second thoughts in the clean arc his body sliced through the air. The splash below was clean, and right when you thought he’d never find the surface again, his voice echoed upward, bright and breathless as he laughed. “Come on!” he shouted, waving at you. “It’s not even that high!”

You stood at the edge, toes curled against the rock, and you could only disagree with the brown-haired boy the way the water spiraled beneath you. “You’re insane. This is suicide.”

“Oh, you’re the one who climbed up there!”

“I climbed up to watch, not die!” you yelled back, heart hammering. “Also, aren’t you injured? Should you even be jumping off cliffs?!”

He shrugged. “The water’s deep enough.”

You glared, which only seemed to egg him on. “Come onnnn,” he complained. “You said you wanted to feel like a real person again, right? Nothing realer than that!”

Even in the lighthearted argument, you had to see the truth in what Ollie said. You had come to this quiet corner of the world to shake something loose inside of you, to try and find the pieces of yourself you misplaced among the tangy taste of tangerines and the soft mornings. This was the summer you were supposed to stop clenching your fists around fear, and to get rid of the anxious feeling lodged in your throat. Your heart had beaten loudly and unapologetically until now, what was slowing it down except for yourself?

So you took a breath. Two. Then a few steps back.

And jumped.

The fall was sharp, dizzying, and the scream that escaped your lungs was nothing short of horrified. Yet, laughter was wedged between the hiccups of it, and you broke the cold surface with a disbelieving gasp. Ollie was already swimming toward you— his eyes wide in wonder, and his hands reaching for your figure. “You did it!”

“I actually did it,” you sputtered.

Ollie’s hands found the dip of your waist under the water, steadying you against him. There were seconds of silence, filled with the splash of waves and your all too loud breathing. That was when his eyes dipped to your lips.

You hadn’t come there to find something as unreachable as love, and you especially hadn’t expected to fall for someone like Ollie, but somehow he had folded himself into your days and the smallest gaps of you— a placeholder until you could fill them yourself, you imagined. Still, you couldn’t envisage a version of your months without him, his voice, or the steadiness of the soul that comes with the brush of his fingers.

I jumped off a cliff, you thought. I can kiss Oliver Bearman.

So you did.

You surged forward before you could talk yourself out of it, arms slipping around his shoulders as your mouth crashed onto his in impatience. He stilled for only a second— more than enough to make you doubt your actions. But he kissed you back. Just as eager, the smile he put into it charmingly familiar. You could taste sea salt on his tongue, his sun-warmed lips moving hungrily against you, breathing your air and taking it away in the slow rocking of the waves.

You didn’t want it to end, but the lack of oxygen pulled you apart. Ollie’s forehead bumped against yours. “I was waiting for you to do that,” he murmured, dropping another quick kiss to your lips.

“Then you could’ve done it sooner!” You punched his shoulder with a laugh.

“I don’t know, I like it when you take the lead.”

You rolled your eyes, heat climbing up your neck, and dunked him into the water. You didn’t resist when he pulled you under.

The transition from July to August slipped from your attention, seawater between your fingers— impossible to hold onto but clung to your skin all the same. You barely noticed the days shifting; they blurred into one another with a sleepy sentimentality, each marked by rituals you and Oliver had grown to create. Mornings bled into slow breakfast where he’d sneak a bite of your toast before making his own, and you’d pretend to be mad about it even though you always saved the corner piece for him anyways.

There were afternoons spent with your ankles tangled together in the back gardens. He kept a bottle of your fragranced sunscreen in his bag. You knew what music to play when you both cooked dinner with the door open to let the cooler air of the evening sift through the kitchen. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it sickeningly romantic. It simply came as a natural progression, an obvious evolution in the most beautiful sense— like something that could last, if you let it.

You kissed more often, now, much to both of your delight. At first, it was shy, quick, smiling kisses stolen between absentminded conversations. The further you got used to it, the slower they became: curious, confident, eager to know more about each other in a way you couldn’t quite grasp before. Your hands knew each other’s mapped faces and bodies, your mouth recognized the other’s rhythm. Once, you kissed Ollie with your knees still scraped from a hike he’d convinced you to go to. Once, he kissed you beneath the pouring rain, soaked and giggling like children.

There were times you stayed over, and times he did the same, and it would just happen with no clear decision. Ollie would just end up asleep beside you, together beneath the light covers— somehow, even in deep slumber, his hands would always find yours, his breathing even and warm against your neck and lulling you to sleep.

You thought that maybe you had gotten too brave during your stay, enough to turn your cautiousness foolish, because you caught yourself believing this wouldn’t end. That it didn’t have to. August had felt achingly saccharine, it made you wonder where all that sweetness would go when it ended.

The last weeks trickled like sand in an hourglass in front of your eyes. The weight of each moment slipped past you, yet you tried nothing to catch them. It’s what hurt the most: you had all taken it for granted, you let yourself believe time could stretch forever for the sole reason it felt right. It wasn’t the truth, because the truth was in the dates printed in your calendar and the unread emails from your university. The suitcase under your bed, you carefully avoided.

Another year will start again soon. The patterns you persisted in peeling off—stress, anxiety, the pressure to perform until exhaustion and still look perfect—would be ready to claw their way back beneath your skin, circling you. Ollie knew it as well.

Neither of you said it out loud, yet the end was coming whether or not the words spilled out. It hovered just out of reach, a promise of winter in the chill of the end of summer. You’d catch him staring at the sea a little longer than usual, or watching you tie your hair up before journaling, memorizing the motion. You stopped taking pictures, and he stopped making plans for tomorrow. You still laughed, still kissed, and gripped the hours as if they weren’t running out. There was a grace to the silence— a fragile kind of pretending which somewhat felt like mercy.

But try as you might, pretending can never last long.

The sky was painted deep shades of violet and rust, cicadas humming low in the nature around the steps of the back porch you and Ollie were curled upon. His hand was brushing absent circles on your ankle, head resting between your thighs as your fingers curled in his locks. A pot of pasta was cooling in the kitchen. It should have been a perfect night.

You stared at the horizon, then at your chipped nail polish tangled in his hair. You don’t know what pushed you to ask, what made tonight different. The only thing you knew is that it would have happened nonetheless. “What happens when this ends?” It came out as something similar to a whisper.

Ollie’s fingers paused. He looked up at you, turning around completely, and there was nothing but expectancy in his dark irises.

“I was wondering when one of us would ask,” he answered, voice low.

You breathed out through your nose. No matter the number of times it happened to you, you never succeeded in hiding the tremor in your hands correctly. “I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not happening. I’m leaving because of uni. You’re leaving because of racing. We’ve both known that since the beginning.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah.”

“I just—” You paused, trying to find the thin breath you were holding onto. “I don’t know what happens next.” You looked at the crescent moons your nails had drawn on the inside of your palms. “I’m going back to school. There’s going to be deadlines and all-nighters and the pressure, and– it’s going to be hard to breathe. I don’t know how long it’s going to take before I… I slip again.”

Your voice cracked. “You never saw me like that, Ollie. You were lucky enough to get the version of me that wasn’t drowning, and I– I don’t know if you’d still want me if you did.” The confession came quiet and vulnerable, but you couldn’t linger on it when you had so many things to say and so little time. “And you’ll be racing again. You’ll have a whole world that doesn’t include this place, or me. I don’t expect you to hold space for me when everything changes.”

You were offering him a bright exit sign, the sole opportunity to be honest and to bring the sunset-colored haze you’d been navigating this relationship with down as softly as he could. There was no promise your heart would be spared the shock, but there was also no need to put it on display if it was the case.

Ollie stared at you for agonizing seconds. The traits of his face, the same you could trace with closed eyes, shifted into something different. It wasn’t fear, nor was it sadness, but a gentler thing that looked like something close to a quiet resolve. He took your hands into his, detaching each fingernail digging into your palm.

“I don’t know what happens either,” he admits, slowly, “and I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s going to look like. I just know I thought about it—about you—a lot. And…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Listen, I don’t need you to be okay all the time. I care about your stupid overthinking, the spirals, the bad habits that drive you crazy. All of it. That stuff’s not going to scare me off. I want you, not just the half of it I met this summer.”

“I’ll be racing, yeah,” he added with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve got time. I can make it.”

Ollie leaned in, just a little closer but enough so you could feel the warmth of his breath along the shape of your lips. “I don’t know what you’ll be like in December, but I want to find out.”

It broke the pressure behind your ribs, only for the burn to rise behind your eyes instead. There was a need in his voice that you hadn’t expected, or maybe was it its intensity. Ollie wasn’t asking you to be better, he was just asking you to stay.

“I want to find out,” he repeated, quieter, in the shape of a promise.

You tried to blink back the tears forming on your lashes, failing miserably. “Okay,” you whispered. Your voice gave up in the middle. “Okay.”

Ollie kissed you tenderly and unhurried, a gentle, wordless reassurance in the movement of his mouth against yours in which you sank, a ship in a storm. Summer was ending, yes, but the world wouldn’t be. This could still be something, and maybe it would.

You couldn’t guess what December would bring, and you didn’t know who you’d be when the skies turned grey and the noise returned. Yet, you hoped.

And for now, hoping was enough.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[gasolinecookie]

☆•° SHADOWMILK FIC BELOW!!! °•☆

k so this is my first time posting my fanfic onto tumblr. farts. lmk if i need to do anything special or not

Content; soul jam freakery, pwp, non-penetrative sex, switch shadow milk, switch pure vanilla, cookiefucking ig, brief mentions of purelily(?), 3k+ words :3

Pure Vanilla stood in a glade of flowers. As far as the eye could see, there were hills lined with hundreds and thousands of flowers. A shy moon peered over a hilltop, stars winking playfully across a picturesque, midnight-blue sky. For a moment, he just observed them.

On one hill surface, it was all coated in brilliant yellow and white petals. Yellow carnations, baby’s breath, chamomile, daisies, honeysuckle, white hyacinth, white roses. A beautiful cloud, light shining through each split where the sun kissed the feathery vapor.

Another swath of blue flowers lined another hill. Hydrangeas, irises, delphiniums, hyacinth, and morning glories. As Pure Vanilla heaved a relaxed sigh, inhaling the sweet scent of the floral arrangements around him, he noticed but a single flower at his feet.

A forget-me-not.

The rest of the flowers in the field burnt up, despite there being no fire present. They simply crumbled on their own, squeezing into themselves and turning into blackened char. The sweet smell of pollen and nectar and the midnight stars was replaced by the acrid stench of strawberry jam and burnt leaves. Ah. This must be a dream.

"Y'know, my silly little Vanilly, this has been in your cards for a loooong time coming," came a playful voice, an idle teasing to it, as if it were a conversation between old friends. Pure Vanilla didn’t bother to turn around towards it. In a way, it was really a reunion of sorts. “Have you missed me?”

Pure Vanilla stayed staring, fixedly, almost mechanically, at the single, twinkling flower before him. He wouldn’t give Shadow Milk the satisfaction of seeing him look startled, or even seeing his face at all. “Not in the slightest,” he replied with a sigh, the forget-me-not dancing in the painfully burnt nighttime air.

Hands wrapped around his eyes.

He resisted the urge to immediately elbow the foe behind him, or thrash out of the (admittedly gentle— why was it so gentle?) grasp of Shadow Milk, but he steadied his will, staying perfectly still. A warmth, a slow embrace, spread across his back as Shadow Milk pulled himself flush with the back of Pure Vanilla’s robes.

“Vannilly…” Shadow Milk cooed in a drawn-out tone. “If you want to look at anything ever again, look at me. You know that I can hear what you’re thinking. You can’t ignore me forever!”

Pure Vanilla sucked in a breath. He knew reading cookie’s minds wasn’t impossible— he himself could do it if he tried. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Shadow Milk truly knew how, if he was bluffing, or if you even could read one’s mind inside of a dream.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it.

“That power is not yours, beast.” Pure Vanilla didn’t utter another word, keeping his lips drawn tightly together. Shadow Milk simply wouldn’t earn it from him, no matter how much he toyed with him.

When the ravaged flower field disintegrated around him, and reformed into a chapel, and Shadow Milk vanished from his back to reform in front of him, Pure Vanilla felt almost let-down, as ridiculous of a notion that it was, that Shadow Milk hadn’t tried harder to make him speak. Two rows of pews lined the rectangular room, highlighted by the beautiful moonlight coalescing through the windows. It streamed through blue, stained-glass windows— no doubt, they bore imagery of the wielder of the Light of Deceit.

Pure Vanilla felt a tightness about his limbs, and suddenly he noticed tendrils creeping around the floor, darkness forming and deforming vague shapes of tentacles as they wove between the pews. As he glanced towards the throne, between his bangs, there was a beast hovering above him, a sadistic grin twisting his cutesy, mis-matched features into a mockery of a cookie's face. Shadow Milk cookie, a tyrannical creature born of lies and falsehoods. There were many ways to end a dream, so Pure Vanilla quickly shuffled through his options, mentally. He didn’t want to even give this creature a chance to speak more. There was a war to fight, and it needn’t be distracted with silly things like dreams.

"Now, quit it with that look. We all know you can't do anything to escape from this dream, now! Stupid 'Nilla!" Shadow Milk cackled, as if he really could hear Pure Vanilla’s thoughts, and sure enough, more mysterious darkness rose from the floor, binding Pure Vanilla by the ankles. They slithered up Pure Vanilla’s slender legs, tracing his figure, wriggling across each inch of his dough. "Hey, didn’t you say you were going to protect everyone? That you didn’t have things like nightmares? You're the worst liar of us all. Which is why I'm going to take my Soul Jam back from you, Vanilly.”

Pure Vanilla glowered at this foe. He may have a point-- Pure Vanilla was not always the most truthful, as much as his jam implied it. Yet, every time he lied, it was in the name of justice. In the name of keeping the peace, and ruling over what he needed to protect. So, that was different. It certainly wasn't the shameful secret that Shadow Milk was making it out to be. If it was leveraged against him, though... he wasn't sure what he'd do. He just had to escape the dream before it got to that point.

Then, of course, in his moment of distraction, Shadow Milk took it as an excuse to approach Vanilla, looking down on him as the tendrils suddenly squeezed around his dough, crumbling the surface ever-so-imperceptibly. It burned. There was truly nowhere he could go, as far as his eyes could see, no way to fight against this darkness— he was caged in like a feral animal, and felt merely inches away from being provoked to fight like one.

Shadow Milk stepped towards the altar, finally lowering himself to standing height instead of floating. The porcelain tiles hissed as his feet touched them. With a gentle motion, he ascended the half-stairs, and settled atop the marble altartop. With one hand, he beckoned to Pure Vanilla, and he was dragged forward and onto his knees by the shadows binding his legs. Shadow Milk gazed down at him, cooing softly as one might to a stray animal. Pure Vanilla resisted the urge to growl at him in response.

"Don't worry, silly. This won't hurt a bit, okay? I'm gonna warm your jam up... bet no one's ever done that before, hmm, tightwad? Ahaha!" Shadow Milk cackled, and slowly rolled his sleeve a bit further back up his arm. His forearm was littered in hundreds of tiny scars that Pure Vanilla elected to ignore. This psychopath's sob story was worthless to him; he had probably just gotten into fights, or ran through brambles in boredom.

It was just as meaningless as the rest of his deceitful actions.

The shadows yanked Pure Vanilla upwards, suspending him off the floor by their grasp on him, and giving his knees an air-borne surface to rest upon. Being pulled forward so that his chest was level with Shadow Milk’s knees, he glanced up at the beast who held him in place. “Oh, my. Now that’s a sexy face on you, Vanilly. You look so angry…! What, going to crumble me with your teeth?” Shadow Milk offered with a smirk that only surfaced more and more suggestions in Pure Vanilla’s mind.

Shadow Milk’s hand found the side of his face, and it cupped his cheek. Without missing a beat, and keeping eye-contact with Shadow Milk, Pure Vanilla parted his lips and put his mouth around Shadow Milk’s hand, as if to bite it open. If this went as planned, Shadow Milk would surely become distracted and lose his grip on Pure Vanilla’s dream. What he didn’t expect, somehow, was the look of sheer masochistic elation that crossed Shadow Milk’s features, like a cloud crossing over the path of the sun and darkening a summer day.

“Does that feel good?” Vanilla asked in utter disbelief, whispering the words across Shadow Milk’s dough, far more sensually than intended, as he fixed him with a stare. “Ah, you’ve always been strange…” he continued, “but truly, I could never have expected to what degree.” He just had to keep throwing Shadow Milk off of his game. Then, he’d be able to slip away.

Then, unexpectedly Shadow Milk brought his other hand (not the one cupping his cheek) up to Pure Vanilla’s upper chest, and began to toy with his Soul Jam, grazing his finger crossed it’s blue surface. It was an overwhelming sensation, causing him to cry out— ah, why was that so sensitive? Vanilla knew they were connected to their senses, as his own had flickered when he was in pain, but he didn't expect it to literally feel like his soul was being stroked along the edge by Shadow Milk, a wanton noise peeling itself from his lips. It was a tightness and blossoming in his chest, all while Shadow Milk's multi-colored eyes, on his face and on his body, seemed to be watching the faces he was making with curiosity raptly.

Pure Vanilla did try to reign in his expression, concealing his faint noises of surprise by biting his lower lip. It was made vastly more difficult by the fact that his legs were restrained and he couldn't simply run from this.

Normally, the moment before the villain could enact their awful plan, a hero would come bursting into the room, and save the hostage just as it started to look hopeless. Well, it seemed futile to resist, to Pure Vanilla, and there was yet to be another cookie within sight. No, it was all those piercing, mis-matched eyes.

Mis-matched eyes that were gobbling up eyefuls of Pure Vanilla's pathetic condition greedily, lustfully. "I just love how this looks on you," Shadow Milk whispered, sultry, to the distressed monarch before him. It was a new thrill to have this brilliant leader finally subjugated before him, finally brought (literally) to his knees by Shadow Milk's plans. It's not as if he couldn't have potentially seen it coming, but there were so many possibilities for losing or capturing Pure Vanilla every day that Shadow Milk cookie had simply taken to ignoring them.

He stroked along the edge of the Soul Jam with one pallid blue hand, the other halfway covering the flustered face of Pure Vanilla.

"Shall I keep going?" Shadow Milk offered with nothing short of a insane grin, just feeling the waves of pleasure rolling off of his body from just the blonde’s expressions. Yet, that grin was just the sort of thing that would perfectly throw Pure Vanilla off his game. "Seems like you're plenty ready for the warm-up, needy-Nilly.”

"Don't do this," Pure Vanilla said, eyes furrowing— though, it just looked like he was relaxing into the pleasure even more, "I'm not going to do whatever you want." Oh? Shadow Milk smelled a Class A lie around those words, like curdled milk atop an otherwise perfect latte. All it took was a little teasing to bring out the deceitful side of the blonde, and Shadow Milk had yet to tell even a single lie. Frankly, he knew which one of them deserved the Soul Jam more, based on that.

Teasingly slow, Shadow Milk reached a blue hand deep into the jam on Pure Vanilla’s chest, sinking into its substance like a cushion; the tone of his dough and the surface of the soul were the same color, as if they were always meant to be put together this way. He slowly pushed in, first inching in his fingers, then his palms, and then the beginnings of his wrist. It pulsated around him— it wasn't meant to be touched like this, but nevertheless, it burned in a way that was both painful and pleasing. It seemed almost to him as if he had stuck his arm into a pocket dimension somehow contained within Pure Vanilla's body. He would’ve been curious as to how it felt, if he hadn't tried such a thing with his half of the jam. And by his own experiences, he knew exactly how overwhelming it was.

“How’s that…? You know, this is why you’re mine. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to feel this way. Without my Soul Jam on your body, you’d never have known this pleasure,” he cooed, leaning down to speak into Pure Vanilla’s ear as he slowly began to swirl his hand and the tips of his fingers around inside of Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla suppressed a strangled moan at the intrusive feeling, immediately attempting to further cover his mouth with one of his own hands. Not that it lasted long, with one of Shadow Milk's tendrils quickly ripping it away, but an effort had been made to at least save himself part of the humiliation. "Please..." Pure Vanilla whispered, not being quite sure what he was begging for, other than that Shadow Milk was sure not to provide it, if he asked.

Shadow Milk made a satisfied grin and hum as Pure Vanilla's mouth was re-uncovered, wriggling his fingers inside the goopy substance of the jam until Pure Vanilla couldn't help but moan out again. It felt like someone had reached directly into his chest and was playing harp with his bare nerves; too overwhelming to form words, but still amazing.

"Oh, wow!" Shadow Milk giggled, tensing his fingers to squeeze the surface of the Soul Jam's glistening tension. "I can feel it, pulsing. It wants us to do this, doesn't it? Just think of how powerful we'll be together, Nilly..."

Pure Vanilla full-body shuddered at the nickname, feeling a familiar, aroused tingle in his back from the jester's rough voice; somehow, that managed to be almost more intimate than Shadow Milk's fingers inside of his soul. "It's too— too much," he finally managed, squirming away from Shadow Milk.

That's when it happened: Shadow Milk curled his hands through the jam, grabbing it like a handle from the inside, and yanking Pure Vanilla forward by it. The utterly debauched sound that fell from Pure Vanilla's mouth was both a shriek of pain and a guttural cry of pleasure: he wasn't sure which part was more earnest. "No running away, now! We've only just started, Vailly!"

With that, he pulled Pure Vanilla up against him into his lap, still holding him by the inside of his jam. This time, Pure Vanilla managed to keep it at a controlled yelp, but it did nothing to diminish the lustful burning he felt in every inch of his dough. He saw his Soul Jam faintly flicker with burnt out light— he was suffering, and he couldn't help but feel as though his perverse pleasure derived from it was a betrayal of everything his Light stood for, everything that he and the others like White Lily had fought for.

Just as he made the thought, Shadow Milk tsked aloud. “Don’t think of her. I can see it on your pathetic face— she doesn’t own you, I do. She wouldn’t make you feel like this, right…?” he asked, relaxing his grip on Pure Vanilla’s jam and returning to stroking it gently from the inside. It felt like stepping into a hot room on a cold, winter’s afternoon— it tingled all over Vanilla’s body, causing him to emit a soft squeak as the feeling bubbled up into every square inch of his vanilla dough.

"Now that you're up here..." Shadow murmured into Pure Vanilla's ear, pulling him closer to his chest. Vanilla couldn’t help but smell the faint aroma of blueberries on his skin. He managed to grasp onto Shadow Milk’s shoulder, bracing himself through his panic at being pulled, and steadying his pleasure. "Let's try something, okay? This'll feel even better than just my hands," Shadow Milk promised, and then their Soul Jams gently touched together as he pulled Pure Vanilla up closer into him, engaging him in a sloppy kiss.

Pure Vanilla could suddenly feel everything in Shadow Milk’s body and nothing in his own all at once. He was somehow two sets of lips, locked in an embrace that smeared frosting lewdly across faces, he was the future, he was the past, he was Blueberry Milk and he was being torn apart in luxurious torment and lust.

After either all of time, or just a second, Shadow Milk shoved him away with a sudden gasp, multichrome eyes going wide. His face was brushed in a dark blue flush, giving him a healthy looking bake, for once. He panted, licking his blue lips, causing Pure Vanilla's smudged off-white frosting to smear slightly across them both. "Woah there, Vanilla! Getting ahead of yourself!" Shadow Milk chuckled, his eyes slightly too wide for it to really come across as a properly controlling order. Had he really not predicted what this would do? Had Shadow Milk truly been unable to predict how this would feel?

That, or he was simply more sensitive than Pure Vanilla. When was the last time Shadow Milk had touched another cookie, dough-to-dough, after all?

Shadow Milk was overwhelmed. When he had touched his own half of the Jam, it hadn’t felt even half that intense. No, that was a splash of cold water, and this was a dunk in the ocean. Oh, God, he felt so one with Pure Vanilla. What had he been thinking? He needed… Vanilla to become him, not the other way around…!

Pure Vanilla's grasp on Shadow’s shoulders tightened, sensing his weakness like blood in the water. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you forced me to do?" Pure Vanilla spoke forcefully, his voice carrying more venom than he ever let it have. Vanilla was purity, he was a figure of angelicness, forgiveness. Yet, now that he had felt what it was like to be him, he had a taste of being like Shadow Milk, feeling how Shadow Milk felt; a lingering flavor of blueberry and strawberry jam on his tongue.

He found he liked it.

He found it was the bit of Deceit inside of him, that sort of sadistic joy he found at Shadow Milk's startled expression, the nervous twitch to his pupils as they raked over Pure Vanilla's body. Glancing down to where Shadow Milk's eyes were fixed, he saw that his Soul Jam was... slightly melted, in appearance. Bits of it dripped loosely in comparison to its typically crystalline appearance, and Shadow Milk eyed it with trepidation, yet enthusiasm.

"Again," Pure Vanilla found his voice demanding, despite originally being the one who disagreed with this whole arrangement. Surely, it was the pieces of Shadow Milk's Soul Jam that were simply combining with his own. They were extended body parts, nervous systems— as if a second brain purely to use magic existed in the beasts and the ancient heroes.

After all, this was just a dream. Pure Vanilla could do whatever he wanted with this blue freak; he had given up on escaping. He’d have fun until Shadow Milk had enough and ended the dream. It was his domain, after all— it’s not like Vanilla could do anything that Shadow Milk couldn’t escape from at his very own will. Besides, when was the last time that Pure Vanilla was allowed to have fun?

With a sudden lean forward, Pure Vanilla caught the dough of Shadow Milk's neck in his mouth, dragging their Soul Jams into another gooey connection. Devouring him, tasting the faint flavor of blueberries and darkness and sweet, fresh milk, on his dough. It made a frankly lewd sound, and Pure Vanilla could feel himself losing his purity yet again, slipping into the body and mind of the insane man before him as if it were his fine Sunday clothes. A gratuitous moan rippled from Shadow Milk's lips. "Oh, Vanilla..." he managed, trying again to pull back from their embrace.

No, that wouldn't do. Pure Vanilla ran his hand up the back of Shadow Milk's head, feeling emboldened by the Light of Deceit that was flowing through him, the contradicting nature of the powers within him. He grabbed a fistful of Shadow Milk's hair, and gave it a harsh tug as he bit down more harshly on his neck. The resulting sound was something Pure Vanilla wished he could hear for the rest of his life. A debauched shriek, rough in the quality of the jester's voice, of his own name. "N-Nilla...!"

Pure Vanilla paused for just a moment, teeth in Shadow’s dough, paralyzed by the intoxication of lust. With that, he was giving Shadow Milk another chance to struggle against him, but it was futile in earnest. Shadow was only doing it for the fun of it: both of them knew he could run whenever he wanted. Two-toned eyes gazed up at Vanilla in all of their sex and pain-tinged glory. "No running away. We're just getting started." Shadow Milk’s expression grew even more lustfully destroyed with the idea of Vanilla echoing his words, his earnest expression, with just the faintest hint of a smile on his blue-smudged lips.

☆°•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~●°☆

OKAY BYE THATS ALL THANK YOU

Gasoline Cookie OUT !! (feel free to send me requests in asks!)

[rafesteddy]

𝓢𝓱𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼

+18 -> smut | based off an ask: hey can u write smth about rafe and his gf at a party and their both high and shes sitting on his lap on the couch while he rubbing on her thigh and shes just all needy until he just says fuck it and pushes her dress up to fuck her not caring about the snall group in the room

𝓼1!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: fingering, unprotected p in v, public sex, drug usage, Rafe and Reader are high (you are responsible for your consumption as a reader), teasing, pet names, exhibitionism

800 words

Reader’s POV:

“Princess… Mmm’fuck that’s it,” Rafe praises as you grind your needy self on his clothed cock. His fingers leave a bruising grip on both ass cheeks, tucked under your dress.

“I need your cock so bad, Rafe… It’s all I can think about,” you whine as Rafe’s fingers trail up your thighs making your spread legs draw together from sheer want alone. “Please, daddy—”

“So needy f’me tonight, doll. I fuckin’ love it,” Rafe mumbles against your lips before his fingers make their way between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whine breathily, throwing your heavy head back as your high sets in. “I’m not wearing panties—”

“Yo—Can you two calm the fuck down?” Topper sneers, yanking you out of your cocaine and lust-driven haze. You meet Rafe’s eyes, practically black from the drugs, his beautiful blue hue all but gone. A smirk slides across his lips as he moves a little higher, ignoring Top completely.

“There ain’t enough rooms in this house for you, Country Club? Gotta get it on right here?” Barry mocks before sipping his drink.

“You hear somebody, princess? I sure as shit didn’t,” Rafe smiles. “Hold your tits for me,” he mutters before cutting a line on your cleavage. You giggle as he looks back at you hungrily before cleaning it off with his nose, then his mouth.

Rafe’s lips press against yours as he slides a digit into your soaked cunt. He swallows your moan, your parted lips letting his tongue slip through, the remnants of drugs on his lips making your mouth feel numb.

“These two serious?” Kelce chuckles. “Want me to record this for you, Rafey?”

Rafe draws away from your lips, breathing heavily through a cocky smile. “Please.” He lofts his phone in Kelce’s direction, giving you a little wink before getting back to it. “Now where were we?” He jams his finger back in your soaked pussy, making you moan. Your unbridled sounds of pleasure cause the little group of girls behind you to leave.

“You wanna stop?” Rafe mumbles with no intention to do so.

“No, Daddy. I want more,” you smile against his mouth.

“More, huh? Use your words, baby,” he bullies as he plays with your clit, making you whimper.

”Fuck me. I need it.”

“Right here? Right now?” He chuckles breathily.

You nod, letting your eyes fall shut. “Right here. Right now, Rafe. Fuck. Me—”

“Dude…” Topper snickers as he lifts his beer to his lips. “We gettin’ foreplay and everything? Just fuck and get it over with.”

“Shut up, Top,” Rafe sighs in his raspy tone. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Everyone can see that,” Topper chuckles in disbelief.

“Yeah, Thornton? Who’s here when he coulda left the second we started. Huh? Perv,” Rafe bullies.

“I’ve been sitting all night. I was here first,” Topper mumbles into his drink making the two of you laugh—Rafe quick to echo his words mockingly against your lips.

You tug at the button of Rafe’s chinos, lowering his zipper. Rafe adjusts slightly, pulling you closer, releasing his cock. You moan at the sight of it, his fat cockhead already leaking precum. You swipe your finger across it, drawing it between your lips.

“Give me your pussy, baby. C’mon,” Rafe sighs impatiently as you dip him into your warmth. Just a tease on his tip as you line your body up in the perfect position. Rafe pitches his hips up, penetrating you deeply causing you to gasp.

“Mmm… That felt so fucking good, Daddy,” you praise.

“Yeah, baby. You like that?” He groans as he starts thrusting up into you. You kiss him roughly, your tongues moving in succession, hands in his hair. ��Bounce for me. Hmm?” Rafe breathes through a smirk.

You lower your weight on top of him, mouth falling into a soft “o” as his eyes roll back. You lean into his lips, brushing yours against his. “Such a big cock, daddy,” You whisper into your kiss before giving his lip a soft bite and a tug.

You start to bounce on his dick, letting your ass clap against his thighs. Rafe chuckles darkly, listening to your drenched pussy squelch for all to hear.

“Grind on me, princess,” Rafe groans. You start rolling and grinding your hips on top of him. Rafe’s dick hits all the right spot, making you claw at his polo. He pushes you back slightly, shamelessly watching you work, his cock glistening with your essence as you feel yourself nearing your peak.

“M’gonna cum, baby,” you whimper.

“In front of all these people, baby doll… Shitt—I knew you were my girl.”

Rafe overpowers you, setting the pace, watching your face; responding to your pleasure. “Right there, Rafe”, you plead as your orgasm teetering right on the edge of ecstacy. He spanks your ass roughly. “More,” you beg. His hand meets your skin again, rougher than the first, causing you to cry out making the boys snicker amongst themselves.

“My girl sounds good. Huh?” He boasts. “Mmm… Be a good girl and cum for me, sweetheart. Let everyone hear how good I make you feel.”

“Rafe… I-” You lose all control, throwing your head back as you dissolve in pleasure, bouncing on top of him.

“Fuckkk,” he moans deeply as his eyes pinch shut, surrendering to his climax as well.

Rafe’s eyes flutter open, his lap a wet mess from you. He reaches over, stealing the cig off Topper’s hand, popping it between his lips as he looks back at you. He retrieves the drugs from his pants pocket, dangling in front of your fucked-out gaze. “Ready for more?”

[kisapmta]

one by one | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: a look into decorating your daughter’s room

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings: the use of mommy and daddy but like NOT in a kinky way<3 also idk how accurate this conversation is for a four year old but ik your baby w chris would be a smart girl anyways

notes: one more blurb before i start school again tomorrow </3 this has been collecting dust in the drafts since this surprise came out.

word count: 1.3k

—

The ice dispenser was stubborn and got jammed a couple times, but finally, you managed and are now headed upstairs to your daughter’s room, hands full of bedroom makeover pick-me-ups. Three glasses of pepsi, two drinkable straight from the cup and the other topped with a pretty flower straw.

It’s the weekend and your day off from work, but you guys have been busy since the morning. Now that the pink paint on the walls has had the time to dry overnight, you and Chris have spent the past couple hours rearranging furniture and adding the final touches to your daughter’s room. Princess covers, a cozy mermaid lamp, and as per her request, sparkly star stickers.

When you make it back to the entrance of her room, you find the two of them exactly how you left them.

Chris is cross-legged in the middle of a fluffy heart shaped rug, leaning back on his hands as he watches your daughter who is sitting way too close to the wall. She presses a collage of pink stars to the surface in no particular order.

“Yesterday Ms. Claire gave me a gold star for my drawing,” your baby says mindlessly, tilting her head at the wall to figure out where to place the next sticker.

Chris gasps softly. “No she didn’t,” he replies. His tone is wondrous like he’s asking her to tell him more.

“Yeah. She said my drawing is perfect and she stuck it to my paper.” A boxy smile, the same as her dad’s, finds its way to her face. Her tiny voice is proud as can be.

“Perfect, huh? Bet you get a million of those stars a day then.”

A giggle almost escapes your lips when she nods smugly at Chris’s words. Like she knows, in fact, that she is perfect. You keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt their conversation.

“Yeah. More than all of these,” she claims, poking at each star on the wall one by one with her glittery finger.

Chris hums thoughtfully. "So can Daddy get a star then?"

Her finger freezes in the middle of the biggest star, her whole body pausing at the question. "Uhh," she says, voice serious in that very specific way only a four year old can manage. "But you only get stars if you’re perfect."

This time you can’t hold back your laughter. The sound draws both of their heads toward you, and you laugh even harder when you see Chris’s expression. His mouth has fallen open, still upturned at the sides, but his brows have pinched together in slight betrayal at her words.

“Baby that was a little mean,” you tease her, moving to set down the drinks on her night stand and sit next to her on the bed.

It’s clear from your daughter’s expression that she was genuinely just stating a fact, which somehow makes it even funnier. And Chris, of course, isn’t actually offended. But you still take the moment to say something you want her to remember.

"Daddy might not be perfect, but you don’t always have to be to get a star," you tell her, smiling gently as you brush a piece of hair out of her face. "That would make life way too hard, baby. Lots of times, you’re gonna get them for just trying your best."

She listens intently, her hands frozen in midair.

"I think Mommy would have zero stars if I had to be perfect all the time," you add, smiling at her.

She frowns slightly in confusion, thinking you’re still talking about the actual stickers. "I never even gave you any," she says.

You chuckle and scoot closer to her.

"No you haven’t," you grin. "And that’s the thing. Your stars aren’t always gonna be stickers. Just like mine aren’t—I have your dad instead." Her beautiful blue eyes grow wide, taking in your words. "And you," you finish, before attacking her chubby cheeks with wet kisses, your fingers tickling her sides until she’s a giggling, squirming mess.

From where he’s sitting on the floor, Chris can’t help but smile so big as he watches the both of you. Your words melt his heart and the sound of her giggles makes his chest swell; his entire world so happy together in each other’s arms.

Your daughter puts up with the tickling a little longer, then pushes weakly at your shoulders, laughter still bubbling out between breaths.

"Mommy stop," she giggles, her whole face lighting up.

You pester her for a couple more seconds before finally letting up, smiling so fondly at your baby as you squish her cheeks in your hands. “I just love you so much,” you tell her, “you’re so cute, oh my god.”

She sticks her tongue out at you, very reminiscent of her dad’s mannerisms, then giggles and pulls herself out of your hold to get back to her stickers. You place one more kiss to the top of her head and finally look back at Chris.

He’s watching you with the biggest grin on his face. You can’t hear his thoughts, but they’re sweet and so filled with love. You’re such a good mom, and she’s such a good kid, and he doesn’t know how he ever got this lucky.

You make your way to stand next to him. At his side, his hand slides around your hips as he leans his head into your thigh. Instinctively, you place your hand on the side of his face, running your thumb along his temple.

The moment is quiet as you admire the work of the room. The three of you are stuck in your own little worlds until Chris squeezes playfully at your bum to get your attention. You tsk at him.

“Chris,” you scold.

He laughs as he looks up at you, neck strained to see you from under the rim of his cap. “Sit down, baby, we’ve been moving all day,” he says.

You roll your eyes but listen anyway, fitting yourself beside him on the plush rug. Before you can get fully comfortable, you crawl forward on all fours to reach for the drinks on the nightstand. In the position you are in, you feel Chris pat your ass again.

“Yo can you stop?" you laugh, grabbing the glasses and returning to his side. You hand him his drink, but he doesn’t respond right away. He just smiles at you, soft and a little mischievous, like he’s about to say something—definitely dumb or inappropriate—but he stops himself.

Instead, after a moment, he finally replies with, "I love you."

You chuckle and shake your head at the words, but you still feel your chest warm. You glance over at your daughter making sure she’s distracted, and then flip his cap backwards, before placing a hand onto his jaw. You angle him towards you and there’s a second where you smile at each other, before you kiss him softly, then a little deeper.

“I love you, too,” you tell him against his lips.

—

Later that evening, as you get ready for bed, you giggle when you pull off your sweats.

"I must’ve sat on one of her stickers," you say, peeling a pink star off the butt of your pants.

Across the room, Chris tugs off his shirt and looks over at you, already smirking.

"No, I put that there," he confesses the earlier thought he never said out loud.

Your hands fall limp at your sides, the sticker dangling between your fingers. You tilt your head at him, silently asking ‘are you serious?’

Chris laughs at your expression and steps toward you. Before you can say anything else, he pulls you in by the hips, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Nothing more perfect than your ass," he says, grinning as he leans in close, "deserves a million stars in my eyes."

You laugh, half in disbelief, and toss the sweatpants straight at his face.

"You’re the weirdest person ever," you say, still grinning as he catches the pants one-handed and tugs you even closer.

—

a/n: i miss my future daughter</3 and i wanna be chris's wife</3

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Oscar Peterson : C Jam Blues

[eccentricallygothic]

The Interrogation

Pairing: Captain America!Steve Rogers | Villain!Reader.

Description: Steve had finally caught you, and he knew just how to make you talk.

Warning(s): Dark undertones because it's me, interrogation through fucking, unprotected p-in-v intercourse, slapping, spanking, pinching, biting, exhibitionism, cock riding, dacryphilia, overstimulation and mentioned orgasm denial, hair pulling, degradation. Minors do not interact.

Type: Request (anon), here. 

Note: Villains in general are my jam so I loved this. Sorry this is so late. Hope you like it still <3

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Half a choked gasp fluttered past your lips as the remaining half was eaten by the sob you let out right after, droplets of the tears that stained your stinging cheeks spraying out from the vibration of the sound waves escaping your mouth.

“Please!” Your back arched and a vein in your thighs twitched, causing the limb to start jittering as your knees pushed deeper into the chair your impaler was relaxing against while you cried and mutilated your dignity in front of all the main S.H.I.E.L.D staff that were cloaked behind the two-way mirror of the interrogation room. “Oh!” Your hair whipped a near revolution around your lolling head when your defiler's rough fingers cracked against your soft and wet cheek once more. 

Your pussy was so stretched. Oh… The consciousness of how Steve Roger's cock had your intimates spread so wide around his hot, leaking and stone hard cock made you feel uneasy when you imagined the state of your entrance. Despite how the contact of his palm felt against your face, the manner in which he so humiliatingly deprived you of such a basic bodily function as breathing, the infuriating condensation with which he pinched and fondled your exposed chest and the sheer degradation in the way he did all this in front of his people for no good reason than making you rat, you only clenched harder and slapped your ass against his muscular thighs faster. Your tears flowed at the same rate as the speed with which you imparted upon him the information that was so dear to your ambitions. 

The ratting was not the worst part though.

No.

That was the fact that despite your initial attempts to make it look like you were unwilling, that the cruel Captain was forcing his depraved will onto you, that S.H.I.E.L.D was nothing but a bunch of glorified goons, your tears were not of disgust or denial, much to your own surprise. 

Rather, they were ones of pure, bubbling and desperate need; frustration.

For just one more orgasm. Another bittersweet climax to add to the many you had had ever since Steve saw through your design; took matters into his own hands. Yet another chase through the agony of your swollen petals squelching and sucking away at the painfully prominent veins of his dick.

“Say it for me, brat” his smooth deep voice cut through you like needle penetrates cotton. Your loins closed in on themselves. So close. “Tell your Captain the name” with the way his cold blue eyes that drowned in the nimbostratus of his lust watched you, his rough fingers groped your spanked ass and guided your aching hips into yet another oscillation on his cock, your fucked out brain was forced to register his words as the only truth you knew; the only law that existed.

“C- Captain!” The word faintly stung your tongue as the mind unleashes a sensory revolt against one who betrays his conditioning. “C- Cap–!” It was the result of his torturing you before granting you your first orgasm of the session that you had willingly shattered your own dignity and accepted his command as well as title. 

Were you really to blame?

When it hurt this good?

“Say it for me, baby” he nearly whispered the pet name as he sat up straighter and pressed his nose to yours to steal a rough kiss which your hair hid from everyone else, one of his manly hands abandoning their station on your hip to trail up the side of your body to find a grip between the strands of your hair and against your scalp. You cried harder as your head collapsed against his. The readjustment of his body had pushed him balls deep inside you. “Say it for your Captain and he will give you what you need most” and that was all you needed to hear before you gave out the name of the brains of your operation. 

Steve didn't have to. He really didn't. It was the disdainful curl of Fury's lip that proved it. But the Captain finally brought his muscular thighs into motion and rocked his hips to abuse your sensitive spot with his tip so to make you cry, his fingers pulled your head back and out of his way so he could latch his hot lips onto that one spot that he had discovered right under your ear, his other hand now departed from your hips because his own had taken over, and his thumb glided over your cunt in a way that made your melted brain spin. Your myopic vision gyrated and an animalistic cry rose up from your aching epiglottis. It was barely audible but full of the hot air that your tense lungs had been compressing. 

Your weak body nearly keeled over and hit the ground from the orgasm that quaked through your muscles and organs. You shivered and shuddered, your arched form hanging from his cock that his strong legs bounced you on furiously. It was all so much. Too much. You had reached a point where the sharp and barbaric bite of his teeth on your erect nipples was barely noticeable to you because of how fugue you had become on his cock.

Your brain shut down. Whatever happened next was nothing but blurry glimpses of fleeting moments that raced by you. Every second felt like an eternity and the pulling of your limbs and the unbearable echoing of voices inside your head made you wince. You grunted and whined when your sex disconnected from the base of your impaler's cock with a pop loud enough that even you registered it.

You felt your body being dragged. The cells. You didn't have to see it to know it. They were the only fate of your like in this organization. You took a mindless glance behind you and a number of thoughts wormed their way into your disintegrated consciousness.

Did the Captain stare at every offender's dragging away with that primal hunger in his cold blue eyes? Was it routine for his own personal team to deprive a prisoner of their clothes without providing them with a uniform in their stead? Were all your fellow inmates suspended to the ceiling with their hands handcuffed to the chain hanging from it? Was solitary confinement necessary for all new convicts?

Or was it a special courtesy bestowed solely upon you by the Captain and his team? 

Something told you that you would find out.

And very soon.

[detectivestucks2]

Mean, Rich, & Mine Pt. 5

18+ content, Minors do NOT interact

Pairing: Frat Boy Sukuna x F!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, finger play, toy play, public activity

Summary: It's the day after Sukuna 'claimed' you, but you're not going down without a fight. It's time to prove he can't control you. Do you live up to the test?

Art Credit: @innaillus

Word Count: 2.6k

Chapter 4 I Chapter 6

Walking through campus feels different today. You style your hair in a high pony with a center part, keeping the classy country club look alive with some simple jewelry and your new school bag. Even while wearing your cheap knockoff dress, you’re starting to blend in with your peers. It’s amazing how many eyes no longer linger on your appearance. There’s an occasional smile from a man or two, but mostly you just feel free.

You didn’t acquiesce to Ryomen’s demands. You wore some of your new things, but you chose a blue pair of Victoria’s Secret underwear with a blue lace bra to go under a different sundress from Shein. This one comes up to your mid-thigh with a flowy skirt and a V-neckline that makes you look ready for summer and, more importantly, is something you got for yourself last year. The weather hasn’t quite turned warm yet, so you pair it with a cropped jacket, your new loafers, and your new designer school bag. You’re quite proud of the look, and for once, you feel like you belong at Calvary.

Stepping into lab, you're shocked to see Sukuna already waiting for you at the lab table, 20 minutes early.  When he sees your face, his smile is smug, but as his eyes lower to your body, that same smile turns stormy. It’s not that you didn’t consider his proposition, but at the end of the day, Sukuna can’t control you. You’re not going to allow him to think he can just make commandments and you have to follow them. You barely reach your stool when he snatches your wrist and drags you from the room and into the stairwell. 

“Hey! What’s your problem?!”

“What’s my problem? I should be asking you that question, C. I made a very specific request.”

“And I didn’t feel like honoring it.”

With shocking speed Sukuna reaches under your dress and grips the cloth of your underwear, yanking them so hard that the fabric tears away.

“Ryomen! What the hell!”

“I was clear with my directions.”

“And I’m making it clear that I don’t have to follow them.”

A strong arm around your waist pulls your back against his front, pinning your arms at your sides under his grasp. With his right hand, he travels under your skirt and toys with your exposed hole. He rubs his finger along your seam while you wiggle and buck against him, trying to escape.

“Ryo! Stop, we’re in public!” you whisper panicked. 

“I don’t tolerate disobedience.”

“You can’t control me!”

One thick finger pushes into your core, burying itself in your snug walls. You’re tight, really tight, not like these other bimbos he’s been screwing with. Unable to help himself he jams in another finger, scissoring you open and listening to the squelch of your juices as your cute little hole drools for him like a good kitty. “Seems like someone’s hungry for more.”

“Ryo” his name leaves your lips in a breathy pant, making Sukuna bury his face in your neck, biting down while you melt into his hand. “We have class. Can’t… can’t…”

His fingers drag in and out of you, smearing your arousal all along your sex and rubbing it into your clit. Then, he withdraws his hand and reaches into his pocket while whispering into your ear.

“I brought a little something just in case you decided to be headstrong, my love. Now open”

From his pocket, he brings a pink bulb up to your lips and presses it into your mouth. Your tongue whirls around the soft silicone, feeling its shape. Once your slobber coats the outside, Sukuna removes it with a pop and he pushes it into your hole, leaving its curved tail to poke out and rest against your clit. 

“What is it?” you ask, already squeezing around the object while your body is still pinned to his.

“Your punishment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Be a good girl and keep it in for me, okay Princess?”

“Like kegels?”

“You can say that.” His smile brushes your ear. “Plus, without underwear, you’re going to make quite the mess on your seat.” 

Your eyes widen. “No, Sukuna, take this out!”

“Don’t you dare touch it.” his voice rumbles menacingly, “I’m not above handcuffing you and dragging you to class like a convict in front of everyone, including our professor.”

Your mouth falls open at his threat while he uses his free hand to pat his pocket, its contents clanging with the sound of metal. One nod of your head signals your submission, placating him. His arm releases you, and you walk back into the classroom together, pretending nothing happened. 

The two of you take your seats and wait for class to begin, your eyes avoiding his gloating face.

As the TA begins describing the organic structure of various sugars and how you will be synthesizing them today, you come to realize the bulb isn’t so bad. Yeah you notice it’s there and it’s keeping you a little wetter than usual, but that could just be the aftermath of feeling Sukuna’s thick digits playing with your pussy. 

He was so dirty in that stairwell. His sexual energy strong. There’s no denying him at this point; he’s touched you too many times. This situation is on the brink of escalating out of control if you can’t find a way to stop him soon.

At some point in your musings, the TA stops talking, and it's now time to go get the equipment for the day. You volunteer to grab the supplies, standing up when you see the giant wet spot you created on your stool. Your horror-stricken eyes find Sukuna beaming with malice as he whips out his phone to take a picture before you can wipe it away. 

“Sukuna, that’s not funny!” you whisper urgently.

“Don’t you have supplies to get?” he says as he scrolls on his phone, saving the picture. 

Frustrated, you growl and walk towards the back counter, grabbing the various vials and a Bunsen burner. Then, like a bolt of electricity, the most intense sensation hits you. It comes at you strong, and just as quickly, it’s gone. Like a flash of lightning, but its magnitude stole your breath. 

Slowly, you turn your head towards Sukuna, who’s grinning ear to ear. This is not kegels, it’s a fucking remote control vibe that he sunk into your coochie. He mouths the words, ‘need help?’ and you feel that you could kill him. 

As your eyes narrow in anger, a new wave crescendos between your legs, your lips part as a pleading look of pleasure consumes your facial features. You try to step forward, but your knees shake, and you resort to leaning on the counter for support. Your small, shallow breaths leave you dizzy, forcing your eyes shut till the vibration subsides. Once it does, you open your lids to find Sukuna waiving his phone. It’s a fucking app. You’re gonna kill him after this, absolutely kill him.

Straightening your posture, you walk back to the lab table and place everything down in front of him. “You asshole, what if I dropped everything?”

“I knew you wouldn’t”

“This is crossing the line.”

“It’s called a punishment for a reason, C.” His finger slides against his phone screen and another intense wave hits you. However, this time you can hear the vibrations against the metal stool. Thankfully there is enough chatter amongst the various lab pairs that the sound blends in but that’s not a guarantee no one will notice.

“This is so embarrassing.”

“Focus Charity, we need to get a good grade in this class.”

“You need to get a good grade in this class”  you correct. “I’m on the Dean’s list.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just show me what we’re doing.”

“I can’t concentrate with this thing in me, Ryomen.”

“If you don’t try, I’ll raise the strength.” he whispers in your ear.

“No, I can’t” you whine.

Sukuna slides his finger up on his phone, the buzzing between your legs growing louder till a surprised moan falls from your mouth. Your lips snap shut as your eyes bug from your skull. You can feel the gaze of half the class staring at you when Ryomen finally turns the damn thing off. His low chuckle tickles your eardrum, and it takes the entirety of your willpower not to slap the tattoos off his face. 

“I don’t know how, but I am absolutely going to get you back for this.” you warn under your breath. 

“You’re welcome to try.” he taunts as he ignites the flame of the Bunsen burner. 

The rest of class is a pendulum of torture interrupted by brief bouts of relief. By the time the bell rings, your legs are non-functional jello pillars.

Sukuna stands next to you, his enormous frame shading your small stature. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

“I can’t” you peep.

“Remember what happened last time you said that.”

You shake your head, lashes watering. Sukuna rolls his eyes and grabs your things, stuffing them into your bag for you. He slings the pack over his shoulder and then leans down to help you up. As your legs unfold and attempt to stand on the ground, the puddle of fluids on your stool reveals itself. 

A fierce burning desire flares in Sukuna’s chest when he sees your pretty mess. He felt it the night of the party and now it’s back. This crazed need to have you to himself and not share you with anyone else. He gets a better grip on your waist while you wipe away the evidence of your game and then he drags you out of class and to the men’s bathroom. 

“Sukuna, Sukuna! What are you doing?!” you protest. 

“One moment,” he grunts, hauling you all the way to the back of the water closet.

“If you’re bringing me in here while you take a shit I’m going to stomp on your toe.”

Sukuna drops your bags on the floor and pushes you against the wall. His entire lower body grinds against you while his hands start to passionately grab your face. As your body sinks onto your weak legs, he readjusts you to straddle his knee while his pelvis rolls into your hip. 

“I fuckin need you.” he breathes into your cheek. “I need you so bad right now, Princess. I can’t hold it back.”

You feel how true his words are. His length begins to unveil its exact measure as he presses it against you. You moan into him, succumbing to the power of his desire. The way it washes over you is enchanting. His forehead presses against yours before his fingers trace your jaw and find their way into your hair. He tilts your chin up and crashes his lips into yours. 

Prodigious. Sparks fly in your brain, short-circuiting your thoughts. All you can taste is him, smell is him, see is him. He’s everywhere, his body rhythmically pushing up into you while his lips work fiercely. They’re soft at first, but the demand grows with each desperate movement of his mouth. Soon, his tongue is licking its way into your cavern and down your throat. He’s not asking for permission, he’s marking his territory. His thick forearms, ending with cuffs of black banded tattoos, rest against your shoulders, and his fingers dig into your scalp. Everything you thought you knew about kissing has gone out the window, and all that’s left is your submissive, moaning flesh, pinned to the wall and waiting for his mercy. 

It takes minutes for him to satiate his hunger, but not before he leaves your lips red and swollen. Then he finally pulls back, allowing you both a moment to catch your breath. “You see, Charity? I'm not joking this time. You’re mine. I promise you, you’re mine.”

Your fingers touch your lips as you stare up at him, pupils blown wide. You’re silent, but your face says it all. You understand. No one kisses like that if they don’t mean it, not even frat-king Ryomen Sukuna. You’re in big fuckin trouble if this is the beginning of what you think it is… he’s falling in love and he’s taking you down with him.

After your silent exchange of emotions you drop your hand. “Can you help me take this thing out now?” 

His usual playful smile resurfaces on his face. You’ve come to both dread and love that smile. Still propping you up, he tugs on the stem of the evil vibrator and pulls it out, a dirty squelch following its extraction. Thick drops of slick coat your thighs, and a new string of arousal dangles from your core. “You have no idea how hard it is not to bend you over this fucking sink and take you right now.”

You grow nervous at his words, not ready to go all the way with him yet. You’re trying to break this spell, not fall further into it. But he makes it so damn hard when he holds the toy to your lips and demands that you taste yourself. 

You shake your head, suddenly feeling shy when he raises it to his mouth and sticks out his tongue, running it along the toy's entire surface. His grip on your left side grows tight while his eyes close in bliss. He moans against the bulb before tossing it into the sink and stealing your lips again. 

This time you taste yourself on his tongue and you can admit to your own sweetness. His mouth starts to get carried away again so he rips himself from your lips, startling you. “I need to stop myself now before I’m too far gone. I can’t fuck this up, C. I won’t do that with you.”

You blink at him, lost. Who is this man and what has he done with my bully?

“What do you mean before you’re too far gone?”

Slowly his grip on you loosens as he lets you try to stand on your own two feet again. “When I feel like this, if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And you deserve better than our first time being some bathroom bang.” 

You begin to hold your own weight, the strength in your legs returning. With a nod, you assure him that you’re fine. He studies you, then he turns to the sink to wash his toy. 

Your eyes zone out on him for a moment before you start to explore his reflection. The look of concentration on his face, the way his shaggy pink hair sticks out in all directions, the tattoos that curve over his shoulders and disappear down his chest, tucked away under his shirt. He’s gorgeous. 

Then you study your own image, wondering if you two are even in the same league. You scrutinize your lashes and your eyebrows, the depth of your irises and the pink of your lips. Your features are pleasing enough, and right now they look especially appealing because you’re sexed up and horny. But then you notice a detail at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

“Is that a hickey?!!!” Sukuna’s smile is reflected in the mirror. “You gave me a hickey?! When did you do that!” 

“Before class”

“And you let me walk around the lab all morning with it?! No warning or advice to cover it!”

“Why would I want you to cover it? I need people to know you are claimed.”

“This isn’t a game, Ryomen. I don’t want professors to think I’m just some stereotypical college bimbo. I’m a scholarship student. My reputation for taking school seriously is all I have.”

“Not true. And don’t worry, your precious reputation will only improve once I’m done with you.”

“Done with me?” you raise your eyebrows at the man.

“You’ll see, Princess.”

Your eyes roll. “You’re never going to call me by my real name, are you?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Oh boy! Two whole times.”

He lays his heavy arm over your shoulders and draws you into him, walking out of the bathroom while laughing at your displeasure. “You really shouldn’t make it so fun to mess with you, C. And next time, wear the fucking clothes I tell you to wear.”

Masterlist I Chapter 4 I Chapter 6

[aninipanin1]

omg omg lavinho and adult manager reader where theyve previously met at a club/party outside of blue lock where lavinho tried to hit on one of reader's friends lol

IT'S YOU!

Notes: Ya'll are cooking with the ideas lmaoooo, (F/n) stands for friend name.

"C'mon, Y/n! You'll be back in that prison/asylum in like two days! Live a little and have fun!" (F/n) cheered, hands attached to her wrist as she dragged you inside the establishment she had been raving about to you, both in texts and conversations.

Garbed in a (f/c) sequined cocktail dress and a two-inch pair of heels, you can say you dressed up pretty well tonight. Although, you wish that you were on your bed instead under the flashing lights and banging music of the bar.

Your job in the Blue Lock facility was nothing less than stressful, and since everyone, including you, was given a 2 week break after Blue Lock's win against the U-20 National players, you wasted no time in spending the days just catching up on your naps and tv shows.

If you weren't doing normal household chores or watching on your phone, you were dozing off to sleep. But whatever you did in the past week and a half was inside the premises of your house only.

That is why you were here now. Dragged by your friend who insisted that there were other ways to destress than just sleeping like a sloth or watch anime.

"Ugh, a drink is the farthest thing in my mind right now, (F/n). I want to nap when I still have the chance to. You know how busy I get in the Blue Lock facility. I legit, sleep at like 4 AM only to wake up at 6 AM at times."

She sighed before patting your back and running her hand up and down your arm.

"I know. But, you need a bit of socialization. C'mon!"

(F/n) cheered, giving you a glass of whatever drink she ordered for the both of you as she chugged 3 glasses straight, which impressed you. She has always been quite outgoing and friendly, a little opposite to your quiet and almost shy nature. So, you always found yourself dragged by her in things you normally would be too shy to do.

And that included dancing in the middle of the damn dancefloor in which she was doing now, and even dragging you with her.

"Woah, woah, woah! Hey! You know I don't dance, especially not infront of-" you protested, but she only laughed and held your arms, dancing with you, her platform heels clacking against the tiled floor.

"Loosen up, girl! No one is watching you anyways, theyre all having too much of a good time to notice!"

And there she went again, moving her hips and arms to the music as you just smiled at her. Even if you didn't feel that comfortable with some of her shenanigans, you know she always means well. And besides, she makes the shameless in you jump out of the curtains at times.

You wished those moments came now, but the crowdedness and strong smell of alcohol from the many people made you quite restricted and stuck, so you just stood there, moving your feet a bit, but not dancing too hard. You stayed there mainly because you wanted to make sure that (F/n) was safe and won't get hurt or taken advantage of any ill-willed people in the crowded space.

Were you too protective of her at times? Yes, but you cared about (F/n), and wished that no peril will ever come her way, so you always make sure you were there in times where her immature and guillable nature strikes.

You both were on that dance floor for who knows how long. Songs came and went, and (F/n) was still jamming to whatever Western pop song was playing, and the crowd wasn't thinning either. In fact, it felt more cramped than before, and you were starting to feel a little sick due to how crowded it was.

The heavy smell of alcohol did not help either, as the assorment of the heavy drinks the people on the dancefloor drank mixed within the air. Not finding the strength to tolerate it anymore, you softly tapped your friend's shoulder.

She turned to you, cheeks a bit flushed now due to who knows how many drinks she had. But, you knew she wasn't a lightweight and only had a few drinks, meaning her cognitive is still probably in tact.

"I'm just going to sit in one of the lounges! I'm feeling a bit dizzy. Dance in where I can see you, I don't want us to be separated!"

It was kind of annoying that you had to shout over the music, but you pulled through and she nodded her head before returning her attention to the next song that popped up, especially since you know its a favourite of hers.

"Are you sure you'll be fine, alone? I can join you." She managed to ask before you leave.

"Yeah, I'll be okay. Continue having fun! I don't wanna ruin the night for you!" You gave her a reassuring smile that at first, she did not seem to buy, but after a few looks, she returned to dancing and jamming to the song again as you found yourself walking out of the crowded space into one of the lounges where you see a few people also hanging out on, drinking or busy on their phones.

Sitting on an empty spot with a not-too heavy drink in hand, you always made sure to peek through the dancing crowd to make sure (F/n) didn't wander off or get too out of hand (she can become a bit crazy when drunk), but a message from your mother caught your attention for a few minutes.

By the time you said your goodbye to your mother in the messaging app, you didn't see your friend anymore, which made you blink in a bit of a panic. Mainly because you were worried for her and also, a bit anxious about being alone in the said bar.

After all, you can definitely feel stares boring to your figure, a lot of them from men, of course, and you legit don't know how you will get out in a situation where one of them tries to approach and flirt with you.

Geez, you really need to learn how to reject people you don't want around you, especially guys in these situations.

Craining your neck up, you tried to find where the hell (F/n) went. After a few minutes of copying a giraffe, extending your neck and body posture higher to look, you found your eyes looking at the bar where she was.

She probably got tired from the dancing and ordered a drink to refresh, but she wasn't alone. She was talking to a guy who was quite tall, even if he was sitting down. He had tanned skin, a few tattos across his arms, his blonde hair in some type of mullet, and he looked to be the same age range as you and (F/n).

He seemed almost familiar. His face, his build, his many features...it felt like deja vu, really. You felt like you've seen him somewhere, somehow before. You tried to remind yourself where, but it just won't come up to mind. Like the answer was under a blanket, sillhouette shown to give a clue, yet what's under still a mystery and the only way to know is to look under the fabric.

But you just shrugged it off, chalking it up to be just some sort of resemblance to someone you saw before. By just the look in (F/n)'s eyes, you can tell that they seem to be hitting it off pretty well. (F/n) had that slanted, dreamy eyes as she listened to whatever the blonde was saying. And the man looked more than happy to talk to her. Well, hopefully it was genuine? Besides, he wouldn't approach her if he wasn't interested in her, right?

You didn't really want to interrupt them. Sure, you were protective, but you were also more than supportive of your friends, and you knew that even if she was clumsy, (F/n) was an adult who can handle herself well. And besides, what if there was indeed a romance brewing between them? You didn't want to intrude or destroy what was slowly forming.

Opening your phone, you opted to send her a small message.

'Hey, (F/n)! Just wanted to tell you that I'll be heading home. Don't wanna interrupt you and your possible Mister Right. Enjoy your time with him, but don't be too trusting and remember to put your guard up when you feel in danger, okay? Stay safe, love yaaa.'

You gave the two one last look and see her laughing at whatever the guy was saying. You rolled your eyes yet a fond smile on your face, knowing that the guy will probably be one of her newest fixations that month that she won't shut up about.

"And! AND! He was just so good with his words! Like, I know he's not Japanese, can't even speak our language. But when he speaks English, oh god! It's too attractive. Oh my god, I am so glad I paid attention to English class!"

You let out a laugh at her squeals, although being mindful not to let out a loud one. You were, after all, in the bus headed to the Blue Lock facility to finally start your job again.

Just as you predicted, (F/n) as absolutely taken by whoever that blonde guy was. As she usually does, she likes people quite easily, either romantic or platonic as long as they fit the so-called 'vibe' for her.

Turns out, the guy was actually Brazillian and lives in Spain, but he was just here in Japan for some sort of 'work,' that he had.

"I remember asking him about what he do and he answered, but geez...the hangover took over my brain more than his answer. I feel so disappointed! I didn't even get to ask him for his number!!"

"Well, that sucks. But, hey, if it's meant to be, then it's meant to be, right? I'm sure fate will make you two meet again, one way or another."

Oh, if only you knew how you were both so right yet so wrong at that moment.

"I got it, Ego-san! Have a nice day!"

You smiled before exiting Ego's office, stacks of paper in hand. It was all full of information about each stratum's players. Such as health concerns and history for the clinic, stats for the editors to edit on the episodes of Blue Lock TV, hell, even some preferences they might like for you to cater to them! (You didn't have to do that, but you still did since you are a people pleaser, shush)

Looking down at the newer schedules around the place, you knew you had to make a new timetable for yourself and the players to allow the Neo-Egoist League matches to shine and be given time in certain days while still taking to account the usual things done around the facility.

Too focused on brainstorming ideas, you did not see someone walking past you in time and accidentally nidged your shoulders against theirs. The papers fell to the ground due to the pack of support, the flicking noises of the material panicking you a bit since there were so many of them, and now they're all scattered on the floor.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking!"

"Está bien, yo también lo siento, bonita." The man let out an amused yet deep chuckle.

Blinking at the unfamilliar language, you suddenly remembered the earpiece Anri gave you, given by the Mikage Corps to help with the language barrier between the foreign players and the Japanese ones.

Taking them from your pocket before putting them on in your ear, you finally turned your head to face the person you bumped into, and the familiarity of him couldn't make you stop the visceral reaction to speak.

"It's you...from the bar!"

You gasped before covering your mouth, now feeling a huge wave of embarrassment. The blonde hair, the tanned skin with tattoos, the grin, it was familiar. That was why he seemed so familiar.

The man your friend was with that night was Lavinho, the so-called 'Dancer' due to his creative dribbling on the field, like he was dancing, with the ball as his dancing prop.

You felt so stupid. Why did you not recognise him so easily when you have watched some of his games online before? Meanwhile, Lavinho seemed confused by what your outburst meant.

"Oh uh, sorry...I just...I saw you in a bar, like 2 days ago..."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, you were talking to my friend..."

"Oh, her? (F/n), right? Yeah, I remember her. Heh, she was really pretty. But, I didn't know she had a fine friend as well." He said, a mischievous grin on his face as he helped you pick up the paperworks on the ground.

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, eyes slanted in suspicion.

'This guy...I'm glad (F/n) didn't get his number, he seems like a loose guy.'

"Thank you...? Um, thank you for helping me."

"No problem. Glad to help a beautiful woman."

'Yeah, okay...he is THAT type of guy.'

You gave a smile, one that is not so genuine yet you did not want to be rude to him, since he was visitor from a foreign country and who knows if there was a camera in the halls watching you both.

"How else may I help you, Lavinho-san?"

"Oh, maybe you can help me with this!"

He turned a bit more serious as he showed whatever training schedule the Blue Lockers themselves created for themselves (since Lavinho was a master who preferred the players make it since they know their own strength and individuality), reading the tables and messy handwriting of what the players thought they wanted or needed in their training, you just nodded at some of them.

"Hmm, these are really good! I'll recommend some things though to make it better."

You were recommending different suggestions, pointing things out with a softer and kinder tone, and entertaining any ideas or questions from him. Smiling wider as more questions pass, enjoying the challenge and widening your knowledge on the sports.

Meanwhile, Lavinho found himself enjoying his time with you. Throwing ideas back and forth, hell, he was even a little bit closer to your body now, wanting to make sure he heard you better. His movement towards your figure unintentional, like a magnetic force was dragging him to you.

But why? He didn't know. All he knew was that you were an interesting person to talk to, especially when it came to the sport he was very passionate about.

'She's not just fine, but smart and individualistic too, huh?'

ADDITIONAL TIME!

Otoya: Which type do you want-

Lavinho: Preferably a woman who is (height), has (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes, likes (color), is smart, responsible, beautiful, and is a manager of the Blue Lock Facility.

Hayate: That's just Y/n-san.

Lavinho: Exactly.

Bachira: *Already prepared to pounce*

Otoya: I meant what type of workout we should do today, old man.

This was longer than it should be lol

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[lostintransist]

Sacrifice Doesn’t Hurt Less if They Don’t Love You

I can't decide if I want to write a whole fic for this chapter that spawned fully formed in my head but a mutual told me I could post it here.

Context. Soap and Ghost are lovers. They are both wanting to work through some issues and ask reader (female pronouns) to become their third for a time. Reader was unsure about joining a thruple, so they offer to pay her. Reader is a soldier and works with the 141.

CW: Mentions of onpage violence, can be read as suicidal ideation, self sacrifice.

Watching Soap and Ghost share a look of goodbyes with only their eyes cements for you the knowing, deeper than your bones, that no one will ever love you like they love each other. No room exists for you to shelter inside of their love. The pain is freeing somehow. Like every message pounded into your head about being unlovable was true.

The call of the void had abated for a time, since they paid you for your body. The urge to jump without pulling your shoot, to kink the hose to your oxygen lessened. It returned now. It didn’t call though, it sang. Staring into the horizon where blue became intangible you know that even if you listened to the haunting call if you go home today an ‘accident’ would befall you soon enough.

A hand on your thigh pulls you back from the discordant notes. You look from the hand to the face and see Price looking at you, concern in the crinkles around his eyes.

“You with us Everest?”

“Sorry Cap. Just mentally gearing up.”

He nodded, accepting the strange behavior and the explanation. He had used the shared channel everyone could listen in on over the headphones. Helicopters were not the place for private conversations.

Feeling Ghost’s eyes you turn. Looking at one eye and then the other you find nothing but the mask inside and out. The horizon draws your attention again as you listen to the symphony from within the void.

Price had organized groups of three before everyone piled into the helicopter. You had been assigned to Soap and Ghost. As the ghost ship came into sight you slipped into your operator role. Rearguard would be you duty. They trusted you to step backwards over the dodgy doorways and ensure no one attacked them from behind. A place of trust.

Everyone knew the mission. Locate and terminate the computer that would signal a series of bombs dotting major cities. It would be highly guarded and most likely booby trapped. Six teams split as they enter the darkness of the ship. It creaks with each bob of the waves and every step as if she is moments from careening into the depths to become a home for the deep dwelling fish.

Soap takes the lead, heading aft. None of you encounter resistance until six levels down. Movement from barely beyond your vision as you step down another set of ladders. You fire off two shots, a body falling into the light. Not one of yours. A hand on you shoulder is the warning you get before Ghost and Soap step over the body, heading deeper into the darkness.

Smaller stature is not often an advantage in your line of work. But tiny halls become your safe haven because you are not an overly large man.

Moving before your mind can process you are grappling for a knife that connected with your vest. A man had stepped from the deepest shadows and swung at you after the guys had stepped through the next porthole. He pulled back and swung downwards, aiming for your neck. Leaning back you caught only a nick from the blade along the crease where jaw meets neck. Because all wide swings must be returned by an equally wide swing you step in and jam both hands into his forearm.

The enemy fights his arm up, your upper body strength no match for his. Instead of fighting him in a losing battle you place one boot on the wall behind you, leveraging your best asset in the fight.

It impressed the men on the 141 that you could match or often beat them in dead lift squats. They did make fun of you for how low your numbers were on upper body though so it all came out in the wash.

The man brought his second arm up to support his knife wielding hand, the tip of the blade inching closer to your face. Forcing your second boot up the wall you press with all the power your foremothers blessed you with. The light bouncing around from your rifle shines off whites of the mans eyes as you shove the blade into his windpipe. He slumps as his life flees.

Gravity takes hold of you now that friction has abated and you slam to the ground with a grunt. Your knee took the bulk of the blow. Up on your feet you limp after your lovers. They must have circled back to find you since you find them only three rooms away.

“What happened Everest?” Ghost barks at you.

“Your job is to protect each other, my job is to protect you. I did my job.” You snap at him. He would want to take it from your hide if there was a later. On jobs he was your superior and sass could not be accepted.

Soap reached around him and lifted blood from your collar.

“We are here to protect you too Ev.”

The sweetest blade to your heart came from Soap’s tongue. Lies, because if they were here to protect you they would have noticed sooner that you were gone.

His finger hovers as you turn your head slightly away from his touch.

“We’ve got more ground to cover. Let’s go.” Voice harsh, you focus on limping forward.

Several more engagements occur, but the guys don’t leave your sight once. After clearing a particularly well guarded tiny red room you find what you have been looking for. Soap drops to a knee at the computer, typing away.

You and Ghost take up opposite positions staring down the hallways watching the darkness.

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

Ghost’s even tone hits like a lash across your back.

“Didn’t really have time with a blade at my throat.”

“Why are you mad at us?”

Even now the distinction between your place and theirs is hammered home in the phrasing of the question. Us denotes a you, an outsider.

“Now is not the time to unpack our relationship problems, Simon.”

“I’m getting no response from the computer and I don’t dare move it. This group really loves their bombs to trigger when people touch things.”

A head poking around the walls you to fire off a few rounds.

“I’m jammed, Soap replace me. I can work on disabling the computer.” You step into the small, red, red box trading places with Soap who steps into the hall, gun drawn on the shadows.

The instant his heel passes beyond the door frame you swing the heavy metal door shut, slamming the bar into place. Faraday cages are interesting things. They can be made by accident, or opportunity.

You couldn’t disable the computer you had fought so hard to get to the bowels of the ship, but you could stop it from sending a signal. As the bar clanged down, the bell tolling of your death, two irate faces appeared in the small window. Two men you love more than any reasonable person could understand stare at you, yell at you, beat at the door demanding entrance.

A beep from the computer tells you there is four minutes left until the signal is sent. Your lip trembles. Mouthing the words so carefully they can understand even beyond the slightly distorted glass you give your final goodbyes.

‘Love you.’

Blowing a shaky kiss to their horrified faces you slide the cover in place, sealing your tomb.

The void’s lilting tune is sweet in your ears. The pounding on the door stops. No sounds squawk from the radio in your ear, your play worked. They would be safe. They didn’t need you anyways, a matched pair didn’t need a third.

With nothing left to do but breathe in the last of your oxygen you decided to strip down to your uniform. Emptying every weapon on you of its rounds you place them gently on the floor a fair distance from the door. No need for them to get stepped on when someone can finally reach your body. Next goes the holsters and the heavy tactical gear.

It’s getting harder to breath now, your lungs heaving for a breath more. You sound like a baby you once saw with RSV. You place a hand to your ribs, finding the flesh pulling between the bones with each breath. Laying down seems the best option now. Your mind feels pulled, stretched. Taffy for brains. Stretching out you get comfortable. With your eyes fluttering you can almost imagine yourself on a cot somewhere in the tropics.

Distantly a beeping starts, the thirty second countdown. One long beep reaches through the fog of oxygen deprivation, you strain your ears. Even in the bowels of the ocean you would have heard something, shouting, if you had failed. When none occur you sigh and surrender to the darkness.

You might not have been important to them. They might have never loved you. But god dammit you were going to be remembered.

I also write COD over on AO3, same handle.

Masterlist

[baldy-wan-kenobi]

It was a routine patrol, or at least it should have been. There were four of us, pushing mach 3 somewhere over the Parytha gulf, a full flight of state-of-the-art Combat Frames ready to handle any trouble that popped up, though we didn't expect any.

Shortly after midnight, local time, Blue Three called out a possible contact, three miles inland, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared.

Thirty minutes later, all hell broke loose.

It started when something speared through the flight leader, a searing flash of light that seemed to turn night into day for a moment before Blue Leader's reactor breached with a sound like reality crying in agony.

An instant later, a shape slammed into Blue Two like a meteor strike, smashing into her with an energy blade mid-swing and vanishing into the rolling clouds below. Blue Three shouted out a cry of alarm, but I didn't hear it as I whipped my head around, searching in vain for whatever had just cut a flight of Gen 3 Frames in half in mere moments.

Three tried to place a call to command, to anyone, but the signal was never received, jammed either by the high density of esoteric energy in the area or by intentional sabotage.

Two found the attacker first, his machine gun spitting a hail of bullets downwards, but it was too late. I heard his garbled death screams turn into static as the plasma blade pierced his cockpit, reducing everything in it to slag and steam.

Finally, I saw what it was, silhouetted by the flares of Three's dying machine. A red combat frame, sleek and knife-edged, with bright green lights glowing like the flames of hell.

It turned on me, the cannon on its back whining and humming as it charged, and I threw myself out of the way, doing everything I could to break the lock.

The blinding flash of light appeared again, a spear of supercharged particles lancing through the space I'd just occupied. Had I been a second slower, it would have punched straight through my reactor, turning me into an esoteric fireball just like Blue Leader. As it was, it only sent a few noncritical systems haywire with EM backwash.

Before I could regain my bearings, a signal came over the radio, broadcasting on all channels. I barely had time to hope it was command picking up our distress calls before IFF revealed it to be the red frame, speaking over an open line in a husky, sinister voice.

"O-ho, what've we got here? You're good, not just anyone can dodge like that. Your triple-C scores must be off the charts!" she was almost jovial, despite just having killed three of the best Frame pilots in the corps like it was nothing, and despite myself, I felt my face coloring at the tone of her compliment.

She began to take aim with the weapon in her right hand, but before I could find out what it was, I leaped away again, boosting to the side and firing away, stabilizing my autocannon with both hands and ensuring my shots found their mark.

However, the pilot was obviously just as fast as before, darting away before the rounds could even reach her, giggling playfully over an open channel as she did.

"Oh, very good! It's not just the machine or the augments, there's some actual skill there, too." As she said it, she loosed a hail of plasma fire, fat gobs of superheated gas streaking by like miniature stars, barely missing as I ducked and weaved around the fire.

As the square of my targeting reticle flashed red atop her, I loosed a flight of missiles, launching from the pod on my back and streaking towards her like deadly birds.

"Oh, lovely!" she giggled, "Catch me if you can!"

Down she plummeted, into the clouds where the missiles' tracking would be less accurate, and I followed, chasing her through the mist as close as I could, until we both broke through the cover and into the world below.

As I'd expected, she was ready for me, particle cannon charged and ready to core me, but I was ready too, and this time charged straight for her, grabbing the protruding barrel of the cannon and forcing it up, making the shot go wide as my steel fist collided with her frame's head, sending a shower of sparks flying as the red giant tumbled away, its pilot crying out in pain.

"A good play," the red frame's pilot said. "But how do you handle the close-in?" Immediately, she was boosting for me, energy blade firing up and extending from it's projector on her arm, driving towards the cockpit that held my flesh body with ferocity.

Again, I dodged, ducking under the blade as it swept through the air, and delivering an aerial knee to the frame's hips as I drew my own blade from the bay on my frame's back, its purple edge roaring to life.

"Would you look at that, kitty has claws~" the enemy pilot said, diving back in for another strike.

I couldn't say how long we grappled there in the air, blades swiping and striking, grabbing arms and legs and punching and kicking. It felt like a lifetime, but it could have been seconds. In the end, though, it was her who won out.

With a fist strike, she snapped my head back, dislodging my grip on her arm and allowing her to slice cleanly through my sword arm at the shoulder, leaving me without a melee weapon, unless I wanted to drop my autogun. Seeing no other choice, I did just that, however the second the weapon left my grip, she was on me once more, firing her plasma gun and melting through the elbow joint, leaving the forearm dangling by skeletal supports and dangling cables.

Her next strike shoved me away, to a distance where she could use her particle cannon without fear of being killed by the backwash, and I prepared for the inevetable, gritting my teeth and my eyes as I waited for the blinding flash. However, I could not in my wildest dreams have predicted what came next.

With a vicious yank, the red frame's free hand ripped my cockpit capsule from my frame, and I screamed in agony as my body was severed from my mind, consciousness slamming back into my flesh like a freight train as the enemy literally held my life in her hand.

"Oh no," she said in a sinister, yet motherly tone. "I'm not done with you, yet."

without the external cameras of my frame, I could only hear the actinic flash of the particle cannon, and the mind-rending screech of the reactor breaking containment. However, before long, I felt the jolt of the capsule being set down on a solid surface, and titanic steel fingers ripped open the roof, exposing the night sky above.

Her frame was even more daunting up close, the titanic maroon form exuding menace as it knelt above my pathetically fragile form like a creature of myth, leaving me gasping and vulnerable in the cold night air.

"Oh, look at that, you're just as cute as I thought you'd be," she said, voice booming over the frame's external speaker.

"If you're going to kill me..." I gasped, still reeling from the sudden loss of connection to my frame. "then get it over with."

Her condescending laugh over the speakers was deafening. "kill you? no... I'd destroy a work of art before a pilot with your skill. No, I don't think so. You live with this, let this shame burn, and use it as fuel. Never forget that you're only alive because I let you go. When you're ready, we'll dance again, and it'll be wonderful. Until then... goodbye, darling."

and with that she was gone, boosters carrying her up and away with a deafening roar and plume of smoke.

I don't know how long I sat shivering in that cockpit, trying desperately to process her words. Eventually, the voice of someone from command came over the radio, demanding an explanation, which I gave in halting gasps and stutters. They sent out a rescue crew, but in the end, I was the only one left.

It's been nine months since that day. Nine months and the only thing I've thought about is that red frame, that haunting voice, and my inevitable revenge. I'll have that red frame sparking and defeated before me if it's the last thing I do, and then the pilot will be mine.