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fanfictiongirlie · 4 days ago

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Marvel: Truth or Dare?

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Description:

It's the monthly Avengers Game night, and the others suggest Truth or Dare as a ploy to get you and Bucky together. You and Bucky have been best friends for years and one night suddenly changes that.

Rating: Explicit - Super smutty!

Warnings: Sex, Creampies, Friends to Lovers, it's a little silly, Oral sex (Both male and female receiving), Doggy Position, Missionary, A little throat holding - Barely, Use of 'Good Girl', I think that's all, but let me know if I've missed anything.

Words: 8,815

AN: Hiii, so it's my birthday today! So naturally I thought, well, let's write a nice long Bucky Barnes smutty one shot because it's my birthday. I hope you enjoy!

It was the month Avengers game night, usually one of you favourite nights when card games are the chosen activity, however this night Tony has discovered Steve and Bucky have never played Truth or Dare, and according to Tony, it's a right of passage and we have to play it for their sake's.

What you didn't know, is that Tony was lying of course, the team had made up the idea to get you and Bucky together. The two of you were in love, and they all know, but neither you or Bucky had realised it yet, so this was their plan.

"This game is dumb" You say, you were sitting on the floor, laughing at the others whilst you take another swig of your beer. You were sitting leaning against the couch, between your best friend's legs. Bucky Barnes, you adored him, and he adored you, having been best friends for nearly two years now.

"Oh, come on. You know you secretly love this game. It's all about the juicy truths and outrageous dares..." He smirked as he playfully nudged your side with his knee.

"Fine" You grumble, though secretly you kinda loved the idea, plus it was great when the entire team was getting along for once. "Who goes first?"

Steve, the ever-so-responsible leader took charge. "I'll start." He cleared his throat and looked around the room. "Sam, truth or dare?"

Sam, ever the showboat, responded without hesitation. "Dare, Capsicle."

You watch as Steve thinks for a moment, the others all looking over with excitement in their eyes.

"I dare you to... sing a love song... in your best impression of Elvis Presley."

The room erupted in laughter as Sam dramatically stood up, clutching a makeshift microphone (a random pen). Sam then belts out 'Can't Help Falling in Love' with all his heart (and a touch of mockery). The whole group was howling with laughter, appreciating his over-the-top performance. You smiled even harder when you noticed Natasha filming him.

"Amazing" You say through laughter. Sam bowed dramatically, clearly pleased with himself, while Steve rolled his eyes at the display. The group continued laughing before settling down, with Thor (who was clearly enjoying some Asgardian spirits) spoke up.

"Alright, alright. Now it's my turn to choose" Thor pondered for a moment before his gaze landed on you.

"Truth or dare" He asks you, a glimmer in his eyes you can't quite place.

"Have you ever harbored romantic feelings for someone in this very room?" The room suddenly grew quieter, the group eagerly awaiting your answer, including Bucky, who subtly leaned forward, feigning nonchalance.

"How very forward of you Thor" You say. "Yeah, I have"

A collective intake of breath filled the room, everyone's curiosity piqued. Tony, ever the gossip, leaned forward.

"And who might that lucky person be?" his tone was teasing, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"That's not how this game works, one question per truth, it's someone else's turn" You say, grinning at the loophole.

Steve nodded in agreement, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Fair enough. It's Nat's turn now."

You take your attention away from the game for a moment to look up at Bucky, you poke your tongue out at him. Bucky chuckled at your playful gesture, rolling his eyes affectionately. The rest of the group watched the interaction with knowing smiles, all too aware of the blossoming attraction between you two.

Natasha, ever the observant one, noticed your subtle glances towards Bucky and your attempts to hide them. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she decided to take advantage of the moment

"Alright" she said. "Bucky, truth or dare?"

Bucky, who had been half-listening, responded without hesitation.

"Dare."

"Brave" I mutter to him.

Natasha's smirk broadened as she announced her dare.

"I dare you to..." she paused for dramatic effect, the tension in the room growing. "...give Y/N a back massage."

"Nat, I love you" You say with a laugh, your back was killing you from sitting on the floor, you shrug your jacket off, leaving you in a simple black tank top, your shoulders bare to Bucky. "Get to work, Barnes"

Bucky tried to keep his poker face as the other members snickered at Natasha's dare. He looked at you, his eyes briefly roaming over your now exposed shoulders. A mix of excitement and nervousness flickered across his features. Clearing his throat, he tried to play it cool.

"Alright, turn around. Make yourself comfortable on the floor, princess."

"I am comfortable!" You say, wiggling back slightly. Bucky rolled his eyes at your stubbornness, but couldn't help a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Of course you are."

He moved behind you, his hands hesitating for a moment before they made contact with your bare skin. The other members watched with rapt attention, a mix of anticipation and knowing grins on their faces as Bucky began his task. His strong, calloused hands slowly started massaging your shoulders, working out the knots and tension you carried.

"Mmm" You moan softly at his touch. "I needed this, Nat, you're the best"

Natasha chuckled at your praise, a satisfied smirk on her face. But before she could respond, Tony, always the one for sarcastic remarks, couldn't resist speaking up.

"Looks like Barnes is pretty good with his hands." he teased, earning a glare from Bucky.

"Feel free to keep the game going" You say, realising everyone was staring at you and Bucky.

Tony smirked at your suggestion, eagerly taking the bait. He quickly shifted his gaze to the rest of the group.

"Alright, my turn." he announced. He looked across the room and his eyes landed on Thor. "Thor, truth or dare?"

Thor, still slightly tipsy, bellowed in his usual hearty tone and replied without hesitation. "Dare, of course!"

You roll your head back, looking up at Bucky as his fingers work their magic. Bucky looked down at you with a smirk, noticing your gaze. He kept up the massage, his fingers running up your spine, his touch growing slightly more intimate. The other members were still focused on the game, oblivious to the tension building between you two.

Tony, ever creative with his dares, grinned widely at Thor. "Alright, Thor, here's your dare. I dare you to... kiss the most attractive person in the room."

Thor's eyes scanned the room, a slight blush creeping up on his cheeks. The other members exchanged glances, knowing full well who Thor would choose. Finally, Thor's gaze landed on you, and a wide grin spread across his face.

The room fell silent as everyone waited, anticipation filling the air. Bucky's fingers momentarily stilled on your back, his body tense.

"Me? Thor, really? Me?" You question, not believing the god could find you the most attractive, not when the room was full of beautiful men and women.

Thor's laughter echoed through the room. The others chuckled, and Tony was barely able to contain his snickering. Loki, ever the opportunist, smirked and muttered under his breath, "This should be interesting."

Thor stood up, swaying slightly because of the alcohol, and made his way towards you.

Bucky's grip on your shoulder tightened, his jaw clenching as he watched Thor kneel down in front of you.

"I don't wanna kiss you" You say playfully, thinking Thor would back out at the last second.

Thor chuckled at your playful protest, his eyes glimmering with mischief.

"Oh, come on, just one little kiss." he teased, his face drawing closer to yours.

"Make it quick" You say with a playful roll of your eyes. Bucky's hand's had stopped but were still on your shoulders.

A wide grin spread across Thor's face as he heard your submission. He moved closer, his lips hovering over yours for a moment, teasing you before he finally closed the gap. The kiss was rough and passionate, his large hand cradling the back of your neck as he deepened it.

The others cheered and applauded, clearly enjoying the little show. Tony wolf-whistled loudly, which earned him a smack on the arm from Steve.

Bucky, however, sat silently behind you. His fingers had unconsciously dug into your skin.

You whimper softly, but not from the kiss, but Bucky's fingers which had started to become painful.

Tony, who had noticed the exchange, smirked and elbowed Bucky in the ribs. "Careful there, Barnes. Don't break the poor girl."

You move away from the kiss and away from Bucky's hands. "Bucky, ow!"

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to." his voice was quiet, filled with guilt. The others had gone silent, the game fading into the background as they watched the scene unfold between you two.

"It's okay" You whisper. "Who's next?"

Tony, ever the attention seeker, raised his hand enthusiastically. "Me, me! I'm next."

"Okay, truth of dare?" You ask.

Tony didn't even hesitate. "Dare, of course. Bring it on." he said, a cocky smirk on his face.

"Hmm" You say, thinking for a moment, though you knew exactly what you were daring him to do. "I dare yooou to kiss Steven!"

Tony's confidence faltered for a moment, his smirk replaced by a look of surprise. "Kiss... Steve? That's your dare?" he repeated incredulously.

Steve, sitting next to Tony, was equally taken aback, his eyes widening at your suggestion.

"You're clearly in love with him" You say with a grin.

Tony sputtered, clearly flustered by your comment. The others couldn't help but snicker, enjoying the way the tables were turning.

Steve, the ever-calm one, sat there with a bemused expression, waiting to see how Tony would respond.

"In love- what? Pfft, no I'm not." Tony protested weakly.

"Kiss, kiss, kiss" You chant, the others join in, the room filling with a chorus of 'Kiss, kiss, kiss'

Tony's cheeks were now burning red, his usual confident demeanor completely crumbling.

He looked at Steve, who was now trying not to laugh. Steve shrugged, clearly amused by the whole situation.

"Come on, Tony. It's just a kiss." he said, his voice filled with playful teasing.

"Oh on! I had to kiss Thor, it's your turn!" You say, the others joining in.

Tony groaned in mock despair, knowing he was outnumbered. He looked around at the group, who were all watching with anticipation.

"Fine, fine! But only because I'm a team player." he grumbled, turning towards Steve. Steve, barely holding back a smirk, leaned forward, his face mere inches away from Tony's.

The room went quiet, everyone holding their breath, waiting to see if this would actually happen. With a huff of resignation, Tony finally closed the remaining distance between him and Steve, their lips meeting in a brief but unmistakably awkward kiss.

The group erupted into laughter and applause, clearly amused by the spectacle. Tony quickly pulled away, running a hand through his hair and mumbling something about "traitors" and "stupid dares." Steve tried to hide his smile behind a raised hand, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.

"Told you this game was daft" You added, taking another swig of your drink.

Tony shot you a half-hearted glare, still trying to compose himself after the kiss.

"You're enjoying every minute of this, aren't you?" he said, a hint of playful irritation in his voice. The group continued to laugh and tease, Thor slapping Tony on the back and saying something about "getting over your denial."

Bucky, still sitting behind you, leaned forward and said in a low voice, "You're definitely trouble, you know that?"

"I am" You say proudly. "It's my time again"

The group quieted down, all eyes on you, anticipating your turn. Bucky shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on you.

Natasha, ever a mastermind, smirked.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare" You say, though after you had said it, you regretted it just slightly.

A collective "ooh" echoed through the room as you chose dare again. Bucky chuckled and shook his head, clearly not surprised by your choice.

Natasha grinned sinisterly, her brain already working on a plan. "Alright, here's your dare."

"I'm waiting" You say in a sing song voice.

Natasha leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she delivered your dare.

"I dare you to... sit on Bucky's lap for the rest of the game."

The room fell silent for a moment before erupting into a mix of gasps, smirks, and snickers. Bucky's eyes widened, clearly caught off guard by Natasha's choice. He swallowed hard and looked at you, bracing himself.

"Easy!" You say standing up, your legs burned from being crossed for so long, you stretched your body.

"You make it sound so naughty, I always sit on his lap!"

Tony raised an eyebrow and nudged Steve with his elbow. "Always, huh? What else have you two been up to?"

Bucky shot him a quick glare, clearly not amused by the insinuation, before returning his gaze to you as you made your way over to him.

"Yeah, during movie nights"

Bucky nodded in confirmation, recalling the countless movie nights where you had ended up snuggled against him on the couch. It had become somewhat of a habit, both of you seeking comfort and closeness during the movies.

The others exchanged glances, amused by the revelation. Wanda let out a cute laugh. "Ah, I see. So, you two are quite... cozy during those movie nights, hmm?"

"Oh shut up" You say as you flop down onto Bucky's lap. Bucky let out an "oof" as you landed unceremoniously in his lap, a mix of surprise and affection in his eyes as he instinctively wrapped his arms around you to steady you.

The others chuckled at your sass, Tony rolling his eyes and muttering something about "lovebirds."

"Dickhead" You mutter back to Tony.

Tony feigned offense, pretending to clutch his heart. "I'm wounded, truly wounded."

Bruce tried, and failed, to suppress a chuckle, while Thor just laughed heartily at the exchange.

Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled you tighter against his chest, as if claiming possession over you. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered so only you could hear. "You're being feisty tonight."

"I am?" You whisper to him, the game continues.

Bucky smirked at your response, his grip on you tightening just a fraction.

"Oh, definitely," he murmured back, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

Around you, the game continued, but Bucky's focus was now solely on you, enjoying the feeling of your body pressed against his. He gently ran his fingers along the exposed skin of your arms, his touch feather-light but possessive. You smile to your best friend and then turn back to the game, seeing Wanda was mid dare and currently standing on her head.

As you turned your attention back to the game, the others continued their playful banter, oblivious to the subtle intimacy between you and Bucky.

Every now and then, Bucky couldn't help but let his hands roam - trailing along your thighs, gently caressing the exposed skin on your back, even playing with a stray lock of your hair. It was as if he was unconsciously staking his claim on you, a silent declaration for the others to witness.

You let out a laugh deep from your chest when Steve was dared to dance to the Macarena.

"Woo! Go Steve" You cheered.

Steve rolled his eyes dramatically, but complied anyway, getting up and doing a surprisingly decent rendition of the macarena. The others cheered and laughed, enjoying the sight of their usually stoic friend making a fool of himself. Bucky, still holding you in his lap, couldn't help but chuckle, his chest rumbling against your back.

The time came around to being your turn again, you decide to choose dare again. Natasha smirked at you.

"Go on, I'm not scared of nothing!" You say.

"Alright, then." she said, her tone oozing with mischief. "I dare you... to kiss the hottest person in this room."

"Easy" You say without thinking, you turn to Bucky and press your lips to his. A chorus of "oohs" and "ahhs" filled the room as you turned and pressed your lips to Bucky's. For a moment, he was taken aback, surprised by your boldness. But then, almost instinctively, he responded, his hand moving up to cup your face and pull you closer. His lips moved against yours in a slow, almost reverential kiss, as if relishing the feeling of you in his arms.

You forgot about the game, and the others in the room as Bucky deepened the kiss, his hand gently tilted your head to the side to better angle your mouths together. His other hand moved down to the small of your back, pulling you closer until you were completely enveloped in his embrace. He seemed to forget about the game, and the others, as well, completely consumed by the feeling of your lips on his.

A few moments pass and you move away, the both of you breathing heavier than before.

"Dare complete" You say, your lips still inches away from Bucky's as you feel like you've unlocked something wonderful between the two of you. Your eyes never leave his, and his stay on yours as you feel yourself get lost in his perfect blue orbs.

Steve, unable to hide his smirk, was the first to speak up. "Well... that was quite a sight."

Tony, still in the dress, rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. "Get a room, you two."

"What a brilliant idea, Tony" You say quietly as you lick your lips, relishing in the taste of Bucky on your lips.

Laughter erupted around the room as Tony realised what he had inadvertently suggested. The others were clearly enjoying the banter, while you and Bucky chuckled.

Bucky, still holding you in his lap, leaned in close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "You know, that's not a bad idea." he whispered, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

You stand up first, Bucky's eyes were on your movement. Tony, in his typical fashion, couldn't resist a sly comment as you started to walk away. "Try not to break anything, kids."

"Coming?" You say to Bucky, holding your hand out to him.

Bucky stood up, a small smile playing on his lips, and took your hand in his, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Yeah, yeah... we'll try not to." he shot back at Tony before letting you lead the way out of the room.

The others exchanged knowing glances, chuckling softly as they realized what was about to happen. As Bucky followed you out of the room, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.

"Your room or mine?"

"Yours" You answer him. "Your bed is bigger"

Bucky chuckled, the thought of having you in his bed was already making him eager.

"Good choice." he murmured, his hand sliding down to the curve of your hip as he steered you towards his quarters.

The walk there was a blur, both of you consumed by the anticipation building up within. Once you reached his door, Bucky quickly keyed it open and ushered you inside.

His room was bigger and therefore had a bigger bed than yours. It was huge, the biggest bed you had ever seen, much better than the Queen size you had in your room. You flopped down onto his bed, spreading your arms out on the soft blanket.

Bucky smirked, taking a step towards the bed, he reached out and gently caressed your legs, teasingly running his hands up along your thighs.

"Mmm" You whisper in response. "Are you sure you want to break every friend rule we have?"

Bucky paused for a brief moment, his fingertips tracing patterns along your skin. There was a hint of hesitation in his eyes as he considered the question, but the desire in his gaze was far stronger.

"I don't care about any rules right now." he said, his voice low and rough with desire, "We'll deal with the consequences later. Right now, I just want you."

"Bucky" You whisper, he climbs onto the bed, crawling over you, you place a finger on his lips just before he goes to kiss you. "I can't handle the uncertainty of that"

Bucky paused, he let out a quiet sigh, his eyes studying your face as his hand gently grasped the wrist of the finger on his lips.

"I know... I know" He murmurs. "But I can't keep ignoring this... whatever this is between us. I can't keep pretending I don't want you, not anymore."

"Promise we'll always be best friends, I can't lose you" You say, your voice sounding pathetic as you plead with him.

Bucky's gaze softened at your words, his grip on your wrist loosening to where his touch was just a gentle caress. "I promise. No matter what happens between us, no matter where our relationship may go... our friendship will always be there. You won't lose me." He leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours as he spoke the next words, his voice a low whisper. "I swear it"

"Kiss me" You whisper, having the promise of that, and knowing deep in your heart you and Bucky would always be this, you needed his touch now.

The last restraint holding him back snapped at your command. Bucky wasted no time pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss. He poured all of his pent-up desire and need into the kiss.

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against his body as his mouth moved against yours, his tongue seeking entrance into your mouth. The kiss was hungry, almost desperate, as if he was starving for the taste of you.

You kiss him, losing yourself in his touch, it was intoxicating. Bucky's hands wandered over your body, fingers tracing the curves and dips of your form, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

His lips left yours to trail down your jawline and along your neck, leaving a path of soft kisses in their wake. Bucky's hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers gently lifting the fabric to reveal more of your skin. His breath was ragged against your neck as he whispered, "I need to feel you... I need you so bad."

"Me too" You say, whimpering softly as his fingers tease the skin just under your shirt. A low growl leaves his lips, his fingers continued to tease, slowly trailing along the bare skin of your hip, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He lifted his head from your neck, his gaze locking onto yours. His eyes were darkened with lust, pupils dilated with desire as he took in the sight of you beneath him, vulnerable and wanting.

You smirk and move your hand down to your shirt, and slowly lift it. Bucky's breath hitches, his eyes watch your movement, watching the newly exposed skin show. His grip on your hip tightened, his eyes locking onto the newly revealed flesh as he let out a low, appreciative groan. "God, you're so beautiful..." he murmured, his gaze filled with a mixture of admiration and pure, unadulterated want.

You lift your shirt over your head and throw it somewhere in the room, not caring where it lands, leaving you in just your bra and trousers, not having expected this when you dressed this morning, you weren't wearing your 'sexy' underwear, but Bucky was still looking at you like a man starved. His gaze roamed over your body with an intensity that sent chills down your spine, as if he was committing every inch of your form to memory.

With a swift, almost needy movement, Bucky lowered himself back down to you, his lips immediately seeking out the skin of your neck again. His body was flush against yours, his fingers gently tracing the line of your bra strap.

"Whatcha gonna do to me, Bucks?" You ask quietly, your tone dripping with need.

Bucky's response was almost instantaneous, his voice a low growl as his lips moved against your neck. "Whatever I damn well please." His hands moved to your hips again, gripping tightly as he rolled his hips against yours, showing you just how much he wanted you in that moment. "I'm going to mark you up. I'm going to make you mine. And you're going to let me."

"Yes" You whisper, your eyes on his.

"Good girl." Bucky's words were whispered against your ear before he started nipping and biting at the skin of your neck. He was marking you, claiming you as his. His teeth grazed over your skin, leaving a trail of love bites down your throat and towards your collarbone.

He shifted, his leg slotting between yours, and pressed himself closer to you. The heat between the two of you was almost unbearable, the need growing stronger by the second.

You whine softly at the nickname, enjoying it a little too much, you had never had a partner call you that before, never even thought about it, but having Bucky say it, it was everything you needed and more.

A sly smirk danced across Bucky's lips as he heard your whine, enjoying the way he could get such a response from you. His eyes darkened even further at the sound, the possessive part of him loving the way you reacted to his touch.

"You like that, don't you? You like being called a good girl." he murmured against your neck, his teeth gently sinking into your skin as he continued to mark you up.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Bucky hummed softly, pleased with your response. His mouth continued biting and sucking at your skin, leaving a trail of darkened love bites along your neck and collarbone. His grip on your hips tightened, his touch almost possessive, as he held you in place, savoring the way you whimpered and squirmed beneath him.

"Say it." he whispered, his voice filled with an aching need. "Say you're my good girl."

"I'm your good girl Bucky" You whisper, feeling your cheeks heat up.

A low moan escaped Bucky's lips as he heard you utter the words he craved to hear. He lifted his head from your neck to look at you, his eyes locked onto yours with an almost feral intensity.

"My good girl. My perfect, pretty girl." he stated, his voice filled with a possessive growl as he gently caressed your cheek, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. "You're mine."

"Fuck, all yours Bucky" You whisper. "Please, Bucky I need more"

"You want more of me, doll?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent another shiver of desire through you. "You want to be ruined completely?"

"Don't you want more?" You ask, moving your hand down to your trousers, you undo one of your jeans buttons.

Bucky's eyes immediately darted to your hand as you began to undo the button on your trousers, the action sending a fresh wave of want through him. His grip on your hip tightened as he watched you with a barely contained eagerness.

"Don't even ask such a stupid question." he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper as he tried to hold back the primal urges stirring within him. "Of course I want more. I want all of you."

"I want you too, help me take these off"

Bucky grins and moves off the bed and moves his hands to your jeans, playfully he swatted your hand away and started undoing the remainder of your buttons. Once they were undone, he pushes his fingertips just under your jeans, sending shivers through your body. He starts slowly pulling down your jeans, exposing you further.

"You're so pretty" He whispers when your jeans are down to your thighs, he pulls the fabric off from you, throwing them onto the floor.

Bucky stands up fully, looking down at you, your eyes trail over his body, finally seeing his hard cock underneath his black jeans, your mouth watered. He looked big, even concealed under the jeans.

You watch as he moves his hands down to his shirt, in one swift movement Bucky grabs his plain black top and pulls it over his head, leaving him topless. You see the flicker of insecurity in his eyes knowing his shoulder scar was on show for you. Sure, you had seen it before, but this was different.

You stood up and stepped closer to him, lifting your hands you placed them on both shoulders, allowing your one hand to trace over the scar from his fleshy shoulder to his metal arm. Looking up at him, meeting his eyes.

"You're beautiful Bucky" You say in a whisper. He closes his eyes for a moment, so you decide to move forward, pressing a kiss to his scar, and then another. You can hear Bucky's breathing, his chest rising against you, and falls as his breathing deepens.

Stepping back, you look up to him, Bucky opens his eyes, their glossy, so you move forward and press a sweet kiss to his lips.

"We can stop, you know" You say quietly, you knew Bucky struggled with letting people see the arm, especially when he had nothing else on. To your knowledge he hadn't slept with anyone since coming back from the dead.

"No, doll" He answers, he lifts a hand and cups your cheek. "I trust you, I want this"

You smile and nod, moving your hands down his naked chest, slightly digging your nails in as you do, he hisses slightly. Your fingers find his trousers, you slowly lower yourself. And whilst your face is in front of his crotch, you undo his belt and trousers and push them down his legs.

His boxers were a light blue, he had a small wet patch where the head of his cock laid. Without thinking you moved forward and mouthed the clothed tip of his cock.

Bucky lets out a low groan, obviously not expecting you to do that. His flesh hand moves to your shoulder, holding you slightly to keep his balance.

His boxers were wet, you moved your hands up to the waistband and slowly peeled them down, his cock flopped down, almost smacking you in the face, instead it smacked against hist hard stomach. You had never seen Bucky's cock before, but you had an inkling that he was huge, that super soldier serum didn't just make his arms bigger, you thought for a moment about how it would even fit inside of you.

"Are you gonna spend all night staring at my dick?" He asks, breaking you from your thoughts.

"Might" You answer, you moved your hand gripping him close to the base of his cock. Bucky let out another groan, he was definitely sensitive. You fingers didn't meet, having at least one inch between them.

You pump your hand a few times, relishing on how he feels, he was rock hard and so veiny under your touch. You adjusting yourself to be more comfortable as you kneel on the floor and move forward a little.

You open your mouth and lick the head of his cock.

"Oh" Bucky whimpers.

You smirk, feeling the excitement bubble in your stomach from his reaction. You lick a few more times before taking the tip into your mouth, your mouth had never been so full, the thought of other places feeling this full sent shivers straight down to your pussy.

You move your head forward, trying to suck in as much of him as you could, with what couldn't fit you used your hand, tightening your grasp as you did so.

"That feels so good" Bucky whines, he taps your shoulder, causing your movements to stop. You pull away and look up at him, your eyes slightly blurry from your gag reflex.

"I don't want to finish in your mouth" He whispers, he takes your chin in his hand and lifts you, you lift with him, standing back up. Your legs felt a little wobbly, but Bucky caught you, moving down slightly he presses his lips to yours.

You shivered, liking that he didn't care that you so obviously tasted like his cock, and precum. His tongue licked at your mouth, you moaned as you felt his hands grasp at your hips, he didn't stay still moving up across your curves towards the back of your bra.

He pulled at it, and twisted it a few times before you moved away from his lips, unable to contain your giggling.

"Don't laugh doll" He says with a playful glint in his eyes.

"Bras are a bit different than from your time, aren't they?" You ask, you reach back with one hand and pin your bra open. Bucky's eyes watch you hungrily, he moves quickly to your shoulders, using his hands to pull your bra off your arms.

Leaving you nude on your upper half, you cover your chest with your arms, before realising, this was Bucky. He would never judge you.

Bucky places a hand on your cheek, meeting your eyes with his. "Be a good girl, go lie on the bed"

You nod, feeling yourself heat up as you follow his order. Moving over to the bed you shuffle up and lean against the headboard, the blankets Bucky had were so soft on your exposed skin, you wanted to spread on them and just feel them.

Bucky stepped out from his trousers and boxers and steps closer to the bed, his eyes looked over your nearly naked body. Your mouth watered from the sight of him, he stood naked and proud, his cock standing to attention. Slowly he climbed onto the bed, and closer to you.

"Gonna take these off" He whispers, he sat himself beside your legs and loops a finger under your underwear, his touch against the sensitive skin of where your hip meets your pussy sending tingles through your body. You nod eagerly at him.

With a cheeky grin, Bucky starts pulling down your underwear, exposing you completely to him. Your cheeks heat up at the slight bush you had, not having shaved for a few days.

Bucky must of been able to tell you were slightly embarrassed, because he comforted you. "A bit of hair isn't going to scare me off, it's natural baby"

He throws your underwear elsewhere. "Open up for me" He whispers.

You listen to him, opening your legs, Bucky climbs between them and moves his hands to under your thighs, lifting you slightly. Bucky moves himself first, lying down on his front in a sniper position. And finally he moves forward, first pressing a kiss to just above your clit. You whine slightly, needing him to do so much more.

"Darling, sounding a bit needy there"

"Needy for you"

"That's what I like to hear" He whispers before leaning down to engulf your clit into his mouth. You moan loudly, your hips jolted up towards him. Bucky moves his hands to hold you in place, against him as his tongue slips out from his mouth and through your folds.

You move your hand down to grip his head, weaving your fingers through his hair, moaning loudly as his tongue pokes into your hole.

You legs shook against his hold, but Bucky held you down, he was making the loudest of noises and maybe if you weren't so far gone you'd be embarrassed but he was sucking your pussy like a man starved. Your head was pressed down against the pillows as Bucky helped you feel better than any other man had ever made you feel.

Moving slightly, Bucky moves his flesh arm across your hips, holding you down with ease with one arm, whilst he still lapped at your clit, he moved his metal hand down, his fingertips touched your wet, needy hold lightly, enough to make you jolt slightly. Without warning, Bucky plunged two metal fingers deep in your pussy, you cry out loudly as he starts pumping them.

It felt so naughty, having his metal fingers inside of you like this, it felt forbidden, only adding to the euphoric feeling you were experiencing. Bucky's fingers moved slowly, sinking completely into you and then he would take them out and repeat, all whilst his tongue and mouth were on your clit. You gripped his hair a little tighter feeling that all familiar feeling in your stomach start bubbling.

"Buck!" You squeal, moving your free hand up to your mouth, you open your mouth and start biting down on your hand.

"Don't hide, please, let me hear you" Bucky says, his lips tracing your clit as he speaks, driving you wild. You listen to him, and move your hand down, his flesh hand moves up to hold your hand, holding you as your pleasure ripples through your body, exploding, you cry loudly as you feel yourself come, the feeling heating up your skin, and making your legs shake. You hear Bucky moan against your folds as he slows his fingers, allowing you to calm from your high.

After a few moments, and your body stops feeling as if it were vibrating, Bucky moves away slightly, before moving back to plant a kiss on your clit, causing a shiver to travel through your body. He kisses up, along your stomach, up to your chest, where he takes your right nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to cause little mews to leave your lips. He moves along, kissing between your breasts, sucking lightly at the skin of your cleavage, leaning a small mark on you.

"Bucky, please, fuck me?" You ask, your voice a little breathless, he looks up, and smirks, moving up even more to press his lips to yours.

"I'll fuck you, I just needed you feeling so good before I do" He whispers, he moves himself, crawling over you so your legs were rested in between his, his hard cock prodded your clit as he moves. He moves one hand down to grip his cock, you watch as he pumps himself a few times before angling his cock to rub against your clit, he pressed down, causing moans to leave both on your lips.

"Lemmie just" You say, moving yourself so your legs were on the outside of his legs, completely spread out for him.

"You're so pretty, fuck, I've told you that before, but holy shit, you're so... breathtaking"

You feel yourself blush from his words, feeling a little silly seeing what he was doing with his cock, he used the tip to rub himself down from your clit to your hole, spreading your increasing wetness over himself.

"Oh shit doll, I didn't ask..." He whispers, looking down to his bare cock.

"Bucky, I want to feel you, not a condom..." You say quietly. "I'm clean, I haven't been with anyone in the past two years"

"Okay.. yeah me neither" He whispers, you smile slightly, knowing he was telling the truth. You lean up, ghosting your lips against his, Bucky moves forward, trying to capture your lips but you move away just before he could. You feel him move his dick, pressing the tip against your hole, a whine left your lips as he pushed the tip inside of you, he was large, you knew this already, but feeling it was a different story.

Moving slightly, you gripped both on his shoulders, bracing yourself for him, Bucky stopped for a moment, pulling out completely, he grabbed a pillow and then used his hand to lift your hips to slot the pillow underneath you. It was far more comfortable, and you'd suppose he would also be able to fuck you deeper from this position. Bucky shot you a toothy grin before pushing the tip of his cock into your pussy, he kept moving, slowly entering you.

"Oh shit, Bucks"

"Fucking made for me" He mutters, leaning down slightly, his long hair tickled your chest. Your pussy burned, it was a good burn, and the pain only increased the pleasure he was giving you, Bucky only made it better by moving his hand down, his flesh one this time, he pressed his thumb against your clit, moving down slightly to gather your wetness before rubbing his thumb in circles. You gripped him harder, your fingernails leaving crescent moon shapes in his arms.

His hips met yours when he was finally inside, you thought you could see stars from how good you were feeling. Neither of you moved for a moment, Bucky looked up and leaned down, pressing his lips to yours. You both kiss for a while, tangling tongues together, the kiss was different from earlier, this one was more passionate, you could feel that this wasn't going to be a one time thing with Bucky, he wanted you, and you could feel that just from the way his lips moved against yours.

Bucky moves back, and your eyes open, seeing his eyes, you melt, you always have.

"I love you" He whispers, so quietly, you almost missed it. You could see the slight panic in his eyes, obviously he mind was spinning, worried you didn't feel the same, but of course you did, Bucky had been your best friend for a while now, and you did, you felt the same.

"I love you" You whisper. "You can move"

He nods, a soft smile on his face, you came to love those rare smiles from him. Bucky's flesh arm moved up to cup your face as his hips moved backwards, his cock, so hard within you stretched you so perfectly when he thrusted into you, you had never felt so full before, it was perfect, you loved it. You were still gripping onto his arms, you moved one hand up to his hair, pulling him back towards you so you could capture his lips in a searing kiss.

Bucky picked up the pace, his hips were slamming into yours, the sound of skin slapping echoed through the room. The kiss had been forgotten as you both hold your mouths open as moans leave both of your lips.

"You feel so perfect" Bucky whispers. "Fuckin' made for me"

"Yes, made for you" You whine back, you stretch your legs as far as they would allow, wanting to feel Bucky fully inside of you, he thrusted into you hard, waiting a few seconds when he was fully stated in you, giving you a few moments to breath and feel the full thickness of his cock. You were hooked, never would you want another men, or another toy. Except for the ones that vibrate, you were sure the super soldier didn't have that ability.

You wondered if the team could hear you, as the two of you were crying out loudly with moans of pure pleasure, you were a few floors away, but you never know.

"Fuckin such a good girl, squeezing me like that" Bucky says, his voice raspy.

You smirked to yourself, and squeezed his dick harder, you moaned loudly feeling him fuck you fast, his thumb pressed down against your clit.

"Fuck, gonna come"

"Yes, come for me" Bucky whines, his hips stuttering against yours. "Wanna feel you, come on my cock baby"

His words were what you needed to be pushed over the edge, your legs shut, tightening against his hips as you feel yourself come, your body shook underneath him, his hand moved from your face to hold your neck, he didn't press down, but the hold alone increased your pleasure. You were completely under Bucky's will and you loved it.

"Fuck, fuck baby" He whimpers, his thrusting becoming slightly more erratic. "Can I... oh fuck... can I come inside of you?"

You nod, feeling at a lost for words, Bucky moans loudly, he moves his hand that was previously rubbing your clit to hold your hip tight as he fucked harder into you. You looked up at him and were taken away, he was so beautiful, so perfect. His hair was sticking to his face, his cheeks red and eyes shut, and he had never looked so beautiful.

"Fuck, gonna paint your insides darling, cover you in me" He rambles, usually you maybe would of taken the mick out of him. But not today. He moans loudly, almost roaring as he slams his hips into you, keeping his entire cock deep inside of you as his seed spurted deep into you.

After a few moments Bucky crashed out and laid on you, careful not to crush you. You wrap an arm around him, holding him close to you.

"You're absolutely going to be the death of me"

"Why didn't we try that sooner?" You ask.

Bucky laughed, nuzzling a little closer to you.

"Hell if I know, we've been dancing around this for far too long" He murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Guess better late than never"

"That's true" You say with a soft giggle. "God that was so good"

"Good? Doll, that was damn near mind-blowing" He says, moving his head to look up to you. "Wanna go again?"

Your eyes widen when you feel his half flaccid cock harden again, still deep inside of you. "Is that even a question?" You say. "What would you like Mr Barnes, a ride or all fours?"

Bucky's breath hitched from your words, obviously imagining both scenarios.

"Damn it, you have a filthy mouth" He growled.

"I do... so what would you like?" You ask, smirking. "Having me on top of you, bouncing on that hard cock of yours or on all fours ready for you to claim me?"

Bucky lets out another growl, his hands already starting to roam over your body with a possessive touch. "On all fours, I want you at my mercy. I want to take you apart slowly"

"Fuck, yeah, let's do that" You whisper, it takes a moment for you and Bucky to move, he had more energy than you. Lucky super soldier. You move yourself to sit on your knees as he watches from behind you. Slowly you lean down, making sure to spread your legs as you do, giving him a full show of your body. You hear him mutter 'fuck' from behind, causing a small smirk from you.

You rest on your forearms, shaking your arse to him. Bucky moves, kneeling behind you, you feel his legs against your arse, he hands move to grip your arse cheeks.

"Perfect" He growls. "Just the way I want you" His voice was rough and filled with a mix of desire of possession.

"Going to give me a big head with all these compliments" You say. Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, his hands were running up your thighs, gently pushing them apart to give him better access.

"Damn right I am. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my eyes on. I'm gonna make sure you know it" His fingers continue to trail up your legs leaving goosebumps in their wake as he slowly moved towards your core.

"Please Bucky, no fingers, I need you" You whimper. Bucky groans at your plea. He grabs himself asn lines up with your pussy, and slowly he pushes in. You can feel how wet you still are, a mixture of your own juices and his come inside of you. It doesn't take Bucky long to be fully within you, the stretch still sent waves of pleasure through you, it almost felt like too much, like he was too big, but you took it.

His fingers dug into your cheeks, you hoped they would leave bruises, you wanted reminders of Bucky all over your body.

"Ready baby?" He asks, he leans down and peppers kisses to your back.

"Fuck, yes" You answer back, your forehead was nearly pressed against the pillows of the bed, and then he started thrusting, only slowly, but the pleasure was unimaginable, you squealed loudly, a string of swears left your lips.

"Tut tut" Bucky mutters, he slaps your arse cheek a few times, leaving a red mark. "Dirty girl, touch yourself"

"Huh?" You ask, your mind lost in pleasure.

"Touch yourself for me baby"

You nod and listen, putting all your weight on your arm, you move the other down to your pussy. Your fingers pressed against you clit, you were so wet, you loved that it was a mixture of you and Bucky as you started rubbing against yourself, just the way you liked it. Bucky's thrusts were hard and slow, and with your fingers in the mix you soon felt yourself coming hard for him, squeezing your cock in your tight grasp.

"That's my girl, so good, coming for me" He mutters, his hips speeding in their wake as he fucks you harder. "Fuck, this pussy is so perfect, I love it, I love you"

You noticed that when Bucky started getting close to coming, he would ramble, you loved it, since he was so quiet usually. His hips returned to that erraticness like he had before.

"God, I wanna keep going" He mutters. "Never wanna stop"

"We have from now on Bucks" You say softly. "Wanna feel you"

"Fuck" He groans, he falls onto you, his hips still going as he spills inside of you, muttering words of love in your ear as he does so.

You stay still for a while, the both of you, before Bucky gently pulls out of you, causing a small wince to leave your lips, he then flops down next to you, leaning down he grabs his shirt from earlier and wipes between your legs and his own cock. You could have a proper shower in a bit, lying down with Bucky was more important right now.

"Damn doll" He mutters as he snuggles up to you, his voice rough and filled with satisfaction. "That was even better than I coulda imagined"

"Oh, so you imagined it?" You ask, smirking as you meet his eyes. You both laid close to one another, your noses nearly touched from your closeness. Bucky chuckled softly, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly as he let out a soft hum of agreement.

"You have no goddamn idea." *he murmured, pressing another kiss to your hair. "Been thinking about this for a lot longer than I care to admit."

"Honestly, me too" You say, feeling your heart leap from his words.

Bucky's heart skipped a beat at your confession, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. He gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing over your skin in a soft gesture of affection.

"All this time, neither of us did a damn thing about it." he said with a soft chuckle, his voice filled with both annoyance and fondness.

"Tell me about it" You muttered. "At least we know now, you gonna take me on a real date then?"

Bucky grinned, his eyes lighting up at the idea. He pulled you closer, his hand still cupping your cheek as he gently nudged your nose with his.

"Damn right I'm going to take you on the best damn date you've ever had. You're mine now, doll. I ain't letting you go anytime soon."

"Promise?" You ask softly. Bucky's gaze was intense, his eyes burning with a fierce possessiveness as he spoke. His voice was confident, leaving no room for doubt.

"Absolutely promise. You're mine, doll. Every goddamn inch of you. And I plan to make sure you never forget it."

"I love you, Bucky Barnes"

"I love you too, doll." he murmured, his voice low and filled with sincerity. "I've loved you for a hell of a long time, and I'm never gonna stop. You're mine forever, you hear me?"

Your heart swelled with affection, you leaned forward pressing your forehead to his, closing your eyes. "Forever, Bucky"

"Damn right." he whispered, "Forever. You're mine. And I'm never letting go."

940 notes · View notes

rimzaaa · 14 days ago

Text

YOU BELONG TO ME

Series!

Chapter Two: The One Rule He Broke

Pairing: Dark!Inho(Frontman) x Fem!Reader (y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: Y/n enters the games just like everyone else — broke, desperate, and unaware of what lies ahead. But what she doesn’t know is that someone behind the scenes has already claimed her. Watching her. Obsessing over her. Ready to break every rule in the game just to keep her safe… because she’s his. Always!

Warnings: Violence, murder (Squid Game canon-style), obsessive behavior, possession, power imbalance, controlling behavior, psychological manipulation, mentions of debt, implied threats, and unhealthy attraction

Author's Note: It’s getting darker and juicier now. We’re starting to get into In-ho’s obsession and how far he’ll go to keep y/n safe… whether she wants him to or not. Thank you all so much for the love on Chapter One — you’re making this series so fun to work on! Reblogs, feedback, and comments mean everything.

Words Count: 1039

Tag list: Let me know if you want to get tagged in this series or other LBH fics.

@weakh3rokdrama @salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @yosoylaprincesa2004 @drewstarkeysrightarm @thehellhaveubeenloca @filthygalli

Y/n’s eyelids fluttered open, the harsh white lights above blinding her until her vision slowly adjusted. Her head throbbed faintly, and for a moment, she couldn’t recall how she’d ended up here.

The last thing she remembered was stepping into the van that picked her up from the bus stop near her apartment.

And now… she was here.

In a vast, warehouse-like room, filled with rows of steel-framed bunk beds stacked to the ceiling and hundreds of people, each in identical green-and-white tracksuits.

Hers read 222.

Her heart pounded as she sat upright, trying to ground herself. She glanced around — everyone else looked just as disoriented, just as terrified.

What the hell is going on? She thought.

Before she could piece together her thoughts, the front wall split open with a loud hiss. A group of masked figures marched in. Dressed in bright pink jumpsuits and holding rifles, their faces were hidden behind black masks, each bearing a shape — circles, triangles, and one with a rectangle.

The rectangular mask stepped forward. “Welcome to Squid Game.”

The players exchanged confused glances.

“You’re all here for the same reason: money. And we will give you that opportunity. All you have to do... is play and win. The final prize is ₩45.6 Billion Won.”

Gasps rippled across the room. Y/n's lips parted in disbelief. That much? For just… playing games? It sounded too good. Too easy.

Someone shouted from the crowd, “Why should we believe you?”

Without answering, the lead guard pressed a button. A large screen descended from the ceiling. A familiar video began playing.

It was them.

Each one of them, playing dakji with that man in the suit. Slaps echoing. Cash exchanging hands.

Y/n felt her stomach twist as she watched herself on screen, taking that slap, holding the money… and the card.

Gasps turned into silence. The tension thickened.

“As you can see,” the guard continued, “you all came here willingly. Some of you have debts. Others face lawsuits, medical bills, or worse. But here, you all have one thing in common—desperation.”

Y/n’s gaze slowly lifted to the giant display of the prize money on the wall. It glowed like salvation. Her mind started racing — it could change everything. A new apartment. A clean slate. A debt-free life.

The guard’s voice rang again. “Step forward and sign the contract. We begin shortly.”

One by one, players approached the table. Y/n grabbed the pen, eyes narrowing at the fine print.

Clause 3: If the majority agrees to end the games, all players will be dismissed. The prize money gathered until that point will be equally distributed.

Why would anyone want to leave? It’s just games…

Still, a strange unease curled in her stomach.

She signed.

After every signature was collected, the players were led down a maze of colorful stairwells and Escher-like hallways. The walls screamed of childish whimsy, a sick contrast to the dread thickening in their throats.

Y/n stood in line for her photo. A camera clicked. She gave her best awkward smile, forcing the nerves down.

But nothing — nothing — prepared her for what came next.

---

They stood in an open field. In front of them, a towering robotic doll with lifeless eyes.

The first game: Red Light, Green Light.

Y/n let out a breathy laugh. “Seriously?” she muttered. “This is what they’re starting with?”

The doll began to sing.

“Green light.”

Movement. Footsteps.

“Red light.”

Stillness.

Then—

BANG.

Blood sprayed across the ground. The man collapsed.

Gasps turned into chaos. People screamed and scrambled to run — a wave of panic crashing through the field.

And one by one, they were shot. Dropping like flies.

Y/n froze.

She had seen death before. Being in the police, she’d witnessed more than enough. But this? This was a massacre.

Her body locked. Breath shallow. Not a twitch.

The rules were clear: move, and you die.

When the song resumed, players crept forward with fear-tensed limbs. One misstep meant death.

Y/n’s instincts kicked in.

Step.

Stop.

Step.

Freeze.

Over and over, pushing her body forward until the line drew closer.

---

Somewhere deep inside the facility — behind steel walls and a dark room — the Frontman sat silently in a leather armchair, swirling a glass of whiskey. His black mask lay beside him, his sharp eyes glued to the big screen.

But when the camera zoomed in on one of the players…

He leaned forward.

His heart dropped.

“…What the...”

He reached for the thick file on the desk, flipping through until he found the sheet labeled Player 222.

And there she was.

“Y/n,” he breathed, voice dark and low. The name felt like a ghost returning to haunt him — or rather, save him.

The girl who used to visit his house. The girl who laughed in his kitchen with Junho. The girl who never even knew he existed.

But he knew her.

He always knew her.

She was the secret obsession that took root in his soul years ago — the only light in the years of blood and darkness. And now she was here.

In his world.

In his game.

And no one — no one — would take her from him.

He snatched the walkie-talkie.

“Command. Player 222 — she is not to be touched. If she breaks a rule, you do nothing. If she fails, you wait for orders. I want her alive. Unharmed.”

There was a pause.

“But sir, she’s just another—”

“She is not ‘just’ anything. She is MINE!” His voice dropped like steel. “If anything happens to her, you answer to me.”

The line cut. The room went silent but for the soft clink of his glass as he set it back down.

He leaned back, gaze returning to the screen — to her.

Y/n had nearly reached the finish line. Her breathing was shallow, panic in every step.

But she made it. Just in time.

She crossed.

And on the other side of the screen, the Frontman smiled — not with kindness, but with a possessive satisfaction that curled deep in his chest.

He whispered, almost reverently,

“Don’t be scared, angel.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“…Always.”

He never broke a rule as the Frontman. But now, he was going to break one—for her.

Chapter 3

422 notes · View notes

witchywithwhiskey · 5 months ago

Note

For the Sweethearts game: Steve Rogers + All Mine 💘😌

more than chocolate

pairing: husband!steve rogers x wife!female reader

summary: after your valentine's day date with your husband, he takes you to a hotel room and you make good use of the bed—but end up heading home to sleep in your own home.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, creampie, breeding kink, daddy kink, choking, biting, rough sex, established bdsm dynamic, light bratting/brat taming, pussy spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, light degradation, husband/wife kink, orgasm control/delay, cockwarming, aftercare, marathon sex, happy ending

word count: 4.5k

a/n: thank you for sending in a prompt, Eva!!! i'm not even the least bit surprised that you chose Steve 🤭 i hope you love this feral, possessive husband version of him, because i had fun writing him. thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

Giddy laughter bubbled up in your chest, tasting like the champagne still lingering on your tongue, which was busy savoring the rich chocolate mousse from the depths of Steve Rogers’ mouth. You dragged his broad body closer, licking the groan from his lips while his arm banded around your waist tightened almost painfully.

The back of his other arm brushed against the soft mounds of your tits while he fumbled for the key card to your hotel room that was stashed in the pocket inside his jacket, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth. Your body was suffused in heat and need that grew with every moment, and you finally broke from the kiss to urge Steve on.

“C’mon, captain, your wife’s pussy is feeling so empty and needy,” you purred in his ear, pressing hot kisses along his jaw. The big super soldier shuddered, and you grinned like a cat that got the cream against his cheek. “Don’t you wanna fill me up? Don’t you wanna put a baby in my belly?”

A rough sound wrenched free from Steve’s mouth, his arm tightening around your waist as he caught your lips in a fierce kiss that sent your mind scattering along the ugly rug of the hotel hallway.

Distantly, you heard the rending of metal, but you didn’t pay it much mind since Steve was lifting you up into his arms and carrying you into the room. He kicked the door shut behind the two of you with another screech of metal that sounded wrong, though you couldn’t say why.

Before you could think to pull away and see what damage Steve had done or ask him about it, his hand was cupping the back of your head, holding you close as he kissed the breath from your lungs and strode deeper into the room.

Your chest was burning for air and your body was throbbing with arousal by the time your husband tossed you down on the soft hotel bed. You took only a brief second to glance at the rose petals strewn across the blanket, arranged in the shape of a heart, before you turned back to the glory that was Steve Rogers.

The former Captain America stood at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes blazing with desire as he tore off his dinner jacket and tossed it somewhere in the room. One hand worked open the top buttons of his light blue dress shirt while the other wrapped around your ankle.

“Is this how it’s going to be tonight, wife?” Steve rumbled, a feral smirk on his face as he yanked you down the mattress, manhandling your body even as he took care not to use too much of his super-soldier strength so he didn’t hurt you.

You shrieked with dizzying laughter, your nice dress riding up to your hips as you spread your legs for your husband, giving him a perfect view of the lacy panties you wore beneath. Steve’s gaze dropped immediately to the juncture of your thighs, his big hands skimming up your legs and pushing them wide open so you were on full display for him.

“You think you can tease me into breeding this pretty little pussy?” he asked darkly, palming your hot cunt through the thin fabric of your panties, which were already damp with your desire. “You think you can bat those pretty eyes and kiss me with those pretty lips and I’ll rut you until you’re so full of my cum, there’s no way you’re not knocked up?”

His fingers pushed shallowly into your dripping hole, fucking you in a poor mimicry of what you actually needed. But your panties were still in the way, preventing him from slipping all the way inside your needy pussy, teasing you with the penetration you so desperately needed.

Your head thrashed on the bedspread, rose petals feeling like silk against your skin, and you made the most pathetic sound, partway between a whimper and a whine. Your hips worked hard against Steve’s hand, grinding your greedy pussy against his palm as you tried to take his fingers deeper, to where you needed them.

“Yes, I do, captain,” you huffed, batting your eyes up at your husband, your hands wrapping around Steve’s strong forearm and trying to shove his hand deeper between your thighs.

But Steve was having none of it. He pulled away from your pussy, gathering your wrists in his big hand and pinned them to the bed above your head. The move had his big body covering yours, but he held himself aloft, making sure you had nothing to grind against while his hips held your thighs open.

“Are you sure about that, baby?” Steve asked in a dangerously calm tone.

Despite the need pounding insistently in your bloodstream, you couldn’t help but rile up your husband even more. So you pursed your lips together and blew him a kiss.

Steve’s blue eyes darkened until they were nearly the mean, murky color of the Atlantic Ocean, and he shifted to one side.

That was all the warning you got before Steve’s big hand came down between your thighs, giving your pussy a sharp spank.

The sting wrenched a shrill sound from your throat, but the pain quickly melted into a burning heat that had your hips squirming and your legs flailing. Your calves curled around Steve’s legs in an attempt to draw him back between your thighs.

“Daddy, please,” you cried, a sob of pleasure falling from your lips while Steve rubbed your pussy, making a mess of your slit as you leaked through your panties and into his hand.

“What was that, baby?” Steve asked mockingly, watching you squirm beneath him with a glint in his eye that made it clear you’d pushed him to the point of no return. “Something about you thinking you could brat your way into getting a baby in your belly?”

Steve pulled his hand away from your pussy and pressed down on your stomach, pinning you to the bed and leaving you to only writhe. He held you like that for a long moment, your legs twisting and hips humping the empty air, until you’d nearly worked yourself up to tears.

“Daddy, daddy, please!” Your voice was a pathetic whine, and your eyes were misty as you stared up at your husband. “I’ll be good, I promise,” you begged, your lips pursed in a perfect pout. “Just fill me up—please, please, please, I need it!”

“Ah, there she is,” Steve rumbled, his voice switching to a deep, pleased tone instantly. “My sweet wife, begging so pretty like such a good girl for daddy.” He ducked down and brushed a kiss to your cheek, catching the single tear that had fallen from your eye. “That’s how pretty girls get what they want—by asking nicely.”

You grumbled a little, but couldn’t help but preen under his sweet kisses and sweeter praise, making Steve chuckle against your skin. He pressed one last kiss to your lips and then he was standing up, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach with ease.

Carefully, he pulled down the zipper of your dress, his fingers skimming along your spine and making you shiver as you pressed your face into the rose petals on the bedspread, inhaling their sweet scent as your husband undressed you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Steve lay the dress carefully over the chair in the corner, then he was back, ripping your panties down over your ass and thighs, shoving them in the pocket of his slacks while his other hand curled around your hip.

“On your hands and knees, wife,” Steve ordered in a gruff voice, helping to lift you up into position. His hands made quick work of his belt and fly while you arranged yourself on your hands and knees on the edge of the bed.

Turning your head, you caught Steve’s eye over your shoulder, shooting him a smile while you arched your back and wiggled your hips for him. His blue eyes sparkled with love as he smiled back, but then his gaze dropped to your ass and he bit back a groan.

Your husband ran his hands appreciatively up your thighs, then down your sides, reaching around to your front to grope your tits while he pressed kisses along your spine. You arched into his touch, letting out a needy whine when he plucked and pinched your nipples in just the way you liked.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby,” Steve murmured into your skin, making you shiver at the depth of emotion in his tone. “Looked so gorgeous dolled up for our Valentine’s date tonight,” he said, sinking his teeth carefully into the curve of your shoulder, making you moan and melt further beneath his talented mouth. “But I’ll always love seeing you naked and begging for my cock.”

“Thank you, daddy,” you said sweetly, pushing your hips back into Steve’s lap and feeling his cock slip between your thighs. Your legs were already a mess with your arousal and you could feel your dripping heat coating the hard length of him as he thrust lazily between your thighs. “May I have your cock now—pretty please?”

The sweetness in your tone made Steve chuckle against your shoulder blade. But he grabbed his cock and rubbed the tip up and down your wet slit, teasing your tight little hole with everything you wanted.

“Look at you,” he cooed teasingly, and you could hear the self-satisfied smirk in his tone. “Such a good, sweet girl when you ask nicely.” He pushed the crown of his cock into your hole before pulling out, making your whole body shiver with need as a whine worked its way up your throat. “Tell daddy how bad you want my cock, baby.”

“Sooo bad, daddy,” you wailed, trying to push back on Steve’s hard length. But he held your hip in a tight grip, making sure you only got the tip of his cock. “I want it so bad—more than chocolate, more than champagne, more than anything, daddy, please!”

“Good girl, such a good girl for your husband,” Steve purred, sliding inside your dripping cunt and filling you up with one firm stroke.

The feeling of him filling you up after teasing you for so long, his thick cock stretching you out so perfectly, wrung a delighted sob from your lips. You buried your face in the rose petals and blankets as you cried at the pleasure rolling through your body in waves.

Steve gave you a long moment to adjust to his cock, and then his hand was wrapping around the front of your neck and he was lifting your body until your back was to his chest. The position forced his cock even deeper inside your pussy and you moaned loudly, your hands grabbing Steve’s thick thighs for something to hold onto.

“Open your eyes, pretty baby,” Steve cooed in your ear.

As soon as you did, your eyes were met with the sight of your body framed by your husband’s larger form and you realized there was a mirror hanging over the head of the bed. It gave you a perfect view of your pussy impaled on your husband’s cock, your tits bouncing as you breathed heavily.

Your entire, naked body was on display, and behind you stood Steve. He still wore the light blue shirt he’d donned for dinner, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his dark slacks were pushed down his thighs only far enough to free his cock. His strong, golden arms were holding you pinned to his chest, one hand curving possessively around your throat while the other banded around your middle beneath your tits.

Your husband’s blue eyes were sparkling with a possessive hunger as he caught your gaze in the mirror.

“All mine.”

Steve’s voice was little more than a growl in your ear, the possessiveness trickling down your spine and settling in your belly only adding to the heat in your core. In the mirror, you could see the place where his cock split you open, where his hand was holding your throat in a dominating grip, and your pussy gushed with even more arousal.

“You’re all mine, wife,” Steve said again, catching your eye in the mirror and letting you see the depth of the devotion burning in his gaze. “Now and forever.”

His words made you sink deeper into his grip, a pleased smile curling your lips as your hands reached for him. One gripped his strong thigh, nails digging into his golden skin hard enough to make his hips stutter with an instinctive thrust. The fingers of your other hand slid into the blond hair at the back of Steve’s head, curling in the strands and yanking on them just enough to make your husband’s eyes flash in the mirror.

“And you’re all mine, husband, now and forever,” you purred in return, echoing his words and enjoying the way Steve’s cock twitched deep in your cunt at the depth of the possessiveness in your tone. It was enough to make you smirk, the brattiness you’d felt earlier in the evening coming back to the surface. “Now, be a good husband and put a baby in your wife’s belly, captain.”

You barely had the chance to shoot your husband a playful wink before his eyes darkened, his pupils blowing wide and blotting out the blue of his irises. Steve let out a furious growl, his face contorting with determination as he started bouncing you on his cock, using his firm grip on your throat and body to lift you up and slam you down on his hard length.

“You’re going to regret that, wife,” he snarled in your ear, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat while he fucked you. “I’m going to use your body like my own personal fucktoy, and then maybe you’ll get my cum—if you can show me you can be a good girl and take my cock.”

Your husband looked so fierce in the mirror over the bed, fucking you hard and fast and giving you every inch of his cock over and over and over again. Still, you couldn’t help but be a little menace, torturing both of you so you could get everything you wanted.

“Harder, daddy,” you whined, your nails digging deeper into Steve’s thigh, feeling his muscles working beneath your fingertips as he thrust into you hard enough that the sound of his skin slapping against yours met your ears. “Choke me harder.”

“Bratty, perfect girl,” Steve muttered, choking you harder as he fucked you, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck and making pleasure swim across your vision.

It wasn’t long before you were close to the edge of your release, moans and pleading whimpers spilling freely from your lips. You clung to Steve desperately, your hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, but the closer you got, the more he slowed.

Just when you were about to tip over the edge, Steve stopped entirely. He yanked you down on his cock until you were impaled so thoroughly, you swore you could feel him in your guts. Then he dropped the hand not wrapped around your throat to your pussy.

“If you want my seed, baby, you’re gonna cum from getting your clit spanked, d’you hear me?” Steve growled in your ear, his blue eyes glittering and dark in the mirror as you caught his eye.

A whining sound of protest fell from your lips, and Steve waited a beat, but you didn’t voice your safe word. You knew your husband would stop immediately if you said the word you’d established years ago, but you didn’t really want him to stop.

Steve chuckled against your cheek, swatting your clit with the flat of his fingers, making you cry out and squirm in his hold. He adjusted his grip, his hand around your throat pinning you to his chest while he tapped teasingly against your clit.

“You’ll be a good girl for daddy, won’t you, baby?” he cooed mockingly, smacking your clit a little harder and chuckling when your whole body jerked in his hold. But you were no match for his super-soldier strength, so all you could do was sit on his cock and take it, whimpers and moans falling mindlessly from your lips. “Of course you will,” he murmured darkly in your ear. “Because you want daddy to knock you up, don’t you, baby?”

A feral little kitten snarl tore from your mouth at the condescension in his tone, but still you didn’t stop him. Steve was stubborn and you knew you were going to cum from him spanking your pussy simply because he had the sheer determination to make it happen—and because he knew exactly how to work your body, how to walk the line of pleasure and pain until you were seeing stars.

Steve rocked into you with his hips, grinding his cock deep into your cunt, and spanked your clit sharply, making you cry out and convulse in his arms. But that damn super-soldier strength meant you weren’t going anywhere.

After five spanks, you lost count, but thankfully, you came not long after.

Your release rushed over you suddenly, dragging you over the edge kicking and screaming, the stinging pain of Steve’s spanking hand washed away in a deluge of burning, all-consuming pleasure. It was the most intense orgasm of your life, and you screamed your release into the hotel room, your body tightening and your nails digging so hard into Steve’s forearm, you thought you might draw blood.

While you were in the throes of pleasure, you heard Steve grunt and groan behind you. His arms tightened around your body and his hips pressed flush to your ass as he buried himself as deep in you as possible. Then you felt the telltale twitching of his cock, and knew he was spilling his seed deep in your cunt, flooding your womb with his cum.

The two of you rode out your releases together, gasping and clinging to each other as you eked out every ounce of pleasure from your bodies. Before you collapse into a puddle among the rose petals, Steve gathered you up in his arms and climbed into the bed, laying you down in the center with his body behind you, holding you close.

He managed to make sure his cock didn’t pull out of your still fluttering channel and you sighed in relief—you didn’t want him slipping out of you for the rest of the night. You wanted him plugging you full and making sure his seed would take in your womb.

“That was fun,” you murmured, reaching back and tugging on Steve’s hair until your mouth found his for a kiss. It was a little clumsy, but you could feel Steve’s smile against your lips, so it was perfect. “I love it when you get all mean with me,” you whispered against his mouth, unable to stop yourself from grinning.

Steve’s cheeks pinked and he kissed you more tenderly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked softly, his fingers smoothing gently down either side of your neck, watching your face carefully for any flinches of pain.

“No, I’m ok,” you assured him, waiting patiently while he insisted on kissing every spot where his fingers had dug into your neck when he’d choked you.

“Good,” he said on a relieved sigh, burying his face in your neck. His hand slid down your front, laying possessively over your belly. “Because you’re going to need to take more of my cum if we’re going to make sure you’re knocked up tonight, wife.”

A giggle slipped from your lips and you wiggled your ass back into Steve’s lap, feeling him growing hard again inside you. “Gimme all ya got, captain,” you shot back over your shoulder, catching Steve’s eye and giving him a playful smirk.

For the rest of the evening, you and Steve stayed in that hotel room bed, mussing the blankets and sending rose petals flying as you made love over and over again like you couldn’t get enough of each other—which you couldn’t. You’d never get enough of the feeling of Steve’s cock pumping you full of cum, and he’d never get enough of your sweet sounds while your pussy clenched down greedily on his hard length.

By the time you were too exhausted to move, you’d lost count of how many loads of cum Steve had filled you with, but you were hopeful that his seed would take and your belly would grow with his child. You were cooing deliriously to your cum-filled stomach while Steve carried you to the bathroom and cleaned you up.

When the two of you made it back to the bed, slipping beneath the sheets and not caring when you found some rose petals had made it into the bed, you were half asleep. You curled up into Steve’s side and tried to drift off…

But, even though you’d had enough orgasms that it should’ve been easy to fall asleep, you couldn’t seem to get comfortable in the hotel room bed. The pillows were too lumpy and the sheets were too scratchy, and even with your nose pressed into Steve’s bare skin, the room smelled too different from home.

After a few minutes of your restless body squirming against his, Steve chuckled and brushed a kiss to your forehead.

“Do you wanna go home, baby?” he asked softly, humor and affection thick in his tone. “Sleep in our own bed?”

“Yeah,” you said on a sigh, giving up the fight to fall asleep and lifting your head to look at your husband. Even in the dark of the hotel room, you could see his eyes glittering with love and you felt suddenly guilty, hiding your face in his chest. “I’m sorry—you got us this nice hotel room for the whole night, but I can’t sleep here.”

“That’s alright, baby,” Steve assured you, running his hand soothingly up and down your spine. “We got plenty of use out of it,” he said, laughing softly to himself. Then he wrapped his arms around you and lifted you from the bed, placing you carefully on your feet. “Don’t you think?” he asked playfully.

Steve turned on the light and you looked around at the completely destroyed room. There were rose petals everywhere and the blankets on the bed were mussed beyond recognition, the pillows strewn haphazardly up and down the mattress. It gave you a small flicker of pride to see how thoroughly you’d used the bed with your husband and you grinned at him.

“Yeah, I think we did.”

As quickly as you could manage, you and Steve dressed and made your way to the door. There, Steve had to wrench it open, confirming your suspicions that he’d broken the lock earlier when he couldn’t get the key card out of his jacket pocket.

At the front desk, Steve reported the damage and told the clerk to charge his card for the repairs while you tried to muffle your giggles in the back of his suit jacket.

When he was done checking out, Steve laced his fingers with yours and pulled you toward the parking garage, both of you trying—and failing—to stifle your laughter.

It was late when you leaned against Steve’s side as he unlocked the front door of the brownstone the two of you called home. You toed out of your shoes as soon as you were inside, leaving them by the door as you followed the low, warm light filtering out of the living room.

You padded around to the front of the couch, grabbing the remote for the TV and flicking it off before stopping and taking in the sight in front of you. Steve walked up behind you and slid his arms around your waist, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as the two of you stared down at the couch.

“Your friends are terrible babysitters,” you whispered, cutting a look at Steve out of the corner of your eye, which only made him snort softly. The sound tickled your skin and sent a small shiver racing down your spine.

“What can I say, our little sweet pea has them wrapped around her fingers,” he responded easily, brushing a kiss to your cheek before unraveling himself from around your body and moving toward the couch.

Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson were both asleep on the couch, their heads lolling against the back and loud snores spilling from their mouths. Between them, your daughter was snuggled in her favorite blanket, which would’ve been adorable if it wasn’t so many hours past her bedtime.

“Papa?” your daughter murmured sleepily as Steve gathered her up in his arms, blanket and all, tucking her in close to his chest while her little arms wound around his neck. “Wan sleep wif you and mama,” she whispered before burying her little face in your husband’s collarbone.

“She refused to go to bed until you got home,” Sam said gruffly from the couch, where he was waking. He covered his mouth with a fist while he yawned, his other hand pushing at Bucky’s shoulder, but the super-soldier ducked out of the way with a grumpy grunt.

“We all know where she gets that stubbornness from, don’t we?” he grumbled, shooting you a wink and cutting his head toward Steve, who was heading in the direction of the stairs leading up to the second floor of the brownstone.

You muffled a snort into your palm and Steve cut you a look over his shoulder that only made you laugh louder.

“Oh, she definitely gets it from me,” you said innocently, shooting your husband a wink as you turned back to his friends, who were standing and gathering their things. “Thanks for watching her.”

“Anytime,” Sam said, giving you a hug. Bucky echoed his sentiment and hugged you as well before the two of them saw themselves out.

You turned off the lights on the lower level, then followed Steve upstairs to your bedroom. He’d already tucked your daughter into the middle of your bed and was in the closet changing into his pajamas. The two of you shared a few sleepy kisses as you changed, then you slipped into bed, snuggling your daughter together.

Before the three of you fell asleep, Steve whispered sleepily, “How do you feel about having a little brother or sister, sweet pea?”

“Want it, papa,” she huffed softly, and you couldn’t help but kiss her little head as affection and love surged in your heart.

Steve caught your eye over your daughter’s head and he shot you a wink. “More than chocolate?” he asked, but his only answer was your daughter’s light snoring.

You and your husband giggled silently and you reached for his hand, your fingers tangling together as your eyelids drooped. You fell asleep within seconds, a smile on your face as you were surrounded by love, delighted by the idea of adding another person to your little family.

You wanted it more the chocolate, more than champagne, more than anything, to grow your family with your husband, Steve Rogers—and you’d get exactly that. Nine months after Valentine’s Day.

sweethearts game masterlist

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers au #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans smut #chris evans characters #witchywithwhiskey's sweethearts #witchywithwhiskeywork #biteofcherry

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toxileaf · 2 months ago

Text

griefer has that gamer rizz

[Y0. C0M3 0V3R T0 MY CR1B. 1 G0T SNACK5.]

sent 30s ago

(1.1k words cross-posted to Ao3 || Griefer/Reader)

Looking up from your phone, you gaze back at the doorway in front of you, the entrance obscured with vines and leaves.

You've been here once before, for a vastly different reason than now. Now, you're stood in front of his "cribs" door not as an enemy, but as a friend. After a second of pause, you decide to make your presence known with a yell, seeing as there was no door.

"Griefer!" Shouting to the other side of the wall, you try not to sound too loud, lest you bother the Woodsmen. "I'm here!!"

A few thunks and bumps could be heard from beyond the vines, followed by fast the thumping of steps approaching the entrance right before Griefer pops out through the foliage.

"Y- Y0-!! 1- UH- D1DN'T 3XP3CT Y0U T0 B3 *THAT* QU1CK!1? I T3XT3D Y0U L1K3, 0N3 M1NUT3 AG0 DUD3...???????"

His clothes are messy, jacket haphazardly put on and belt halfway undone. Was he not ready when he sent the text?

"Of course I got here quickly, I've been here before!" I try to give him an easy smile, attempting to dissuade his tension. Maybe I should have waited a bit longer before fast-travelling here...

"?? THAT5 N0T WHAT 1 M3ANT?" He cocks an odd look at you.

"BUT W3LL- 1F Y0U W3R3 *THAT* 3XC1T3D T0 533 M3..." A wide smirk spreads across his face as he flushes and looks to the side in pride.

"H3H. 1'LL 5PAR3 Y0U TH3 3MBARRA5M3NT, PUNK." With the same signature smug swagger, he turns around and leads you into his place.

You take the time to give it a proper look, being unable to fully observe the place the last time you were here.

There's still the same likely-stolen card displays and posters on the wall riddled with grammar mistakes, but there's a rather noticeable decrease in the number of half-drunk or empty soda cans around the room.

It seems he pulled himself at least the slightest bit together after being cured from his Venomshank-induced affliction. It widens the smile on your face a little to know this.

"4LR1GHT, T4K3 A 53AT. Y0U W4NNA PLAY 50M3 BR1CKBATTL3 PARTY?" You look over to him to see him by a couch and TV set-up. It didn't seem new, by the look of the patches on the couch and fading stickers on the TV, but it definitely wasn't there before. He likely brought it up from his actual home.

Taking a careful seat on the couch, wary of any stains (which upon further inspection, the couch was surprisingly free of. maybe he just took it off some random person's doorstep..? the idea of GRIEFER having a stainless couch is impossible to you.), you take in the wide array of snacks on the coffee table. Including a good amount of The Special's... for some reason?

You remember giving a copy of the recipe to Mayor Thaniyel, just in case, but you didn't expect it to ACTUALLY be used.

...Did getting transformed back somehow make Griefer acquire a taste for onion rings and compost? Odd. So very odd. But upon looking over the other offerings laid out, any true discomfort is immediately dissuaded. You greatly appreciate the presence of a good pie.

Griefer hands you a controller, snapping you out of your thoughts. You take it, and he sits down right next to you, his own in hand. He's surprisingly close, actually. Maybe he just doesn't have many issues with personal space.

The two of you load up a party game and get to playing. He, of course, knows all the little tricks and gimmicks to get an edge over you in any competitive mini-games.

"L0L. G3T PWN3D N00B- 0H, H3Y, CH3CK TH15 TR1CK 0UT!" Griefer constantly showed off his skills to you, while you just smiled and nodded, asking after to show interest.

You didn't totally care about video games like that, but you liked seeing him happy. Everytime he showed you something he thought was cool, he had this adorable smile on his face... It made you happy as well. So you let him continue on.

Though there were no windows, you could see the time in the corner of the screen growing later whenever you hopped from game to game. But neither you nor him got much more tired, on account of the sugary snacks he supplied you two with since the afternoon.

Though, even though you could tell Griefer definitely wasn't getting more tired, you noticed *something* was bothering him. He would look away all awkward each time your eyes met, and fall into silence like he was thinking hard about something.

After a bit, it seemed like he finally mustered some courage, and he piped up with a stutter.

"..UH.. L- L00K..-!! 1 CAN D0 TH15 TR1CK W1TH 0N3 HAND!!!" Griefer keeps one hand on the controller, pulling off a "51CK 360 N0-SC0P3", while he swiftly slides his other arm around you, his hand grabbing your shoulder and pulling you in.

Being all the more closer to Griefer, you notice his skin flushing red, and could almost hear the pounding of his heart. It surely couldn't be the sound of your own, since it felt like it had stopped in your chest.

A heated silence passes, almost feeling like an eternity and a half, before he quietly speaks to you. The warmth of his breath hits the top of your ear, sending countless shivers down your back.

"UH.. Y- Y0U'R3 0KAY W1TH TH15, R1GHT..?" You finally notice your half of the split-screen is red, text saying you lost the round. It takes you a bit before you can gather yourself to give a response.

"Yeah-!! Totally! I- I like this!" You panic while responding, and you panic after responding. Why did you say it like *that*!?

While you're wrapped up in your own mortification, Griefer sets down his controller beside him, and moves in closer to you, both his arms now wrapped around your shoulders.

"TH3N.. L3T5 G0 FURTH3R, Y3AH?"

[HAHA FADE TO BLACK PUNKS im not writing smut jjst yet]

You slowly wake, trying to roll over in bed until you're stopped by something warm and sorta leafy pulling you in. Then you remember the bed you're in likely isn't yours at all, though you don't recall actually getting on the bed...

"Hngh... Griefer.." He greets you good morning by nuzzling his face into your hair, leaving kisses atop your head.

"Dude, gross... Your morning breath stinks.." You whine and try to turn away from him, right before he wraps his arms around you even tighter and his lips move down from the top of your head to your ear, giving it a small playful bite.

Writhing around even more, he has the audacity to laugh at your distress while you're captive in his arms.

"G00D M0RN1NG, BAB3..."

originally started writing this to write making out with griefer sloppy style but i lost the horny halfway thru so. another day it is. maybe i shall update with smut who knows but 4now this is all u guyz get. and i know ull eat it for u r starved,.,.!!! as am i. hence why i wrote this. lawlz.

#player x griefer #toxichero #griefer x reader #griefer x player #griefer blocktales x player #griefer blocktales x reader #blocktales griefer x player #blocktale griefer x reader #fuck idk i cant be bothered to put every goddamn tag for griefer/reader in the world #reader insert #x reader #yaba daba doo #i fricking LOVE GRIEFER #maybe i will Not tag blocktales #or the griefer Character tag fkr that matter #i value in depth tagging but. it scares me.#cross posted to ao3 btw

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dietcane · 2 months ago

Text

⚢ barbed wire baby - prologue

cw: dead dove, do not eat !!, age gap (ellie is late 30's, reader is 21), elements of domestic violence, toxic relationship, death, themes of organized crime (gangs/mafia/drug cartels), cheating, bribery, abuse (physical, drugs, alcohol), mentioned gambling, bloodplay, strap-on usage, heavy manipulation, dark!ellie. more to be added!!

synopsis: as the adrenaline becomes more and more overwhelming, so does the danger. stakes are higher than ever. dingy prison cells, double entendres whispered through jail phones. knowing glances exchanged with prison guards. her modern day bonnie to her clyde. your life weighs in the balance. you know ellie has pull inside and out. you have to decide if you're willing to risk everything for her. are you?

ULTRAVIOLENCE

⤷ m.list

Casinos were one of Ellie's favorite pastimes. Poker chips rolled between tattooed fingers, crystal whiskey glasses, and half-naked women for dealers. She was a shark. Cards in hand, expression deadpan, and a mountain of poker chips beside her. Ellie wasn't a flamboyant poker player. She didn't do ‘splash-in-the-pots’ or string bets. She played quiet, dirty even. But she never cheated. Games played with slow rolls, check-raises, and a daunting poker face. Ellie was good. Barely ever lost. She’d really only ever lost to her father, a very powerful man. A man with enough pull to get rid of you with a snap of his fingers. Her father was a dirty man. Dirty man with jailbait for arm candy. Barely legal nineteen and twenty-year-olds draped over him, high on whatever was just smuggled in through their family port. Joel Miller was a nightmare come to life. And Ellie? She was worse.

To say Ellie is powerful is a devastating understatement. She owned over half of the casinos in the eastern half of the country and nearly all of the ones in Vegas. She had the police and even some of the FBI tucked neatly into her pockets. Judges, too. She had everything. Monopolies on top of monopolies. Ports lugging in drugs, guns, *women*. Anything you could think of, she had.

But most importantly? She had you. Caged underneath her palms, strings pulled and orchestrated, all to the dangerous *bum-bum-bum* of her own drum. You were her girl. Her caged dove. Caged in a jail of steel with barely any room to peek through. Captive. Ellie doesn't like that word, though. Made it seem like she held you against your will, on display like a puppet. That wasn't the case though.. right?

She preferred *attached*. Attached to her like arm candy. Red lips, tight dresses, high heels. Typical WAG attire of Ellie’s caliber. Ellie dictated every single thing about you. The color of your hair, your nails, your outfits, and makeup. Even what you ate. She controlled every aspect of your being. You didn't have to think about a single thing. She took care of all that. You didn't dare question her. But really, why would you?

You learned about questioning and talking back to her a long time ago. Bright-eyed and barely eighteen at the doorstep of her bar, begging for a job. For stability. Young and fiery and full of personality. Full of *fire*. She snuffed that fire out very quickly. She was thirty-six. Full of wisdom and experience. Everyone warned you against going towards those shady bars for work. You didn't listen. Thirty-six, tired eyes, short auburn hair. She was powerful and it leaked out of every single pore. You were desperate for stability, though. More than anything. A half-assed promise of ‘I’ll do anything you ask. Anything. Everything. I just need to get by.’ You learned very quickly the weight of your words. Words tossed out in a fit of pleading and despair. A big mistake, that was. That night she gave you a home. A purpose. You almost lost it that night, too.

“You’ll be one of my girls. We call ‘em bar bunnies. Or bottle girls if you want to fake being classy.” Her voice was smooth. Decadent. You hung onto every single syllable. You followed closely behind her as she navigated her way through the back rooms of her bar. The back hallways of the club were a stark contrast to the opulent main floor – a labyrinth of concrete and exposed pipes, smelling faintly of stale smoke and desperation. You trailed after Ellie, her heavy boots resonating against the grimy floor as she navigated the maze with unsettling confidence. Blindly following her. Following her lead into the underbelly of a life you barely understood. A life where she held more power than you could even start to think of or imagine.

Topless girls filtered out of private rooms and back out onto the floor. Skimpy costumes held up by thin strings tied into pretty little bows. Clouds of seductive perfume wafted off of them. They were all gorgeous. Dancers covered in shiny body glitter, shimmery eyeshadows, and sticky lip glosses. A door creaked open down the hall, spilling a brief burst of music and muffled laughter into the dim corridor. A dancer emerged, her sequined skirt slightly askew with her bra pulled below her tits, her expression a practiced mask of indifference. She brushed past Ellie, heading towards the main club area. As she passed, Ellie's lips quirked into a subtle, knowing smirk. She smirked at her. A coil tightened in your stomach. A heavy, unwelcome coil. Lined with disgust and laced with an unspecified yearning.

It wasn't that familiar coil of arousal. The knowing feeling of slicking up in your panties, sweat beading at your hairline, and pants for air. This was something else. A feeling rearing its ugly head into your stomach. Jealousy. Envy. You were filled with an overwhelming sense of it. It felt like you were going to burn from the inside out. Nerve ends frayed and burnt. Your lungs felt like they were filled with smoke. A simple action like that? Working you up and filling you with unbridled rage? Unlike you. A lazy smirk directed at a topless stripper? Really? This wasn’t like you.

Ellie turned to glance at you, a lazy action, yet her gaze was sharp enough to cut through steel, and scoffed, the sound laced with something akin to amusement and a hint of something else, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. "An aversion to my dancers, I see." Her eyes, dark and knowing, bore into you, dissecting your feigned composure with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It felt like being pinned under a microscope, every flaw magnified, every secret laid bare for her amusement. A flush, unwelcome and betraying, bloomed across your cheeks, a traitorous flag signaling the inner turmoil you desperately tried to conceal. It crept up your neck, painting you in shades of vulnerability you never intended to reveal. "It's nothing," you managed, the words a pathetic whisper, a mere puff of air that barely escaped your lips, sounding weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

Ellie's smirk widened, morphing into a predatory curve that hinted at a dangerous game, a silent promise of pleasure and pain intertwined. "Is it now?" she purred, her voice a silken caress that sent a shiver tracing its way down your spine, prickling your skin and setting your nerve endings alight. She turned her back to you again. Broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored suit. Crisp lines and cinched waists under belts. She was the epitome of clean-cut. Straight lines, sharp edges.

"Perhaps," she murmured, her gaze never wavering, never releasing you from its captive hold, "You’ll learn eventually, little girl." The words hung between you, suspended in the air like a fragile crystal, heavy with implication, a challenge, an accusation, and a promise all wrapped into one exquisitely dangerous package. You fought to meet her gaze, to hold your ground and maintain some semblance of control, but the weight of her scrutiny was a physical force, pressing down on you, stealing the air from your lungs, and threatening to drown you in the turbulent depths of your unspoken desires. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaos within, as you struggled to find your voice, to formulate a response that wouldn't betray the raw, visceral emotions raging beneath the surface.

You clear your throat. “I just think it's stupid. Dancing naked for someone else's entertainment? I think it makes you trash—,” You don't get to finish your sentence. The words were barely out of your mouth, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, when the world exploded in a blinding flash of pain. Ellie's hand, surprisingly swift and strong, connected with your cheek with a sickening thud, the force of the blow snapping your head to the side. A wave of dizziness washed over you, leaving you momentarily disoriented and gasping for breath. The taste of copper filled your mouth, acrid and metallic, as a thin trickle of blood escaped from the corner of your lip. The room spun, the vibrant colors of the club swirling into a nauseating vortex, and the music, once a pulsating rhythm, now pounded against your skull like a relentless hammer.

Your ears rang, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the murmurs of the surrounding crowd, isolating you in a bubble of shock and disorientation. The sting on your cheek intensified, a burning fire that radiated outwards, consuming your senses and leaving you reeling in a haze of pain and disbelief. Your cheek throbs. You touch your cheek in shock, pulling back shaky fingers to see blood. Your eyes zero in on her rings. Gold, freezing cold and snug around her fingers. They nicked you. Leaving small scars and blood bubbling to the surface. She stands in front of you, arms crossed against her chest. The sleeves of her suit strains against her toned arms. You swallow. You’re intimidated. You’re scared. She’s consuming every single one of your senses until you can’t do anything without her having some sort of twisted influence over you.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to me. My business, my rules. I might as well fucking put you up on stage. See how trashy it really is.”

You learned that day, indeed. She made you dance for six months. Tireless hours practicing. Leaving colorful bruises in yellow and red and purple all over your thighs and between your knees.

Six months. One hundred eighty-three days. Four thousand three hundred eighty hours. Two hundred sixty-two thousand eight hundred minutes. You didn't dance for her club. The club and its filthy rich partygoers, no. She made you her own *private* dancer. Critiqued you on every single minute detail the usual coked-out customers wouldn't notice.

Point your feet. Pull your back in. Arch harder. Orders barked out with heavy expectations for them to be followed. Belts lashed out against body parts as a warning, hair tugged to position your head, forceful (yet light impact, thank god) smacks to get your attention on her. You learned. Learned to appease and be docile. Speak when spoken to. Learned to be her caged dove. Learned to be her ride or die, damn near. Her right hand. In six months, you’d done so many depraved things besides enjoy her merciless demands. Only for her.

The casino is loud and bustling. Ellie has you perched over her thigh, slotting the muscular skin between your thighs. The scent of her cologne envelopes you whole. Strong wafts of black coffee, spice and vanilla all wrapped into one. Her hand is digging into your hip. The game is frustrating her. Her cold rings carve into your hip bones and you can feel the indents already beginning to form. Her breathing is calm despite the anger bridling beneath her surface. Ellie flicks the ash of her cigarette carelessly, disregarding the yelp it tugs out of her opponent as it lands onto his leg. Chips click loudly as the final round progresses- only Ellie and some sleazy, grubby man across from her are left. He goes all in and Ellie prods her tongue into her cheek. You glance at her cards- a royal flush. Rare that you get one of those. She presents nervously, shifting you in her lap. She’s bluffing. Her opponent is getting cocky. He takes a long swig of his cheap beer and shakes his head at Ellie. His cards go down- a straight flush. Ellie huffs and splays out her cards. She wins, you think. You don't pay attention to these meaningless games. She collects her rewards and stands with you.

She tugs you over to a corner of the bar, forcing you to sit as she stands behind you. There’s a football game playing faintly in the background, drowned out by incessant laughter and cheers. The repetitive hum of the slot machines hummed quietly, soft echo of beeps and chimes drifting into the dimly lit bar area. Ellie's lips, soft yet insistent, pecked repeatedly against your neck. It tickled. Her lips were slightly chapped, leaving wet trails behind as she progressed up your neck and behind your ear. The scent of expensive cologne mingled and tangled with her always present aroma of whiskey. You instinctively shuddered at the ghost of her lashes against your skin.

“Els.” You’ve always been soft spoken with her, save for the night you met. Flame snuffed out, leaving smoky wisps behind. No more fight. Just quiet obedience. She kisses with more fervor, more force and intention behind it.

"You can tell me to stop," Ellie murmured, her voice a husky whisper that barely carried over the bustle of the casino. Her fingers, laced through your hair, tightening slightly. A warning. Tell me to stop. Only if you dare. The illusion of a choice. You couldn't say no. It was a test. Were you going to defy her or not? You don't in the end. Just silently baring more of yourself to her. She bites down forcefully.

Her teeth graze the spot once she pulls away. The sharp-edged dagger of her canine teeth. Sharp and present. She bites again. More aggression, more force. It's electrifying. Your heart hammers against your chest. You feel like you’re being held underwater. Drowning just below the surface. Lungs filling more and more with water every time you inhale. You can’t breathe. It's making you dizzy with heady arousal. You’re wrecked underneath her hands.

Pliable. Malleable. She’s kissing and tugging and biting and you feel like you're on cloud nine. Everything was nothing but background noise to you. Her warm body pressed against your back, her hair resting over your shoulders, tattooed hands around your waist. It was only you two. In your own bubble. Blissful and domestic, draped over your back, soft hums sounding in your ear. Her veiny hands slot into yours, thumb rubbing affectionately against the heavy diamond ring on your ring finger. She lets out a pleased hum at you. “Oh, hello. Look at you go. Pretty rock on your finger for my pretty girl, huh, babe? Nice and shiny for ya—,”

And then it starts. Overlapping screams, frenzied scrambles. Illegal high rollers bolting for purchase to stay hidden, tables clattering. Chairs scattering. Glass breaks. The entire bar is swiped. Crystal whiskey glasses and bottles of aged wine pattering to the floor. A cacophony of wails and panicked grunts fills the air. And then the agents come in. Guns trained and pointed. Red beams scanning the room. Ellie swallows against your neck. She stands taller, yanking you up. She had always thrived on the edge, dancing between risk and rewards. This was a game she expertly knew how to play.

She knew how prison worked. Hell, she probably had minions tucked into every prison and jail in America. She disarms herself, sliding her handgun over the table before the agents got to you two. She pulled you close, kisses pressed against your temples. You knew what this meant.

She pushes you. Launches you into the steady stream of people scrambling to escape. The lights go out. It's dark, there's people screaming. You’re shoved into a flurry of pushing and crying. Blue and red lights flicker through the darkness.

You glance back.

She has every single agent’s red beam pointed at her forehead. They cuff her. Roughly. She makes eye contact with you through the chaos. Everything goes quiet. Ellie stands still where the agents try to hustle her out. There’s a Glock pressed against her temples. A bruise is blossoming where it presses against her head.

“I’ll be home soon. Hold it down for me, Bonnie.”

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commodorez · 2 months ago

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Start Me Up: 30 years of Windows 95 - @commodorez and @ms-dos5

Okay, last batch of photos from our exhibit, and I wanted to highlight a few details because so much planning and preparation went into making this the ultimate Windows 95 exhibit. And now you all have to hear about it.

You'll note software boxes from both major versions of Windows 95 RTM (Release To Manufacturing, the original version from August 24, 1995): the standalone version "for PCs without Windows", and the Upgrade version "for users of Windows". We used both versions when setting up the machines you see here to show the variety of install types people performed. My grandpa's original set of install floppies was displayed in a little shadowbox, next to a CD version, and a TI 486DX2-66 microprocessor emblazoned with "Designed for Microsoft Windows 95".

The machines on display, from left to right include:

Chicago Beta 73g on a custom Pentium 1 baby AT tower

Windows 95 RTM on an AST Bravo LC 4/66d desktop

Windows 95 RTM on a (broken) Compaq LTE Elite 4/75cx laptop

Windows 95 OSR 1 on an Intertel Pentium 1 tower

Windows 95 OSR 1 on a VTEL Pentium 1 desktop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Satellite T1960CT laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Libretto 70CT subnotebook

Windows 95 OSR 2 on an IBM Thinkpad 760E laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2.5 on a custom Pentium II tower (Vega)

That's alot of machines that had to be prepared for the exhibit, so for all of them to work (minus the Compaq) was a relief. Something about the trip to NJ rendered the Compaq unstable, and it refused to boot consistently. I have no idea what happened because it failed in like 5 different steps of the process.

The SMC TigerHub TP6 nestled between the Intertel and VTEL served as the network backbone for the exhibit, allowing 6 machines to be connected over twisted pair with all the multicolored network cables. However, problems with PCMCIA drivers on the Thinkpad, and the Compaq being on the blink meant only 5 machines were networked. Vega was sporting a CanoScan FS2710 film scanner connected via SCSI, which I demonstrated like 9 times over the course of the weekend -- including to LGR!

Game controllers were attached to computers where possible, and everything with a sound card had a set of era-appropriate speakers. We even picked out a slew of mid-90s mouse pads, some of which were specifically Windows 95 themed. We had Zip disks, floppy disks, CDs full of software, and basically no extra room on the tables. Almost every machine had a different screensaver, desktop wallpaper, sound scheme, and UI theme, showing just how much was user customizable.

@ms-dos5 made a point to have a variety of versions of Microsoft Office products on the machines present, meaning we had everything from stand-alone copies of Word 95 and Excel 95, thru complete MS Office 95 packages (standard & professional), MS Office 97 (standard & professional), Publisher, Frontpage, & Encarta.

We brought a bunch of important books about 95 too:

The Windows Interface Guidelines for Software Design

Microsoft Windows 95 Resource Kit

Hardware Design Guide for Windows 95

Inside Windows 95 by Adrian King

Just off to the right, stacked on top of some boxes was an Epson LX-300+II dot matrix printer, which we used to create all of the decorative banners, and the computer description cards next to each machine. Fun fact -- those were designed to mimic the format and style of 95's printer test page! We also printed off drawings for a number of visitors, and ended up having more paper jams with the tractor feed mechanism than we had Blue Screen of Death instances.

In fact, we only had 3 BSOD's total, all weekend, one of which was expected, and another was intentional on the part of an attendee.

We also had one guy install some shovelware/garbageware on the AST, which caused all sorts of errors, that was funny!

Thanks for coming along on this ride, both @ms-dos5 and I appreciate everyone taking the time to enjoy our exhibit.

It's now safe to turn off your computer.

VCF East XX

#vcfexx #vcf east xx #vintage computer festival east xx #commodorez goes to vcfexx #windows 95 #microsoft windows 95

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youthereader · 26 days ago

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Next Time

PAIRING: joel miller (the last of us) x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 1.3k words. Joel keeps his promise. (sequel to Hard Bargain)

RATING: E. Face fucking. Come on face. Blowjob. Deepthroating. Power dynamics. Praise kink. Degradation. Dirty talk. Rough oral sex.

A/N: No-one asked for this but I wanted it and that's good enough for me. 😈❤️

The first time you saw Joel shoot a man, it was up close.

Not in the QZ, not across some ration line, but out there — outside the checkpoint, past the bus graveyard and into the sprawl where the city dies slow. You weren’t even supposed to be there.

He asked you to come. You don’t know why. He could’ve asked someone else — one of the Fireflies he doesn’t admit to working with, or Tess, if she’d still been around, but she wasn’t. Joel needed someone to help him carry two crates of pills and a sealed pack of insulin through a half-collapsed sewer tunnel and into the hands of some desperate people with guns.

He said you knew the route. That was true, but you think maybe it was something else. Maybe he just wanted someone quiet, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. So you said yes.

Halfway through the return trip — packs full of ration cards, pockets heavy with extra — the man stepped out from behind a burned-out bus and told Joel to drop his weapon.

He looked like nothing. Skinny, shaky, too twitchy to be a soldier. Too desperate to be a real raider. Maybe just someone starving who got lucky with a shitty pistol.

He pointed it at Joel, hands trembling.

He said something about handing it over, said he’d only take what he needed.

Joel never even blinked. Didn’t say a word. Just looked the guy in the eye, then pulled his own gun and put a round through the man’s forehead so clean it didn’t even spatter.

Just dropped him. Fast. Final. Then Joel turned to you and said, flat as concrete: “Let’s move.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t check to see if you were rattled. But he watched you.

You know he did. You felt it every time you adjusted your grip on your pack. Every time you stepped over some broken thing and pretended it hadn’t gotten into your head.

Now, the two of you are back — inside. Same room, same tile floor. The same dust. But something’s different.

You pulled your weight. You helped him get out alive. You watched him kill a man and didn’t flinch.

Joel hasn’t said a word since you made it back. He just paced once, slow, then locked the door behind him.

You pull your jacket off and drop your pack. You turn to face him and start undoing your belt.

Joel’s eyes are already on you.

He strokes himself slowly at first — just the tip dragging over your cheek, the underside pressing to your lips. Like he’s testing it. Like he wants to feel exactly how soft you are before he paints you with it.

You don’t move. You can’t.

His fist is knotted in your hair, holding you there, angling your chin the way he wants. His breathing is already rough — that rasp in his throat that only comes out when he’s trying not to lose control.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “Look at me.”

You do.

Even with your mouth open, lips parted and wet, even with your knees burning against the floor — you look up and meet his eyes.

It hits him, you see it. The way his jaw tightens. The way he curses under his breath.

“Fuckin’ hell. You look like this was made for you.”

His voice is low. Not soft — never soft — but there’s something dark in it now, something molten. It makes your thighs squeeze together.

He jerks his cock faster. You can hear it — the slick sound of it, the tension winding tight in his hips. He’s flushed now, breathing hard, leaking all over your mouth and chin. It drips down your throat, and you let it.

“Should’ve done this the first time,” Joel grits. “Should’ve come all over this face.”

Your chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. You don’t blink, don’t move. You just kneel there like something on display — something that’s his.

“Bet you like bein’ used,” he growls. “Bet you want me to make a mess outta you.”

You moan, a broken sound with no air in it. That’s enough for him.

He groans, deep and guttural, and the first hot rope lands across your cheek. Then another, right across your mouth. You flinch just barely when the next stripe hits your eyelid.

Joel doesn’t stop.

He keeps jerking, grunting through gritted teeth, cock twitching as he paints your face with everything he’s got. It drips down your jaw, across your lips, down your chin.

When he’s done, he breathes like he’s just fought someone off. Hand still in your hair, still holding you in place.

You don’t move. You don’t dare wipe it away.

Your face is slick, skin tight with it, the scent of him hot in your nose and mouth. Your tongue drags across your bottom lip, collecting what you can.

Joel’s still looking at you, and now something else flickers behind his eyes.

Not anger, not even satisfaction. Hunger.

He drops to his knees. Hands on your thighs, forcing them open.

“Thought that was it?” he mutters, voice rough.

Your breath stutters.

His hands are already on your waistband.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, yanking your pants down past your knees. “That was just me takin’ mine.

Joel flips you.

One brutal yank to your hips and your body turns with him — knees slipping wide, chest down, cheek pressed hard to the cold tile. You gasp as air rushes past your slick lips, the mess on your face cooling fast.

He pushes a hand between your shoulder blades, pins you flat.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he growls.

You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried. Your pants are tangled around your knees, your cunt bare and dripping, and Joel’s kneeling behind you like a storm about to break. You can feel his heat, the weight of him, even though he hasn’t touched you there yet.

Then, a single palm, calloused, hot.

He slides it over your ass, down between your thighs, where it pauses.

“Jesus,” he mutters. His fingers spread you open. “You’re soaked.”

You squirm, hips twitching.

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t shout, just warns. You go still.

Joel slides two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, dragging the wet slick all the way up before pressing them both into your cunt without mercy.

You cry out, a sound that echoes off the tile.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s what I thought.”

He starts fucking you with them hard, fingers thick and deep, curling up and in until your body shakes. The heel of his palm presses against your clit with every thrust, every filthy grind of his wrist.

You dig your nails into the floor, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Already close,” Joel mutters. “Ain’t even tryin’.”

Your whole body rocks under him. Your knees are slipping. Your thighs are trembling.

“Been wantin’ this since the second you dropped to your knees,” he growls. “Not the mouth. This. Your pussy. Wantin’ to see you fall apart like this — all spread out and fuckin’ needy.”

You whimper. You hate how much you need it. How you’re already right on the edge, pulsing around his fingers like they were made for you.

Joel leans over you. His chest presses to your back. His breath ghosts across your ear.

“You come for me,” he says. “Right fuckin’ now.”

Your whole body obeys.

You shatter, legs giving out, cunt clenching hard around his fingers, mouth open against the tile in a silent scream. You don’t just come. You break, falling, shaking.

Joel loves it.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ it.”

He doesn’t pull out until your body stops twitching, doesn’t wipe his hand until he’s sure you’re done.

You collapse onto your side, chest heaving, face still streaked with his come.

Joel watches you from above. For a second, just a breath, he doesn’t look hungry anymore.

He looks like he might stay.

do we want more? let me know what you thought of this follow-up. 😘❤️

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal fanfiction

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bananasplit133 · 1 month ago

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Dial T for Tenna (Part 2)

PART 1 ---- PART 3 --- Ao3

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

Summary: Mr. Tenna fears losing his place on the show and demands more excitement. The audience boos during the live broadcast, shaking him. In his office, he doubts himself. You comfort him and promise new contestants. He quietly thanks you.

-------

The studio corridor hummed with expectancy—buzzing lights, rolling camera dollies, and a looped sound cue that felt like a heartbeat. You stepped through the backstage entrance and into the backstage hub for TV Time. It looked like a chaotic game show arena, wires snaked everywhere, cue cards stacked like mini towers, and crew members darting about, adjusting lights and checking audio feeds.

And then you heard it: the unmistakable scream of Tenna’s voice, booming across the room, as though he were narrating his own life in grandiose fits.

“IT’S TV TIME!!!” he shouted, the echo bouncing off the walls. The phrase crackled overhead like a catchphrase encoded into the building’s wiring . Then came a destructive thud and more shouting. You pushed through a set of cables and barriers just as he stormed into view, mid-rant, his suit pristine but his posture aggressive, arms flung wide. His screen flashed jagged colors—not white—overflowing with static.

“You call this a reality challenge!? Where’s the punch? The drama? The stakes?” His voice reverberated. Crew scattered. He stalked forward, screen flicking violently in time with his breaths. “And where’s my spotlight? They stuck me under flat lights like a washed-out rerun! I’m not some low-tier rerun—they need me PRIME TIME, they HEAR ME!?”

You stayed set just out of frame, clipboard in hand. When he finally registered you, he froze like a faulty display.

“Oh-ho-ho, look who it is,” he barked, tone dripping incredulity. “The… emotional liaison! Come to watch me melt down so you can send memos across the network?” He leaned in, and though he didn’t have eyes, his posture pinned you—challenging. “Tell me you didn’t map my personal breakdown for your feast of corporate reading?”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m here to help. To keep you on broadcast.”

He snorted, voice rising. “Help? I don’t need off-air pep talks, I need Ratings! Contestants who are sweating, audience gasping, a quiz show that sizzles. This isn’t Sesame Street—this is TV TIME, baby!”

Tenna pivoted, rattling cue cards. “We’ve got contestants signing up for physical challenges, quiz rounds—mini-games that test wit, reflexes, failure threatens humiliation!” This was his element. Adrenaline carved through his speech. Then his tone cracked: “And yet, they want me to babysit… to tone it down? What’s next? Lip-syncing to lullabies?”

The static on his screen deepened, crackling into hushed tones. You stepped forward. “Mr Tenna, they’re not limiting your energy. They want you safe, intact—so the show can go on with you, not without you.”

He whirled, fists clenching. “Show can go on without me?” His voice lowered, breath rasping. The studio lights dimmed and brightened at irregular intervals—like his panic echoing in physical form. “That’s it—they’re grooming a replacement, aren’t they? Someone younger, brighter—someone they can control!”

You didn’t answer at first, letting him burn out the fear. Out of the darkness came a quiet sputter: “I used to own the living room. The whole family would drop popcorn just to hear my jingle—everybody tuned in, every time.” His screen flickered white, then stuttered into static for a split-second before stabilizing back to white. “Now? Now I gotta pander. Tap into empathy. Pretend vulnerability. Show the crowds... this side of me. What if they watch, and don’t tune back?”

You kept your voice even, close but not invasive “And if that happens?” He met the silence partway, shoulders trembling slightly, his stance deflating. A glitch of multicolored lines crawled across his screen like tears.

“And then… what am I? Obsolete. Irrelevant. Forgotten.”

You swallowed. This was raw, unfiltered. “Then I’ll make sure people remember you,” you said. “They’ll remember the intensity, the chaos, the soul behind the static. But above all—you staying on stage, front and center. No replacement.”

He held your gaze—a long, heavy moment—as the lights overhead stabilized, as if breathing with him.

Then, abruptly, he snapped upright. His screen flared white again. “Fine.” His voice was clipped, defensive, terse. “Rehearsal lights—with those blue gels. Full saturation. That’s not negotiable. And get me three contestants who can keep up with real-time trivia and physical stunts. None of that desk quiz nonsense.”

“I’ll arrange it,” you replied.

He pointed at you. Even his posture was a command. “And if anyone tries to cue me mono or put me in the editing room mute… I walk. Don’t care if they cancel the show.”

“Understood.”

He marshaled his presence: straightened tie, squared shoulders. “Alright then.” He motioned to the set behind him, where staff scurried. “Time to prep. Let’s make sure this is TV Time—not yawn time.”

His screen sputtered static, then steadied to white. He strode away, and the set snapped to life in his wake—lights synced, cameras rolling, technicians breathing a collective sigh.

You exhaled, watching him activate his domain again. The show must go on—and so would he. But this time, maybe with a bit more you helping to keep the signal strong.

…..

The next morning hit like a broadcast at full volume.

You barely had time to sit at your desk—more like a folding chair jammed behind a prop wall—before the call blared through the intercom: "LIVE SHOW PREP! TEN MINUTES, PEOPLE. LET’S GET THIS STATIC BUZZIN’!"

The studio was a fever dream—flashing lights, crew members running around like their shoes were on fire, cables tangled underfoot like digital vines. You held your clipboard tight as a production assistant shoved a coffee into your hands with the desperation of someone who hadn’t slept in three days.

Across the stage, Tenna was already in the spotlight, arms flung wide, his screen lit in clean, bright white. His voice cut through the chaos, exaggerated and booming:

“CONTESTANTS! ENERGY! EXCITEMENT! ENTERTAIN ME!”

And just like that, the show kicked off.

It was a game show, alright—some weird hybrid of quiz rounds and obstacle courses, loud and unpredictable, with physical comedy and stakes that made no sense. Contestants had to answer trivia while dodging foam hammers, balance on spinning platforms, and crawl through tight tubes filled with fake fog. It was all being streamed live. You could see the blinking ON AIR light over the stage entrance like a warning sign.

You watched from the sidelines, a little stunned. But… you had to admit: the contestants today were solid. One was sharp with the trivia, another was quick on their feet, and the third? Pure charisma. The audience was into it. Mostly.

But then… That started.

Scattered boos. Hisses.

At first, it was easy to write off—just a few hecklers in the back rows. But it spread like a glitch. Some people in the crowd started shouting over the questions. A chant began—low and bitter:

"BRING BACK THE REAL STUFF!""BOOO-RING!"

Tenna’s screen twitched. You saw it. Static flickered in the corner, faint but there.

He didn’t stop the show. Of course not. He got louder. “THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS! HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING THE PROGRAM! YOU ARE ENJOYING IT, RIGHT?!”

The voice wavered slightly.

The crowd roared back. Not with applause.

More booing. One guy even threw a popcorn bag onto the stage. You saw Tenna flinch—just barely, like a visual glitch in his own broadcast. But the mask stayed on. He finished the final round, announced the winner, and forced a burst of static-laced laughter.

Then the lights cut. The audience filtered out.

And Tenna?

He walked straight offstage. Didn’t say a word. Not to the crew. Not to you.

Just vanished behind the door marked "EXECUTIVE OFFICE “ You stood there for a few seconds. Maybe it wasn’t your business. Maybe it was.

You moved toward the hallway, footsteps quiet on the studio tile. The door was cracked—just enough to see inside.

Tenna sat hunched over his desk, hands on either side of his head, gripping the edges like he was holding himself together. His screen was nothing but heavy static now, low and dim, flickering like it hurt to keep it on. You could hear him—muttering to himself in short, broken lines.

“Not good enough…”“They’re not watching anymore…”“The energy’s off—wrong—wrong.”“They’re bored. I saw it. They’re done.”

He didn’t even notice you.

You hesitated, then pushed the door open a little wider.

“…Mr Tenna?”

No answer. Just a fizzing crackle.

You stepped inside.

“Hey. It wasn’t a bad show.”

His head twitched toward you, screen still stuck in static. He laughed—but it was more of a digital gasp.

“‘Not a bad show,’ huh? Wow, high praise. Should I put that on a poster?” he snapped. His voice was strained, bitter, quieter than usual. “Did you hear them? The booing? You think that’s part of the act?”

You closed the door behind you and walked slowly toward him. “I heard it. But I also saw the contestants. They were good.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His hand dropped to the desk, fingers drumming a frantic beat. “I gave them energy. I gave them spectacle. And they still want something else. Something better. Flashier. Louder. They always want more.”

His voice cracked into a short, electric stutter. The static on his screen spiked, sharp enough to hurt your ears.

“…They want someone else.”

You stepped beside the desk, careful. “No. They want you. Just not the you who burns himself out trying to be perfect every night.”

His screen blinked. The static softened—just a little.

“…I don’t know how to be anything else.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just sat down beside him on the edge of the couch—quiet, no clipboard this time, no job title, just someone sitting with someone else who looked like they were about to fall apart.

“You don’t have to stop being loud. Or weird. Or dramatic. That’s who you are. But maybe… maybe you don’t have to run the show like your life depends on every single cheer.”

You could hear him breathing—shallow, mechanical. His fingers trembled.

“…They’re gonna forget me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Everyone gets canceled eventually.”

You shook your head. “Not if you let people see the real you. Even if it’s just a flicker. Even if it’s not always ‘on.’”

The silence settled in again, heavy but not cruel.

After a while, Tenna slumped forward, letting his head rest on the desk. His screen dimmed to a soft, snowy white. He didn’t speak again, but you thought—maybe—you heard the faintest digital murmur.

“…Thanks.”

The room stayed quiet.

A distant thud of stagehands packing up props echoed through the hallway. Somewhere out there, the crew was resetting lights, rewinding cables, pretending the day had gone fine. Pretending he hadn’t just taken a direct hit.

Tenna stayed curled over the desk, head still resting in his hands. The white glow from his screen lit the wall faintly, flickering like a low-battery bulb. His usual posture—big, commanding, theatrical—was gone. He looked like a broken set piece left behind after the show wrapped.

You stayed quiet for a little longer, just letting the silence breathe. Eventually, you stood and started picking up a few things around the office. Nothing major. Just busywork. A toppled mic stand. A stack of cue cards scattered on the floor. One of them was smudged—like someone had crumpled it in their hand too tight, then straightened it out again.

After a few minutes, Tenna finally moved.

He sat up slowly, one hand dragging down the side of his neck like he was trying to wring out leftover tension. His screen was back to its regular glow, dim but steady. Still no color. No flashy glitches. Just him.

“…I need a better hook,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now. Not exactly defeated—more like tired. “Something new. Something they'll remember.”

You glanced over. “You think that’s really what’ll fix it?”

He tilted his head your way.

“I think if I sit still too long, they’ll change the channel.” A bitter laugh. “Ratings are everything.”

You leaned on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “You could also… I don’t know. Talk to them. Be real. Not just loud. People connect to that.”

Tenna leaned back in his chair, letting his arms dangle. He didn’t answer right away.

“You ever seen what happens when someone on live TV stops performing?” he said finally, voice flat. “Dead air. People panic. They cut the feed. Replace you. No one wants to watch a guy crumble.”

He rubbed at the base of his screen like it ached.

“…But today, they watched it anyway.”

You watched him in the dim office light, the way the static had drained from his voice. No theatrics. Just Tenna, underneath it all. Maybe the show didn’t go perfectly. Maybe the audience had turned on him. But for once, he hadn’t run offstage to reset and cover it up with louder music and brighter lights.

He’d let someone see.

You took a breath. “Hey. I’ve got a few more contestant leads. A couple of them seem sharp. Weird enough for the format, but not total chaos. You want me to screen them tomorrow?”

His head turned toward you.

There was a beat of silence. Not dramatic — not the kind he’d usually stretch for tension or effect — just a brief moment where he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say, or maybe didn’t trust himself to say it.

“…Yeah. Let’s do that,” he muttered finally, voice thin and crackling with residual static. Not defeated. Not grateful. Just… done.

You gave a quiet nod. “Cool. Get some rest, alright?”

He didn’t reply right away, just raised one hand in a vague wave — the gesture lazy, half-hearted, like he couldn’t decide if he meant it or not. But it was something. Not for the cameras. Just for you.

You had your hand on the door when his voice hit you again — low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey.”

You stopped.

There was another pause, longer this time. When he finally spoke, his screen dimmed a little, flickering like a light trying not to burn out.

“…You didn’t have to check on me.”

The words came out flat, stripped of showmanship. No booming reverb, no wild hand gestures, no self-mocking theatrics. Just Tenna — a little quieter, a little raw.

He didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, like if he met your eyes, he’d unravel again.

“…Whatever,” he added quickly, static hissing through his voice like a defense mechanism powering back up. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Just gave a small nod — the kind someone only makes when they don’t want to break a fragile moment by naming it — and stepped through the door.

It clicked shut behind you.

No spotlight. No exit music. No laugh track. Just the soft hum of tired machinery and the distant flicker of a screen that hadn’t quite shut down.

Not off. Not yet.

Just… resting.

------

I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS ONE AS MULH AS THE PREVIOUS ONE!

If you noticed any grammatical errors..... no, you didn't....!!!!!!!

TAGLIST: @fallendove @theilluminatidragonqueen

192 notes · View notes

mandalhoerian · 3 months ago

Text

(5) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift.

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you.

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home.

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him.

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl.

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him.

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises.

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population.

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

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chriszgetstitchz · 5 months ago

Note

Could I have an x reader with what it would be like to be queen or if you stayed with the goblin king

oh, you have awoken the beast

Aka me

This is how I imagine life with Jareth would be like if you had decided to stay and become his queen

Jareth likes things to be dramatic. He loves it when things are magnificent, glorious, almost theatrical in a certain sense. So there isn't a single double in my mind that he'd want his wedding to be that, but TENFOLD. I'm talking gigantic wedding dress; ginormous, almost comically large ten tier wedding cake; every single inch of the castle is decorated; the ballroom is huge enough to fit the ENTIRE labyrinth inside of it, you get it. Jareth is absolutely not cutting corners for the wedding and he wants everything, absolutely everything to be perfect. If anybody so much as even breathes too loudly during the vows, they're about to get real familiar with the Bog of Eternal Stench..

Congratulations, fair maiden, for you are now the queen! But what now..?

To any outsider looking in, Jareth is just about as cuddly as a cactus.

They are correct. Kind of..

Jareth does love you, that is why he wanted you to be his queen of course, but he is a "grand gestures of affection" kind of guy more than a "small acts of service" kind of guy.

That being said, that doesn't mean that King Jareth isn't chivalrous to you, you are his queen of course, but he prefers to save the more intimate displays of love for when you two are in private. This man will throw the two of you a big ball for your anniversary but will look at you funny if you talk to him about using petnames outside of "my love" or "my darling" in front of others. The only time he’s willing to show physical affection to you in public is when he's showing you off to the goblins. The reason why Jareth does this isn't because he doesn't think you're worthy or that he's ashamed of you. It's because he thinks that quite frankly, his love for his wife is nobody else's business.

As I said, Jareth only does PDA when he feels like showing you off to everyone. And boy does he love to show off his beautiful wife. Since your throne is obviously right next to his, when he's partying up in the throne room, let's use playing a card game for example, he likes to have you sitting on your throne so that he can grab you and kiss you whenever he wins and everybody cheers when this happens (I kinda got that idea after watching Beowulf.. 💀)

Would Jareth ever admit to you that he has a soft spot for you? Maybe privately. But that doesn't mean he doesn't love fucking with you just as he does everybody else. But his fucking with you is just petty stuff like controlling your dreams, setting back the time by an hour, and appearing and disappearing in front of you at random rather than torturing you in the labyrinth.

Speaking of the labyrinth, EVENING STROLLS THROUGH THE LABYRINTH WITH JARETH?? Sign me up now. Those are one of the times where he's actually willing to kiss you, call you personal petnames, or have actually deep conversations with him. Or if he's feeling particularly romantic, he'll slowdance with you through the labyrinth. He'll take in every detail of you, he'll smile at you when you lock eyes with him, he'll tell you how much he loves you and how happy he is to have you as his queen.

If any of the townspeople or the king's court disrespects you, it's straight to the bog. Nobody disrespects JARETH'S queen and lives to tell the tale. You are too precious for him to allow that to happen. One time you were yelled at by a castle staff member for "sitting immodestly" and Jareth was immediately on them like white on rice. There are certain things that he just simply cannot stand for, and being rude to you is definitely one of them.

Jareth makes a big stink about wanting you to respect/obey him, but what he doesn't tell you is that you have him completely wrapped around your finger (even though you've pretty much figured it out for yourself at this point, lmfao)

I said earlier that he doesn't do PDA except for this this and that, but sometimes he breaks his own rules. A little peck on the cheek or a hug every once in a while never hurt anyone! And he also won't go out of his way to push you away if you were the one to initiate it.

If you are the opposite of him, he'll be incredibly intrigued by you. It may even be the very thing that caught his attention the day he first laid eyes on you. Kindness and hospitality is a near foreign concept in the Goblin Kingdom, so everyone would be astounded to see that the woman who married who could possibly be the meanest king in goblin history (aka Jareth), is actually an incredibly kind and compassionate girl. Whether he likes to admit it or not, you have at least somewhat inspired your husband to be more sympathetic and he both loves and and hates the amount of power you (seemingly) unknowingly have over him.

(Also he used his magic to make you immortal and give you powers as well so now you can be immortal magical motherfuckers for the rest of time together how fun is thattttttt!!!)

A/N: I'm sorry I know this is bad but a combination of 2 months writers block + just getting into the fandom and being 90% asleep writing this at 5 am will do that to you, lmao

divider creds go to @anitalenia

#jareth the goblin king #jareth x reader #labyrinth #jareth labyrinth #david bowie #labyrinth 1986

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luvsupa · 1 year ago

Text

001 | WORK OF ART

tags: sugardaddy!nanami x fem!reader, smut, public sex-ish, toys used, age gap (nanamis late 30s and readers early/ mid 20s), petnames, nanami is in love with reader and her art, mdni.

w.c: 2.6k

a/n: UHMM GUYS THANK U SOSO MUCH FOR 600 FOLLOWERS?! EEKKK ILY GUYSSS 🤍🤍

+ likes and reblogs are appreciated!

the convention center quickly fills up at eight o’clock as hundreds and hundreds of rich people eagerly gather to see and purchase the artworks displayed by you and your fellow artists.

you’re already over the fact that it’s art display season, as obnoxious rich patrons approach your work only to mock it and its price. your coordinator has repeatedly stated that your specific artwork isn’t as eye-catching as the others in your group.

“your art can only sell for one thousand, and that’s pushing it,” your coordinator once said.

one thousand is quite a lot of money, but everyone else’s pieces are selling for five thousand and more! their bland artwork compared to yours shouldn’t be sold for that much—now i’m just sounding jealous.

all the artists stand at their assigned sections in front of their artwork as the paid guests slowly walk in, drawn to whatever catches their attention. you glance at your friend beside you as she wishes you good luck.

the room is brightly lit with led lights, giving it a clean and modern feel. soft, instrumental music plays over the speakers, barely audible over the hum of conversations. waiters weave through the crowd, offering glasses of champagne that clink as guests accept them.

you stand awkwardly, already expecting the nasty glares at your canvas. this year, you went for an erotic art piece titled “a woman’s high.” the painting depicts a woman in an abstract way, in the moment of climax, as a blurred-out male figure gives her oral sex, with the focus solely on the female.

“don’t you think this is quite… inappropriate for an art exhibition?” the middle-aged woman clung to her husband’s arm, both looking disgusted at your erotic painting. she leaned in to read the card with your name, pricing, and title, her brows raising in amusement.

“hah! one thousand for this? oh dear, this is a mockery to all the other talented artists here,” she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. the snobby rich couple found it hilarious, unable to control their laughter. “even i wouldn’t keep it if it were free!” she said as they walked away, still laughing as they moved on to the next pieces.

you stood there, their words stinging more than any you’d heard before. nearly five months spent on your painting, and this is how they treated you. damn that couple.

“your talent for oil painting is incredible,” a deep, husky voice said. you looked up to see a tall, middle-aged man with golden blonde hair slicked back, a few strands hanging in front of his beautifully sculpted face. he was looking at you—and complimenting your art?

you rarely got this stunned at one of your exhibitions, but wow. you shamelessly scanned his figure, muscles bulging from his white button-up shirt, a few buttons undone to show his toned chest. his black dress pants hugged his muscled thighs, and you gulped hard, eyes moving back to his-

“nanami! how great it is to finally see you!” your main coordinator appeared, twirling her hair awhile bombarding him with questions.

“there’s something i want to show you, but it requires us being alone,” she giggled, rubbing his arm up and down. you stood there awkwardly, not wanting to listen to their flirtatious conversation.

“i’m afraid i’ll pass. i’m more intrigued by this beautiful art.” he turned to look at you, making your eyes widen. no one had ever been this persistent about wanting to see your artwork. it made you feel giddy inside.

“oh nanami, this artist needs a lot of practice. i mean, look at the painting!” she pointed out, trying to embarrass you in front of this fine man.

“i wasn’t referring to the painting.”

oh.

“s-sir?” she stammered, both of you shocked at his words. he thinks i’m beautiful? he was very slick with that.

“and her skills are beyond amazing. the way she captures the perfect moment of the woman’s orgasm and highlights her expression—there’s no need for more practice,” he said, silencing your coordinator as he praised the parts of your art that he loved. you were still in shock at what had just occurred.

“however, there is one flaw about this,” nanami stated, and your smile slightly dropped. you were ready for him to treat you the same way everyone else had. your coordinator found an opportunity to bully you and your art even more.

“pfft, finally. i’ve noticed a lot wrong with her art—”

“the price,” he cut her off, pulling out a chequebook from his pocket and beginning to write. “how much?” you both gasped at his boldness.

“i-i…” you stuttered, at a loss for words for the first time, while your coordinator fumed. he chuckled at your reaction as he continued writing, then ripped the paper to hand it to you.

“i’d like for you to come see me later, beautiful,” he said, his smooth words leaving you hypnotized. and with that, he walked away as your coordinator followed him, trying to get his attention.

you stared down at the paper, your jaw dropping at the amount he was giving you.

10,000 dollars

holy fuck.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

as the art exhibition continued on all night, you left your painting unattended- searching everywhere throughout the museum to find the mysterious man, nanami. hell, you even had to beg your annoying coordinator for his whereabouts. finally, she gave in.

“he’s going to his car, something about a gift for me!” she exclaimed. you didn’t buy it for a second, but you headed towards the elevator, stepping in to pressing‘P’ as the button illuminated. the doors closed, and the elevator descended to the parking lot.

the button stopped glowing as the doors opened, revealing the eerie parking lot filled with cars on every level. you walked out, your heels clicking against the cold concrete as you quickly rushed to see where he could be.

“are you following me?”

you stopped where you were, hearing his deep voice. you turned around to see his beautiful smirk plastered on his lips, holding his black jacket on his shoulder. fuck, he’s so hot.

“i just wanted to thank you so much for purchasing my art,” you nervously said as he eyed you down. you squeezed your thighs tight as the tension thickened.

“come with me,” he said, smiling as he formed a sinful idea in his mind. he honestly couldn’t control himself, thinking about how delicious you looked in your black mini skirt and white button-up shirt similar to his own.

cute, he thinks.

you wasted no time, immediately picking up your steps as he strode down the long parking lot to his car. finally, his car came into view—a luxurious sports car you’d only seen in movies and tv shows. how rich is he?

he unlocks the driver's door as you stand in front of his car, listening to the muffled chatter and honks of the city coming to life at night. from the corner of your eye, you see him pull out a box as he shuts the door, catching your attention.

"i want you to put this on," he says, walking closer and towering over you as he hands you the box. you carefully read it, and your jaw drops for the second time that night.

bluetooth vibrator.

"i-i can't, i have to be talking to people this whole night," you stammer, attempting to hand the box back, but he doesn't take it.

"that's the whole point, sweetheart. live a little- have fun." he coos, bringing his hands to cup your face, caressing it. "you always seem so serious. let me show you how to enjoy yourself." for the first time your body betrays you as you start feeling aroused by him.

shamelessly, you bring one of your free hands to pull his neck lower to your level, smashing him into a heated kiss. he smirks into the kiss as you suck harshly on his lips, smudging your lipstick onto his. nanami places you against the hood of his luxurious sports car as the box slips from your hand, making a loud thud on the ground.

"eager, aren't we?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with condescension and desire.

nanami parts your thighs with his knee, allowing you to grind on him. your hips move rhythmically as you whimper into the kiss, growing wetter by the second.

he snakes his hand down to your thighs, moving his knee, eliciting a needy whimper from you. wanting more. he replaces his knee with his thick fingers, easily reaching your clothed cunt through your short skirt. he rubs your leaky slit through your panties, and you moan into the kiss. he pulls away, chuckling at how quickly you became this wet.

"such a good girl," he teases, his tone both patronizing and seductive.

you look up at him with needy eyes, craving more of his touch—more of him. you need him.

“i’ll see you inside,” he says, pecking your lips and sliding his hand away from your heat. he walks away, wiping the smudged lipstick off his mouth, leaving you sprawled out on the hood of his car. how can he leave you like this? you’re contemplating on whether you should continue on or leave- oh fuck it.

“w-wait, i’ll put it on,” you say, rising from the hood of the car and wobbling towards him as you quickly pick up the box. he chuckles, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

“my sweet girl, i knew you’d give in,” he says, turning around to see you almost losing your balance. he holds you steady as you start unboxing the toy, wanting nothing more than a good release from him.

you stare at the oddly shaped vibrator, confused about how to put it on.

nanami grabs the pink toy from your hand as he kneels to the ground. “may i?” he asks, wanting to insert it for you. you eagerly nod as he bunches up your skirt to your waist, and you stare down at him, watching his every move like a hawk.

he places a soft kiss on your clothed clit, making you nearly fall over. nanami swiftly tugs down your panties, and you step out of them as he rises from the ground, standing tall as he shoves your wet panties into his pocket. how nasty he is.

“geez, you’re soaking,” he points out, swiping two of his fingers along your slit and watching your arousal coat his digits. he brings the toy to your hole, aligning it with the tip before slowly inserting it. you hiss at the stretch of the toy within your velvety walls, the girth painfully good as you bite your lip hard, clenching rapidly around the silicone toy.

you whimper as he positions the other half of the toy against your achy clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to ensure it’s perfectly aligned with your sensitive nub. he’s determined to see you crumble.

nanami smooths down your skirt, pulling it back into place so no one can see the lewd things happening between you two. he retrieves his phone from his pocket and connects to the app, pressing the power button. your knees buckle as the vibrator springs to life, the dual stimulation nearly making you roll your eyes back at the slow, teasing intensity.

“you did so good, baby,” he coos, his praise making you hum in pleasure as he steadies your balance, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head. he increases the intensity, and broken moans slip from your lips. he finds your reactions amusing as he guides you back to the elevator, pressing the button and standing behind you, holding you in place.

“y-you clicked the wrong f-floor,” you manage to gasp, breathless. he chuckles darkly behind you, making your skin crawl. your eyes shoot up in horror as you realize he’s selected the floor where all the guests enter to get to the museum.

“oh, did I? silly me,” he says, a smirk evident in his voice. as the elevator doors open, you’re met with a small group of guests, including the middle-aged couple who had mocked you earlier. you feel a fleeting sense of relief as he finally turns off the vibrator, but the situation remains unbearably tense.

the elevator is packed with guests, and you’re pressed intimately close to nanami. the heat of his body against yours only heightens your need, as you’re unconsciously grinding against his bulge, desperate for release.

“nanami, i didn’t realize you were with her,” the familiar woman says, clinging to her husband. the bitch who flat out insulted me..

“mhm, yes, i am,” nanami replies smoothly, his hand slipping lower to discreetly control the vibrator. “have you seen her work? i think everyone should join. she’s got a beautiful speech prepared, don’t you?” he adds, his gaze shifting to you with a knowing smile. heads turn in your direction, intrigued by the fact that nanami kento is involved.

“oh, yes, i suppose i’ll prepare something as well—mmf,” you try to stifle a moan as nanami cranks the vibrator to its fullest intensity. you squeeze your thighs tightly, fighting to keep your arousal from dripping down your thighs.

“and what will it be about?” a businessman in the elevator asks curiously. you can barely focus on anything except the overwhelming pleasure of the vibrator thrusting in and out at a relentless pace, your poor clit being ruthlessly stimulated.

“haven’t—hahhh—i haven��t f-finished,” you stammer, casting a pleading look at nanami, desperate for the torture to end. he only smiles in response, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction.

ding!

you’ve never been so eager for the elevator’s arrival. the guests say their goodbyes, but just as nanami tries to guide you out, you stop him, hitting a random button.

“what happened to speaking to everyone the whole night, hmm?” he says, his voice dripping with mockery as he gazes down at your dazed expression.

“fuck them,” you mutter, reaching up to kiss him, but he pulls away, eliciting a pout from you.

“such a dirty mouth—do you expect me to kiss you?” he says, bringing a hand to your face. you melt into his touch as he slowly brings his thumb to your mouth, smudging your lipstick. he rests his thumb on your bottom lip, and you open your mouth, looking sultry into his hazel eyes.

you take his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and slightly bobbing your head as if giving a messy blowjob. nanami watches, his blood rushing to his growing bulge as he takes in your bratty attitude.

you release his thumb with a slight pop, leaving it glistening with your saliva. nanami, shocked by your filthy display, grabs your face and crashes his lips onto yours. this kiss is hungrier, more eager than the last.

ding!

the elevator’s arrival chimes, and the doors start to open. your coordinator, her face a mask of horror, sees you two and screams in shock. she’s so upset that storms off. the doors quickly close, leaving you and nanami in the privacy of the elevator.

you chuckle at her reaction. “i have to get back, nanami,” you say, your hands roaming his chest, a whimper escaping as you remember the toy still buried deep inside you.

“you’re really gonna leave me like this?” he growls, referring to his raging hard-on. you chuckle, feeling a thrill at his reaction. “hmm, you can still toy with me the entire night,” you purr.

nanami reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a business card, his name and phone number neatly printed. “call me when you’re ready to leave. i’m not done with you,” he promises, making you feel excited for what he has planned.

you give him a quick peck on the lips and press the ‘open’ button on the elevator. just as you’re about to step out, you feel a sharp sting on your ass cheek. you hear him hum behind you.

oh how he’s going to cause so much trouble..

#nanami x you #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk nanami #nanami kento x you #kento nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen x you

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qwimblenorrisstan · 4 months ago

Text

(your girl is back and better than ever with a new chapter. took me a while to make this but please don’t hate simon💔 I think i accidentally made his internal monologue very conflicting, plus reader is going THROUGH IT, hate to leave yall on a cliffhanger but…enjoy?)

tw: mentions of rape, forced injection, punching, doctor, implied assault, panic attack, derealization, fighting, dysfunctional pack dynamic, omegaverse, lying, manipulating, illegal medicine, drugs??, mental breakdown/spiraling

Simon Riley was used to being alone.

It was the way he’d grown up, surrounded by nobody but his hateful father, his quiet mother, and his troubled brother.

He’d been the quieter one in school, though rowdy and easily riled up. Minding his business, for the most part. He didn’t need an unnecessary fight, especially not when he had too many at home already.

Broken glass at home stained the walls, seeping into the brick until not even the fresh start of his recruit days, the long bus ride to his very first training camp, where he stared out the window and wondered if this was the right path for him. The sky had been dark that day, raining hard, hitting the windows and slamming into them with a force beyond the punch his face took, the pain slamming him back into the moment suddenly.

“You left them!”

Johnny had come into his room late at night, not the nest, Ghost hadn’t slept there for a few days now. From what he heard, the alpha was still hiding away in the room, plagued by parasites of a weakness they couldn’t control.

Soap had almost been avoiding Simon.

Of course, he’d noticed, the previous bright-eyed smiles replaced with little glances, judging, piercing, as if trying to find the answer. The hugs and pats, the kisses, the little scenting, replaced by an eerie emptiness that made Simon, hell, made Ghost feel entirely alone.

Price was cooped up in his office. Working himself to death, doing background checks, and research, when he wasn’t hanging onto Kyle with a desperation Simon hadn’t seen before.

Kyle was maintaining a subtle distance from him. The two of them hadn’t always been the closest, but this was different, he knew.

At least Ghost tried telling himself Soap was simply affected by the bullet in his brain, that differences in behavior and cognitive functions had been put down as symptoms, that PTSD could play a role, panic attacks, that the Johnny he knew may never be back again.

He’d been assigned as the handler of Soap, with Price already under enough stress handling the aftermath of the mission.

“It’s likely he may have outbursts of violence, or sudden displays of unusual behavior or activity.”

The doctor’s voice had explained, monotone and flat, not particularly interested at all. As if this wasn’t a miracle. As if it wasn’t good enough.

Simon never liked doctors.

There was a difference, in his eyes, between being unaffected by death and killing, it was easy to kill someone, but then saving someone? It was incredible.

To bring a corpse with glossy eyes back to life and bring a human being back from wherever you go after you die, was a feat that Simon had never thought possible.

But they’d done it to his Johnny. And here this doctor was, acting as if it was his normal 9-5.

Simon had swallowed his feelings down, his pride down as well, as he found himself doing much too often these days, and nodded stiffly. Jaw clenched and fingers in tight fists, itching for something.

The man droned on, pulling a small card from his white coat pocket, the card having an email and number, something Simon could recognize as contact information, and handed it to him.

“If he has any serious episodes, where he poses a risk to himself or others, contact us and we’ll take him back into the hospital indefinitely.”

Simon had pocketed the card, later setting it under his thin mattress for later.

“They needed you! And you left!”

Soap’s fists pounded into Simon’s chest, the height difference almost laughable in any other situation.

Johnny’s scent was dark, deep like molasses, with a bit of a sour tang to it that made Simon’s nose wrinkle. He could still smell your scent wafting off of Soap, the man had spent nearly an entire day sitting in your room with you.

Too attached too quickly, if you asked him. You may never recover, at this rate. Not with the past trauma, or the consistent symptoms despite nearly a week having passed by now.

“They had a goddamn panic attack because I scented them, you think they wanted me there? They didn’t need me.”

Simon knew what he’d done was wrong. He’d been forcefully scented before and knew what it felt like to have handprints burned into your skin that would never leave. He didn’t know your full past, but he knew enough to understand your reaction.

You wouldn’t have wanted him there. Surely.

Price should’ve been there, he was their main omega, strongest scent, the leader of their pack. Price should’ve been there.

It snuck into his tone, the subtle accusation, and Johnny paused just to step back a moment, tear-stained eyes, that sent a pang through Simon’s heart he didn’t acknowledge, staring in disbelief.

“You’re blaming this on Price?”

The angry Scot yelled, launching a fist forward that Simon caught, carefully moved his arm to his side, and forcefully held it there. It was for his own good.

“Stop. You’ll rip a stitch.”

Simon muttered, glowering as he moved, looking around at where he knew by heart where the wounds were.

He knew he was overcompensating, doting, and looking strictly after Soap, watching his every move, because his instincts wanted him to make sure you were okay first and foremost. It was a truth he couldn’t ignore.

Except, well, he could ignore it.

“You’re worried about me? I’m not the one bedbound, hardly eating, that hasn’t left the same room in a week.”

A moment of silence as Johnny stared at him in fury, shoving him off, and turning to storm away.

Your scent was left lingering in his room. He’d grown to hate it. It wasn’t unpleasant, simply a harsh reminder of the fact that Soap, his Johnny was drifting away from him.

Simon was used to the bitter taste of loneliness on his tongue, but he wasn’t used to having something so sweet given to him, only to be stolen away.

It wasn’t fair.

He’d become friends with Soap through missions, saving each other’s asses, stupid jokes, bleeding wounds, and bullet holes, but you were drawing Johnny near just because you were some sad little alpha, taking advantage of his instincts.

Taking advantage of him.

And now Simon Riley was losing his friend, comrade, lover, all because of you.

If he thought about it, maybe that had been your plan all along. Plant the seeds against him, draw the others in by manipulating their instincts, till you slowly replace him.

The door slammed shut, and he was left alone in his room, thoughts spiraling in a harsh whirl until he stumbled over to his medicine cabinet, grabbing his heat suppressants, a blacked-out list of risks and symptoms (he didn’t ask questions, it wasn’t like he got them legally anyway), and popped some in his mouth.

The others thought he had simply had many of his omega qualities tortured out of him.

A lie.

Unimportant, though, compared to what they all faced now. Simon needed to stop this, whatever was happening between you and Johnny, whatever you were doing to him, changing him.

He walked to his mattress, the floor spinning slightly until it stopped, and lifted his mattress, grabbing the business card and giving it a closer look.

Grabbing his old, cracked phone, he decided he had a call to make.

Johnny had been coming to visit often, staying the night more often.

The thin military blanket was beginning to smell like him, it helped that he scented it as often as possible when he wasn’t busy gently inching his way closer to you, testing the limits.

The lights weren’t as bad now, but the primal part of your brain still itched and clawed at your every action, controlling and demanding, convinced you were in danger.

Constantly being in a state of fight or flight was exhausting.

Not to mention that the state of fight or flight meant reduced saliva production, deeper breathing, dilated pupils, increased heart rate, and more symptoms that made surviving harder than it had been before.

It was like you were hibernating. Sleeping all day, waking up in a haze with fog in your brain, drinking nearly a gallon, and eating as much as Kyle could get you to, before collapsing again.

Your Sympathetic nervous system was working overtime.

Johnny had stayed with you, told you stories to pass the time when you had been even semi-conscious and not trying to fight him.

“You know, Simon, the big assface who made you freak out in the first place?”

You vaguely remembered him. The big boy with the skull mask.

“He’s not tha’ bad, really. I mean, fuck, I’m pissed at the bastard, but I love ‘im, you know?”

It had made you shift up a little, foggy brain clearing a bit in the present moment as Johnny sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He looked like he’d been crying.

For some reason, you didn’t like that.

The emptiness of the room seemed to disappear for a moment, as you inched forward just a bit, moving towards him. You hadn’t been in control of yourself in quite a while, instincts running your body in order to survive.

Johnny didn’t seem to notice, sniffling, rubbing at his eyes, and leaning back as he stared at the concrete ceiling with 8,738 freckles of darker grey. You’d counted.

Being stuck in your head meant you had a lot of spare time.

“I just—he’s always tryin’ to act tough, never wants to talk with me, I just wanna help him, you know?”

The crushing atmosphere of the room seemed to lighten, like you’d been pulled suddenly from the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and were floating high above it all now, as you reached him, wrapped your hands around him.

This time, it wasn’t instincts making you do it. Protective mode kicked into overdrive by something you couldn’t control. No, this was because this was your friend, your family, your pack.

And he was hurt.

By “Simon”.

Your tongue lay uselessly in your mouth like lead, eyes sullen as they draped down onto the floor, eyelids slowly swooping down until you could simply smell his salty tears and his scent, upset, troubled, anxious.

It didn’t make you lean away, or wrinkle your nose in disgust or distaste. Your scent had been worse, you knew, and he’d never shown a lick of judgment for it.

It lifted for a moment, the haze, the feeling of being in danger and needing help, as he leaned into you, and you cradled his warm body, the slightly overgrown ridiculous mohawk, the scruff of his face rubbing gently against your arms. His warm tears pooled on your shirt, body leaning limply into you, sobs shaking his body.

For just a moment, everything felt all right.

Good, even.

A moment of silence came, where both of you seemed to simply melt into the world, only to be shattered moments later when he wiped his tears, going to try and hold you back, only for his brows to furrow when he touched your face.

Your head cocked slightly sideways at the confusion in his expression, and he moved, sitting up, seeming suddenly alert as he hurriedly wiped any remaining tears away and laid the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Hell’s bells, you’re burning up. Gotta call the doc’—“

You went to object, panic building up, scooting away from him. You didn’t want to see the doctor. You didn’t like doctors, how they poked and prodded, touched what wasn’t theirs, did their fancy tests with their gadgets, so desensitized to it all.

Before your mouth could even open, the door slammed open, and Johnny was on his feet in half a second, staring down the man in a lab coat, accompanied by two armed men.

“Sergeant MacTavish, we would appreciate your cooperation in this matter,”

Johnny sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand gesturing towards you.

“Good, you’re here, they’re burnin’ up, doc, something’s gotta be wrong, I mean with their sickness and all that shite—“

The look on Soap’s face visibly changed to confusion and a hint of anger when he saw Ghost lurking behind the three men up front, mask on, deep brown eyes watching everything happen as the armed men moved forward, taking Johnny by surprise as they shoved him against the wall.

He struggled, kicking and flailing, eyes widening as one of the men pulled out a syringe.

“The fuck is this-? Ghost, call ‘em off! I didn’t do a damn thing, tell them!”

He yelled frantically, struggling as the needle was pushed into his neck, fluid injected as he grunted. He glanced over at you, huddled in the corner of the room, watching with wide eyes and a hand over your mouth.

“Ghost!”

He glanced at Simon once again, confusion in his cloudy gaze as his limbs slowly began failing him. The doctor stepped forward, pressing a hand against your forehead, frowning when you clawed the hand off.

“Simon?”

His vision went blurry, shapes turning to blobs of color, until everything went black, the last thing he heard being,

“…them as well. We’ll need to find the cause of the fever.”

Kyle hadn’t seen either Ghost or Soap all day, which was odd, considering they were usually wondering about the base, especially Soap at this time.

Usually, Ghost would’ve hit the gym on base by now, maybe gone to Price’s office, where Kyle was currently seated, savoring the scent of his Captain before it faded in the coming week.

The door opened, and Ghost walked in, pace just a bit faster than normal. Kyle perked up, brows raising in surprise as he set down the file he’d been browsing over, the alpha’s extensive background, and psychological testing results. He’d read it until it was burned into his skull.

“Gaz.”

A gruff greeting, but a hint of surprise in it. Kyle studied Ghost for a minute, his stiff posture, clenched fists, the look in his eye. It was odd, but they all had their own ways of coping with the recent events, he supposed.

Everyone was stressed.

“Ghost.”

A tense moment of silence.

“Where’s the Captain?”

Gaz casually set the folder back in its designated filing cabinet, as if it hadn’t been high above his clearance, high enough to get him disciplinary action even from Price. A little snooping never hurt, after all.

“Out on a mission, surprised he didn’t tell you. Short notice, I guess, he’ll be gone for a week’s the word.”

He mentally reprimanded himself for making an excuse for Price. That wasn’t his job, nor his place.

Ghost gave a slow nod, clearing his throat, and almost seeming to hesitate before speaking.

“Soap’s been…admitted.”

Kyle raised a brow at that. Soap had been doing well up until now, as far as he’d seen. Bonding with their alpha, slowly healing pack relations.

“Any particular reason why?”

“Had an episode. A bad one.”

Kyle grimaced at that. They all had their fair share of PTSD, but he couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to be shot in the head, maybe have an entirely different personality, to deal with the aftermath of that. He couldn’t imagine how hard it was on Ghost to have to make that call.

“Guess that means the rut-partner responsibility’s shifted.”

Price had originally been in charge of any rut a potential team-alpha went through, as long as both parties were comfortable with the arrangement. With Price gone, and your closest contact here, Soap, clearly not in the mental state to do anything, it was between Ghost and Gaz.

Ghost was a higher rank than Gaz, meaning the responsibility fell on his shoulders.

Kyle watched the realization dawn on the man, the way he unconsciously almost seemed to fiddle with his fingers, as if nervous. The Ghost was never nervous. He’d shared heats with Soap before, albeit after a bit of warming up to each other.

His behavior had been strange all day, for quite a few days, now that he thought of it.

Something was off. But he didn’t know what yet.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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