#and as i understand he’s starting to move in that direction already but...

[soulgazingwithbucky]

why bucky has a blowout

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Summary: bucky would never take advice from valentina or any of the thunderbolts, let alone hair advice. but the love of his life? a different story

Warnings: fluffy ig?

Word count: 750

A/N: i never thought i would miss the unbearable itch to write, and yet!!! so happy i was able to make something, so i hope ya enjoy! If you find yourself enjoying this, feel free to check out my other works here <3

"Stay still, Buck," you murmur softly.

Bucky stifles a huff. He could stay still for hours--if he wasn't in front of the bathroom mirror, forced to stare at his reflection. Behind him, you cup a strand of his hair in your hand.

You release the strand, pleased at the slight curl that has formed.

"I'm not doin' anymore of these things, doll," Bucky says. "M'telling Valentina she can put Walker up there from now on."

"You tell her, love," you encourage, though you're a bit distracted wrapping the next strand of hair around the thermal brush. You've never met your husband's "boss," but you've heard enough to get a sense of her character. You doubted Bucky was going to be able to get himself out of press conferences.

"After this hairstyle, though? You'll be first in line for any media coverage," you tease.

This time, Bucky can't hold back a grumble at the thought. You giggle, but it's quickly stifled by a yawn. Bucky softens at the sight of your sleepiness.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he says sheepishly.

Valentina is a blur as she rushes past Bucky. But she pauses abruptly, taking a few steps back until she's planted in front of him. Bucky does his best to ignore her, staring straight ahead, but he eventually puts down his sandwich and slowly meets her eyes.

"This won't do," Valentina says, gesturing at his head. Bucky doesn't care much about what "won't do," but he has a meeting with Agent Taylor in twenty minutes. He very much likes the idea of enjoying his sandwich on the couch, sans the Contessa.

"What, Valentina?" Bucky says slowly.

"This hair," she responds, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I have been telling him that!" Alexei declares. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose as the Red Guardian emerges from the kitchen. "I told him, my sponsorship with Drybar is at risk if--"

"Oh, Drybar? That's pretty good. Listen, Bucky, if there's one thing I know, it's hair. Wish you could ask that guy, am I right?" Valentina gestures in Bob's general direction in the next room.

"No," Bucky responds.

"I tell him, so flat," Alexei continues, "so lifeless! Bucky, hair care is so important--"

"Great talk, everybody," Bucky declares, scooping up his sandwich and taking it into the other room.

When Bucky recalled the conversation to you, he thought you'd laugh it off with him. Instead, he saw a glint in your eye that made him worried. Afterwards, he came home one too many times to you binge watching hair tutorials. Foolishly, he held out hope that you would lose interest, but then packages of hair tools started arriving at your door.

"You know," you said, holding back another yawn, "if we lived closer to the Tower, we wouldn't have to wake up so early."

"Not yet, doll," is Bucky's gruff response. Living far away meant that it would be harder for people to link you two. It wasn't that he would get relentlessly teased by his coworkers about being married--that was a given. But if they were on a mission, and one of them became compromised? He couldn't imagine what would happen if the wrong people found out about his life. About you. He already had to live with the fact that Sam helped you both find this house, and now--

"He's our friend, Buck." You recognize the distraught look on your husband's face, and you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his spell. "He would never do anything to hurt us."

Bucky moves to place a kiss on your hand, grateful that he doesn't always have to talk for you to understand him. He opens his mouth to express his appreciation, but you interrupt him.

"All done," you say proudly. The wide grin on your face is almost enough to make Bucky forget that he is going to be sitting in a room full of journalists in a few hours. You comb your fingers through his hair to loosen the curls, then apply hairspray. Bucky makes a show of sputtering. He never makes a show of anything, but he loves the way you giggle at his antics.

He turns to face you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You wrap your hands around his neck, trying your best to avoid your hard work.

"My wife," he says, a phrase he will never get tired of saying. He plants a kiss on your lips before you respond:

"My hero."

[amadinan]

TADC episode 5 analysis

I will collect here my thoughts that appeared after watching the 5th episode of TADC. And there are many of them, the episode is really rich in revealing the backstories of the characters and even lore. But I will mainly touch on Caine and the lore of the circus.

But first, some small thoughts before I move on to the Intermission time.

Jax is an NPC?

To be honest, I never believed in this theory, it is interesting in a vacuum, but nothing more. However, at this point we have not one, but three hints about this: Jax's number in episode 4, which refers to the Blender program and how copies are named there, the fact that Caine was able to make Jax a vegan (although Caine stated that he cannot influence the minds of players) and the fact that Jax himself was sure that he had a tail.

This would already be enough to consider the theory probable, but perhaps this hole is a little deeper. In the end, Caine was also able to influence Ragatha, although not directly.

But what if we combine this with the main theory of the circus, that all people are digital copies of minds? Then, Caine can theoretically control them, because from his program point of view, they are no different from very complex NPCs, which Caine churns out himself, like on a conveyor belt. Let's remember that Caine deleted Gummigoo because he was afraid of confusing him with a person (after all, even then there were thoughts that Caine accidentally deleted someone) and probably Caine deleted the original Jax, and then replaced him with a NPC copy that differs from the original only in the absence of a tail. After all, even in the episode with the evil team, we were shown that Caine can easily create humanoid personalities by copying them from players.

Caine and Gangle

In the fifth episode, I noticed two actions between them and both were not entirely direct. First: immediately after exiting the portal, Caine noticed Gangle's broken mask and fixed it without a word. Second: Gangle was not on the evil team, she was replaced by Orbsman. I think Caine realized that Gangle almost abstracted at the end of episode 4, so Caine decided to be a little more attentive to her. And he did not add an evil clone, because this clone ... would have been Gangle from episode 4 herself, which could only upset her.

"Sarcastic eye-flying" after Zooble's sentence.

It's only one phrase, but it's clearly a lore bomb, although it is not entirely clear without context. For starters, Caine does not call Zooble by name, not "player", "guest" or even "human", he calls them "toy-box character". This may again hint at digital copies, but not necessarily. And then Caine says "other intelligent AIs" and this is even stranger, who did he mean? People like him and Bubble, simple NPCs or  like players? It's unclear, but interesting, and Caine seriously doesn't like this idea from Zooble and again it's unclear why? The overload on the system? A possible NPC revolt? Caine is afraid that if there are too many characters, he will completely get confused who is who?

And finally, The Intermission time.

Get ready, there will be a complete searching for meaning where there may be none at all.

To be honest, I didn't understand everything, but some things may well have a context, so I'd be glad to hear your thoughts.

So, right after the intermission there was a bar where almost all the characters shared their past, and what if Caine shared too, just before this adventure? But purely in his style.

Right after the  start scene, we are shown Bubble and how three jaws overlap each other, and then also three Caines, each larger one holding the smaller one. This may refer to his development, how starting with something simple like Bubble, he first became "jaws" (probably an alpha version), and then more and more complex, until he became what he is now. This also corresponds to the fact that at the end of the scene, Caine sort of folds himself, and then a small splash screen plays like in the 2000s games and the computer monitor turns on/off.

Why in the next scene Pomni is not clear to me, but here's why exactly cubes suggested by @poprocksriot. Perhaps there were three parts or even three AI that became a single being: two eyes of Caine and Bubble (possibly a third eye, as in the concept art).

Gangle, Zooble and Jax are sucked into the void: a metaphor for sucking people into the game.

A bunch of eyes in the void and Caine in the light in the middle. I think this is one of the most important scenes, which shows that Caine "came to life" and is no longer just a program. Firstly, the official music, secondly (thank you, @puddingandp1) he breathes in this scene, which may just mean that he is now sentient. In addition, the eyes. There are indeed a lot of eyes, but NONE of them are looking at Caine himself, which could mean how he became an "rogue AI".

Then we see the chessboard floor and the characters. Their world is literally turned upside down. A bowling ball falls on Pomni and Jax, which may indicate their condition as they were affected by getting into the circus. Moreover, we even saw Pomnis' condition in the first series. The situation crushed her, like a bowling ball. With Gangle and Ragatha it is a little more complicated, cakes fall on them. This means that for them the situation in the circus is "sweeter" than what was in reality. We heard about the abuse in Ragatha's family right in this episode, so in the circus, where her mother is not, she could get better. And with Gangle it is even easier. She worked at such a hateful job that even simulating these memories for just one day almost killed her. In the circus there is Jax, as a minus, but she does not have to work and she can draw as much as she wants. And Kinger. He catches the ball, which seems to say that the situation has not crushed him, but then he is not just crushed, but directly knocked off the board (mind) by a black figure, the loss of Queenie.

Then it is more figurative. Caine literally holds everyone in his hands. The characters in Caine's "hat" and they are clearly being watched, then a bunch of mannequins, which can also refer to the fact that Caine, as a puppeteer, holds them under control.

Then Caine stands on the floor and the camera approaches him. Note that this is the same chessboard floor on which the others were standing, and a bowling ball can approach it, as if the camera was attached directly to it, but Caine manages (for now) to not let himself be crushed.

Then a corridor and abstractions. Well, here it is quite clear, the attitude and the display of lost players.

Then Zooble interrupts Caine and he hangs. Perhaps we should have seen something else, from which even Caine hung, but alas.

Of course, there is also a mysterious mannequin that follows Pomni and is possibly Gummigoo, but little is known about him yet.

That's all for now, I really liked the series, I'm sure it will only get more interesting.

[fidgetspringer-art]

Equestrian AU part 4 A discovery is made. Noah does not take it well.

The next morning, Martin repeats the steps he’d followed the day before. Except this time, when the horses (led by Tansy once again), follow him up to the gate, he doesn’t stop to shut it until Tansy has followed him out of it. She looks a little confused at being on the outside of the fence, with the rest of her new buddies on the inside, but she doesn’t seem anxious. When Martin walks off towards the barn, Tansy follows.

Casey is sitting out on the front steps when he comes past, and she grins at him. “Look at her!” She cheers. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Haven’t gotten a halter on her.” He doesn’t dare be too optimistic yet. They’re moving in the right direction, but it’s likely that the halter will be a bigger hurdle. “But I reckon you can go ahead and call Abigail. Set up that appointment.”

Casey gives him a thumbs up, already in the process of digging her phone out of her pocket. “Today or tomorrow?”

Martin stops, watching Tansy do the same a few steps behind him. She’s curious about everything, but so far she hasn’t seemed overly spooked at all. That screaming, frantic monster of a horse from the other day is nowhere to be seen. “Tomorrow might be safer.”

“I’ll have her come over this evening, we could do dinner, and if Miss Tansy will allow we can get her checked out then. If not Abby will be happy to come back tomorrow to try again.”

Martin nods. The perks of your vet being married to your manager he supposes. “Sounds good.”

he spends the rest of the day doing his usual chores, mucking out and feeding, both the horses and the other animals.

Tansy shadows him the whole time. She takes a minute to follow him into the barn, not too trusting of the dark space within, but it’s obvious that she’s fairly used to going to lots of new places. Very little phases her overall, and when she is unsure about something she meets it with curiosity before fear.

It’s surprising. How level headed she is, when the picture that had been painted of her before meeting her was that of a fire breathing dragon.

Martin walks back into the barn after dropping off some fresh hay with the two other client horses, which Tansy had very loudly and excitedly greeted over the fence, and this time he intentionally walks down through the cross ties and out the door at the end of the barn.

Tansy follows.

Martin turns and walks back through. Then he stops halfway and takes the halter off his shoulder.

Tansy watches him. Ears perked.

He lifts the halter, hand outstretched towards her. The mare doesn’t budge. Huh.

He walks up to her, half expecting her to step away. But she stays where she is, bending her neck to sniff his pockets when he stands next to her, halter touching the side of her neck. “Good girl, Tansy.”

He takes the halter away from her and replaces it with a treat.

The next time he touches the halter to the side of her head. She immediately starts looking for her reward. “You’re smart, huh?”

It doesn’t take many rounds of this before Martin feels confident enough to slip the rope halter up onto her nose and over her ears. Tansy doesn’t try to flee. She just nods her head a bit, begging for a piece of carrot. Martin ties the halter off. He feels a bit silly now. For making this problem seem so much bigger than it was.

He likely let Noah get under his skin. Let himself forget that this is what he’s good at, that he’s spent his whole life learning to understand horses. And here Tansy has been, telling him she’s been ready for the next step all day. Yet he hadn’t seen it until now.

“I’m a stupid old man, aren’t I, girl?” He gives her neck a scratch. “Let's go for a walk, before we leave it for today.”

That evening Abigail arrives. She’s clearly just come off a call. She’s dressed in her barn clothes, just as dusty and covered in bits of straw as Martin is.

Her dogs come pouring out of the front seat of her car when she climbs out. The terriers go racing off across the property, off to hunt down some mice, no doubt.

“Evening, Martin.” She smiles as he comes up to meet her. “Had any luck with my next patient?” Casey must have given her a rundown of the situation.

“Got a halter on her earlier. No drama.”

Abigail hands over a shopping bag full of bottles and cans. It’s gonna be one of those dinners, apparently. “That’s good. You want me to look at her before we get started with the food?”

Martin has already thought it over. “Nah. We’ll wait until tomorrow, give her a moment to process today.” He lets Abigail in through the front door. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Abigail kicks her boots off in her usual spot and hangs her jacket next to Casey’s. “Of course not. I’ve got the day off, well, mostly. I’ll come look at her.”

“Why don’t you both spend the night, then? Looks like you aren’t driving anywhere any time soon after all.” He lifts the shopping bag pointedly.

The two of them stay over pretty often as it is. Both of them have spare clothes put away in the guest room, or mostly Casey does, for when she’s helping out with youth camps and the like, but Abby has some of her own clothes here too. It’s always nice to have someone else in the house.

“Sounds like a plan.”

They spend the evening out on the patio at the back of the house, eating steak that Martin had saved for an evening just like this one, talking about all kinds of things that don’t really matter.

The dogs turn up at some point, and Martin ends up in a rocking chair with a lap full of sleeping terrier. He’s nudged awake at some point by a giggling Casey, telling him it’s time for bed.

The next day when Martin calls the horses, Tansy follows them all the way up to the gate. Though when he tries to lift the halter off his shoulder, she back up and trots away. Not quite ready for that, then.

He puts the halter back where it had been and focuses on the other horses instead, and it doesn’t take long before Tansy finds her way back to the front of the herd to beg for more treats.

Instead of trying to get the halter on her again, Martin opens the gate and gestures for her to come through it. She seems to remember their little game from yesterday, and she happily steps out so he can shut it behind her. Once again she trails after him while he feeds and tidies up around the farm. He stops at one point and without making a big fuss about it, slips the rope halter over her head and throws the rope over her back. She allows him to do it just like she had yesterday. No drama.

Casey and Abigail are sleeping in late after the night they had, but since Martin rose with the sun like he always does, he’s got some time now to work with Tansy before her vet check.

He spends that time in the barn, by the cross-ties.

He opts to just sling the lead rope over one of the stall doors instead of tying her up properly. He still doesn’t know how she does with being tied, though he suspects she’ll be just fine with it. Still, he doesn’t want to make her feel claustrophobic and risk ruining what trust he’s built with the halter.

The first thing he notices is that she’s fidgety.

She spends the first little while exploring the stall door in front of her with her nose, touching every inch of it. Then she cranes her neck to stick her head into the stall to sniff around in there too. That done, she starts turning, trying to keep Martin within her sights, curious to watch whatever he’s doing.

He’d wanted to see how she would do if he just left her alone, and the answer is that she’s fine, just bored.

In the end she figures out that the rope isn’t actually tied to anything, and she comes padding after him when Martin goes to fetch his brushes.

He leaves her standing free in the aisle while he brushes her down, and while she sometimes moves to go investigate something that’s caught her attention, she mostly stays put.

She’s not at all opposed to being brushed and touched in this context. She isn’t overly stressed or impatient, and she’s not scared in any way.

Martin thinks back to the rundown he’d gotten about Tansy’s issues. High stress levels, poor impulse control, spooky and at times aggressive. Though most of her issues come to the surface under saddle.

For now, just changing her environment has been enough to see a significant change in her, but Martin knows this is only the beginning. She might be thriving under these specific conditions, but this isn’t her real life. Finding a solution that will work for her in the long run will be another matter entirely.

While he’s standing there, watching Tansy sniff at a clump of her own fur that Martin has just brushed off her, he catches the movement of the barn door behind her back as it’s swung shut by the wind. Hard.

He’s bracing himself for Tansy’s explosive reaction before the sound even hits them. The bang rings out like a gunshot, loud enough to make even Martin’s heart leap in his chest.

But there is no flurry of hooves or a half ton animal barreling into him.

Tansy hasn’t taken her nose off the floor, where she’s now licking the dust like there might be stray bits of grain hiding somewhere.

Martin blinks. Well shit. “Tansy.” He raises his voice, just a little. No reaction. “Hey!” He barks it as loud as he dares. Her ears stay forward, focused on her task. “Ah hell.”

Abigail checks the mare over, top to bottom.

They trot her up and bend her legs every which way to check for any sign of lameness. Nothing. Her vitals are all normal and while she complains a little when Abigail pokes and prods and pulls at her to check for any sore spots, they both agree it’s just because she’s not keen on the handling, and not because she’s in pain.

Martin trusts Abby’s judgment more than he does anyone else, so when she declares Tansy healthy and pain free, he knows that she’s right.

That just leaves the matter of her hearing.

Abigail doesn’t even need any fancy equipment to tell him the mare is stone deaf.

“That’s not ideal.” Casey sighs. “I’ll call the owner, let him know what we’ve found.”

Martin stops her. “He’ll be by tomorrow, I’ll tell him then.”

She doesn’t argue. It’ll be best to tell him in person anyway. Hearing this won’t be easy, and Martin would be lying if he said he wouldn’t rather let Casey take the brunt of his reaction, but telling him over the phone isn’t fair.

Martin takes Tansy for a walk around the property before he puts her back for the day. It’s hard to believe this is the same mare that had been dropped off less than a week ago. She follows Martin around like a puppy, so content to just exist that if Martin had only ever seen this side of her he never would have guesses the headache she’s caused her owner.

It makes him wonder if there’s something more to this that he isn’t seeing. He’s missing a piece of the puzzle, but he has a feeling that finding it is going to be easier said than done.

Noah turns up the next day, when Martin is weeding the flowerbeds by the front steps.

The truck pulls into the lot behind him, trailer attached, and out climbs a familiar, scowling face, though his eyes are covered by sunglasses today.

“No luck, then I take it?” The tone of his voice grates on Martin’s nerves.

He saunters over, hands in his pockets. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to fix her. Don’t know why I bothered, should have found a real trainer instead.” He steps closer with a scoff. “Waste of my fucking time.” He spits, standing over Martin where he’s still on his knees, looking down at him like he’s nothing.

Martin is surprised by the way it makes his blood boil.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t catch up to his own actions before he’s got Noah by the collar of his shirt, slammed back against the side of his truck.

“You’re lucky I don’t believe in beating sense into spoiled little brats like you.” He makes sure to get in Noah’s face. “I don’t have to take this crap from you, but I will, because I give a damn about your saint of a horse.”

Noah opens his mouth to talk back, but Martin shuts him up by shaking him, just enough to have his head drop back against the car, throat bared and sunglasses crooked on his nose. Martin hates how good he looks like this.

“Take her with you if you want. But know that you’ll be the one who's ruined what progress she’s made.”

“What progress?” Noah hisses. His hands have come up to hold Martin’s wrists now in a feeble attempt to pry him loose. “You haven’t even caught her!”

Martin hauls Noah off the truck and turns him. Forcing him to look in the direction of a small patch of grass by the corner of the house.

Where Tansy is grazing quietly.

“What-”

Martin lets him go. Tries to not stare at the way his ridiculous polo shirt is all wrinkled and out of place from his fist. There’s dirt smeared into the pale fabric too, in the shape of his fingers. Christ. He needs to get his head checked.

“We’re gardening.” He says. Stupidly.

Noah turns to look at him like he’s insane. Maybe he is.

Noah settles down a little after that.

The shock on his face remains long after Martin takes him over to say hello to his horse, which Tansy responds to with surprising excitement. It’s almost like she’s missed him.

She lets Noah wrap his arms around her sturdy neck, and she noses at his face until she succeeds in knocking the sunglasses off his face. Noah’s stunned stiffness wears off gradually, and soon he’s smiling at his mare’s antics. “What have you done with her? How is she this calm.”

Martin just watches them, helplessly endeared by how gentle Noah is with her, despite Tansy being nowhere near fragile. “Not much. Just gave her some space and let her make her own choices.”

“And that’s all it took?”

“That’s all it took.” Martin nods. “But this is far from the fix you’re hoping it is. She’s thriving now, but she still has her triggers that need working through. From what I understand most of those turn up under saddle, correct?”

Noah sighs. “Yup.”

There’s a pause, while Martin gathers up the courage to say what he has to. “There’s one other thing, that I think you should know.”

Noah looks over, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Tansy is back to grazing now. Head down and ears relaxed. “Watch her ears.” When Noah finally obeys, Martin whistles, sharp and loud enough that Noah startles beside him. Tansy doesn’t react.

Noah’s eyes go wide suddenly, as the pieces connect. He does what Martin has just done and whistles. Still nothing. His shoulders drop. “You mean-”

Martin nods. “She’s deaf. I’m sorry.”

Noah doesn’t say anything, he just takes the few steps over to the bench set against the side of the house and sinks down onto it, head in his hands. “Shit.” He exhales. “So that explains it, then. Why she is the way she is?”

Martin takes a risk and sits down beside him. “It’s part of the problem, sure. But I think there’s more to it. Something I’m not seeing.” He nods in Tansy’s direction. “Look at her. She’s not anxious, or stressed, or easily spooked. If anything I’d say her being deaf is part of that too, part of why she’s so at ease.” He watches her rhythmically rip tufts of grass in half. “There has to be more to this.”

Noah has gone uncharacteristically quiet. Martin wonders what he’s thinking right now. If he’s connecting dots that Martin hasn’t yet. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“Easy enough to miss. She acts normal for the most part.” he doesn’t blame Noah for not seeing it before. It’s not the first time he’s heard of horses that have been found to be deaf or even blind to some degree until well into their adult lives. “They’re good at adapting. Good at hiding it.”

“What do I do now, then? This is it, isn’t it. I’ll have to retire her.” He sounds so heartbroken at the prospect that Martin feels for him, he really does.

“Not necessarily. I think if we can work her through the rest of her issues, the two of you can figure out a way to make this work. Odds are she just needs different cues from you to help guide her.” Which leads him to the next part of his plan. “I need to see her under saddle to get a better idea of what’s setting her off. If you’ve got time we can-”

Noah is up out of his seat in a flash. “I can’t. Not to day, I’ve got- I’m busy.” he rounds the corner of the house without giving Tansy so much as a pat goodbye.

Martin follows, a little taken aback. “That’s alright. Just stop by when you have time, I’ll keep doing what I have been doing. But I really do need to see her under saddle before we take any more steps.”

Noah is nodding. He shoves his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “Yeah whatever. I’ll stop by, later.”

He doesn’t even say goodbye before he’s slamming the door of his truck shut and taking off, turning his trailer around and disappearing down the road. Not the reaction he’d been expecting, but he’s not entirely sure if this is a good or a bad outcome. Time will tell, he supposes.

It doesn't take long for it to become apparent, however. Martin is in the kitchen when there’s a knock at the front door.

It’s a Sunday, so he’s alone on the farm, and he’s not expecting anyone. Least of all a sheepish looking Gabriel Warren on his doorstep.

Noah’s truck sits behind him. Trailer on the back of it, once again. Martin’s stomach drops at the sight of it.

“Can we talk?” Gabriel says, his smile is worn thin.

Martin steps aside, gesturing for him to come inside. “Go on then. I was just about to set the table.”

Gabriel kicks his boots off by the door. “Thanks but I don’t need anything, I’ll be quick, I just wanted to get something off my chest.”

The whole house smells like chicken soup, and despite Gabriel’s refusal, Martin ladles him a bowl along with his own. “Sit.”

They eat in tense silence for a while, before Gabriel finally speaks up. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think Noah is making a mistake in terminating the contract, so I’m going to tell you anyways.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just lets Gabriel carry on.

So he is here for Tansy then. Figures Noah would throw in the towel at the slightest sign of a challenge.

“Noah hasn’t gotten back in the saddle since his accident.” He says, which is not the direction Martin thought this conversation was going to take.

“He spent a few days in the hospital. Was all eager to get out so he could go back to riding. But then when he was finally discharged and given the all clear, he just, didn’t.” Gabriel pushes a piece of potato around his bowl. “Kept making excuses, anything to get out of it, or to change the subject. Tansy has sat in a paddock ever since. It’s been almost a year now.” he shrugs. “I just thought you should know. This is why Noah is acting skittish all of a sudden. It’s not anything you’ve done.”

This complicates things. But it’s valuable information. Information that Martin wishes he’d had from the start. Maybe Noah has a bigger role in this than he would have liked.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. If you’re here for the horse.”

Gabriel shifts in his seat. “Like I said, I think Noah is making a mistake. I don’t think he’s thinking clearly.” That much is obvious. “If you’re on board, I’d like to see if I can change his mind before we take any drastic measures.”

“Think you can pull that off?” Martin is doubtful. Noah seems the emotional and impulsive type that’s hard to get through to once he’s made up his mind about something.

“I’m going to try.” Gabriel says, finally looking a little more at ease now that Martin seems to be willing to give them another chance. “Worst case scenario, Noah can come pick Tansy up himself, cause I’m not doing it for him. Maybe you can make him see reason, if I can’t.”

Martin snorts. “I don’t think there’s so much as a shred of reason in that kid.”

Gabriel chuckles at that. He shakes his head fondly. “No, you might be right about that.”

With dinner and their conversation wrapped up, Gabriel takes off, trailer leaving empty for the third time in a week. The two of them have bought Tansy a little more time, if nothing else, and if he’s lucky, Gabriel will be able to make Noah understand that terminating the contract now won’t do anyone any good.

He spends the rest of the day down in the pasture with the horses, enjoying his day off with his herd grazing around him. Tansy practically in his pocket the whole time.

Martin and Tansy get two more good days before the rumble of an engine and the rattle of a trailer makes Martin’s stomach twist.

He’s in a corral, working with the last client horse that’s due to leave tomorrow. And from here he can just barely make out the shape and color of the car that’s just pulled in. it’s Noah’s. Because of course it is. “Sorry bud. Be back in a sec.”

Noah is flinging a halter and lead rope onto his shoulder when Martin walks up.

“Noah.” He makes sure it sounds like the warning it is.

“Where is she?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer before he’s striding off down towards the pasture.

“Don’t do this.” Martin knows it’s a lost cause, but he has to try. “We can fix this. C’mon, we can talk it through inside.”

Noah ignores him.

“Noah, wait!”

He’s rounding the corner of the barn now, the horses come into view in the field below. Martin feels the fragile grasp on his self control snap like a frayed thread. “I said wait.” He grabs Noah by the shirt and, in a mirror of that day by the truck, he pins him to the wall, Martin’s arm across his chest.

“I know you’re scared.”

Noah’s eyes turn frigid. “You don’t know shit!” He struggles. “Let me go!”

Martin doesn’t budge. “Gabriel told me everything.” He gives the words a moment to sink in. “Are you going to give up on her, just because you’re a fucking coward, or are you going to man up and let me help you?”

Noah stares at him. Eyes wide with something that Martin can’t quite place. Fear, maybe, but there’s something else, too. He looks down at Tansy. The entire herd have their ears pricked in their direction, all except one.

“She’s not a lost cause, Noah.”

He bares his teeth. “No, but I am.” He sounds like he hates himself for admitting it. “I’m retiring. She’s going up for sale in the morning. I can’t do this.”

Martin’s heart breaks for him. The tears brimming in his eyes make him look so young, so small, like all that attitude really was just for show. A facade to hide just how torn apart he is underneath.

“You can.” He eases up a little, not letting Noah go, but letting him breathe at least. “You’re not a lost cause either.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. “Let me help you.”

Noah chuckles wetly. “You fix horses, Martin. Not humans.” He looks so resigned. Like he’s already given up.

“Sometimes the only way to fix the horse, is to fix the human too.” Martin gives in and wipes the single tear off of Noah’s face with his thumb. “I think this has cleared something up for me, about why Tansy is the way that she is. And I think that what you need, is to learn how to help each other.”

Noah looks up at him, eyes red and wet, same as his cheeks. “How do we do that, then?”

“First, we go inside, and we talk. Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. Alright.”

[Part 3 here]

[gay-forehead-touching]

Psst... have some Zaundads getting together

Excerpt of a wip, (mostly fluff, could turn into smut ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

Below the cut for language and sexual themes

The hair on the back of Silco’s neck begins to rise as the slight murmur of the earth beneath him warns of the danger to come. He starts to call Vander’s name, but the larger man was already sprinting toward him with a wild look in his eyes. Silco had never seen the panic so evident across his face before.

“RUN!” Silco sees the formation of the words on Vander’s lips, but his voice gets lost in the deep rumble, now coming from all over the chamber. Even with Silco sprinting back the way they had come, Vander catches up to him a few strides and scoops the small man up to throw their bodies into the safety of the reinforced tunnel.

Silco feels debris scratching his face as Vander’s arms circle his waist to shield him from the small boulders clogging the opening they had just crossed. His leg is bent in an awkward angle and the various stinging cuts will have to be dealt with, but overall he was unscathed. He takes a tentative breath and chokes on the dust filled air, the cough ripped out of him only to realize he was pinned by an immovable Vander.

The pressure eases slightly as Vander returns to consciousness, then–almost like a plea–says, “S–Silco? Sil, you hurt?”

Silco’s answer gets cut off by another chest-rattling cough as Vander begins to shift onto his hands to give them both some space. His heavy abdomen had been painfully pinning Silco’s leg beneath both of them, and the dark-haired boy yelps from the movement, “Ah! Vander–”

Immediately, the gentle-giant stops and shifts the other direction to move the leg from underneath Silco with one strong pull, then brings him tightly against his broad chest as a feeble voice says, “Fuck, Sil, I’m so sorry.”

“Vand–” he tried to say, but his mouth still felt like it had half the mine in it and he was cut off by another round of dry coughs. There is movement above him, but he doesn't understand what is happening until a cool flask of water is pushed into his hand and the liquid splashes against his chapped lips. He lets his mouth fill to collect most of the pebbles and dirt, then lets it spill out the side of his mouth.

“Sil,” the voice above him is filled with concern as a large palm comes to rest against the smaller man’s face, “Talk to me… please.”

“I–” voice weak, barely more than a whisper, “I’m ok.”

“Oh, thank Janna,” the relief in his usually deep voice is almost tangible as he rolls back over scoop Silco into a bruising embrace. The air presses out of his lungs from the force and when he tries to inhale, finds himself cut off by a desperate, salty kiss.

It takes his brain a moment to register. A kiss? From–Vander? Vander is putting his lips against Silco’s right now and he’s uncomfortably aware of how tight their bodies are pressed together. As many times as he’d imagined how it would feel to have Vander on top of him, he thought he would be a bit more prepared to feel the unmistakable hardness pressing into his thigh, but the shock stalls his response.

Meanwhile, Vander is holding their bodies together like Silco is what tethers him to the world. The wetness on the other man’s face makes him realize the salty taste must be from the tears pressing against his cheeks. Tears? Vander was crying and that alone was enough to break his stupor. He begins to raise his hands in hopes of sliding them into the thick, brown waves above the nape of Vander’s thick neck and–

And then it’s over, he is abruptly set back on the cold ground and Vander is retreating backwards toward the cave wall.

“Fuck, Sil–” he shakes his he as if to clear it with emotion, “Shit, I’m sorry.” His hands attempt to pull the tension down his handsome face using his thumbs to hold his jaw closed; his anguish twisting his features.

“I–What?” Silco is still a bit dazed from the kiss and he can’t figure out what exactly the man is apologizing for, “What in Janna’s tits–” he begins, truly perplexed.

“I shouldn’t’ve–” Vander winces at the memory. “I crossed a line, I just… I thought you were dying and then you weren’t–” he tries to explain, “–and then I did… what I did…” his voice falters.

“Yes,” Silco says, slowly bringing himself up to rest on his elbows as he watches the misery flash across the big man’s face. “Yes, you did, but the real question is: why?”

Silco pulls himself into a sitting position and admires the obvious frustration at the question as they stare one another down, each waiting for the other to give in.

“Do I really need to explain?” Vander finally concedes with a frustrated exhale. The weak light in the cave isn’t enough for him to see the scowl crawling across Silco’s face.

What the hell is his problem?! Silco had tried for months to flirt with Vander when they had met, but he had always gone home with a different woman. That had been fine, Vander wasn’t into men. Silco could accept that and move on, which he did… mostly. But, with each passionate conversation they had about Zaun and Vander’s easy way with people had made it impossible for Silco to ever completely let go of his feelings for his brother-in-arms. Yet, he had managed to stay silent the past few years and keep them in check because of what they were accomplishing for the whole of Zaun. Revolutions are complicated enough without involving feelings.

“We are carving a city out of the fucking ground together and you just pull this shit!” Silco doesn’t mean for his voice to rise, but it does, obviously just as flustered as the coward on the wall. “So, yeah,” he tries to pull the bite from his words, but they come out venomous anyway, “Explain.”

Defeated, Vander sighs and begins, “I think… I have–um, feelin’s for you.” He looks down to the ground as he continues, “Ya’know I’m shit with words. But, i–it’s nothin’, okay?”

Silco can’t stop the clipped retort that slips past, “What I felt on my leg just a minute ago wasn’t nothing and it certainly wasn’t something a brother-in-arms would do.”

Vander looks to the side, desperately avoiding eye contact and says, “Look, it’s just some feelings, give ‘em a week or two and I–I’ll get over it. Just please don’t leave the cause–”

“Oh, for Janna’s sake,” his blue eyes roll dramatically, “I’m not giving up on Zaun because you were grinding your boner into my thigh like some horny teenager.” How dare he even think such a thing? “Fuck you for even suggesting it.”

“I didn’t think–”

“No,” Silco’s harsh tone silences the man three times his size. It’s a power he can’t deny is thrilling. “You never think, do you?”

“Sil–”

The small man moves quickly in the dark and settles himself a few feet away from Vander’s face, easily gazing into the grey eyes he knows so well. Seeing the lines and curves he has secretly studied and drawn since they met. Then, this dense Janna fucker kisses him out of nowhere AND starts apologizing? No. The last ounce of Silco’s patience with this oblivious asshole finally shreds. If he needs it spelled out, then so be it.

“Did you ever consider that maybe–just maybe, I wouldn’t want to give it a few weeks and let them fade?” Silco’s question is low, subconsciously drawing Vander in with each syllable until they are breathing the same breath.

“I–” Vander loses his thought as Silco puts one hand on the man’s strong thigh.

“Or, maybe that I might–” he closes his eyes and confesses, “–feel the same?”

Vander says nothing, but his muscles are taught as a bow string when Silco puts a hand under his strong jaw and leans into the hand on his thigh to give him the necessary vantage to whisper in the other man’s ear, “Maybe I don’t want you to get over me.”

The gasp in Silco’s ear gives him the last bit of courage to add, “Maybe I want you–” he drops his voice until it’s almost inaudible, his breath tickling the hair by Vander’s ear, “–under me.” Neither move for several breaths and Silco almost begins to pull away, thinking he’s said too much.

Then Vander’s hands slide up Silco’s back, sending a shiver through the small man as one closes around his loose bun to guide their faces together. Now face-to-face, Silco can see just how affected Vander is.

“Sil,” his breath hitches when Silco begins to inch the rest of his tiny body closer, opening Vander’s arms as if to climb into them. “You never–you don’t… I thought maybe you weren’t attracted to anyone.” Then words begin to tumble out haphazardly, not really sure he’s making sense. “Wh-which, is fine if that’s what you want. I–I respect that… I respect you, Sil. We don’t have to do anything.”

Those are most certainly not tears clouding Silco’s eyes, they’re just burning from the coal dust settling after the cave in. How could someone capable of such violence, always find a way to be so endearing and gentle? His heart clenches in his chest as if someone had taken it out of his chest and set it in the boulder crusher.

Silco does feel sexual attraction to people, once he knows them. And, oh, does he know Vander. A little dense, at times, but with a heart of gold. He can’t resist his urge anymore as he brings his legs to straddle Vander’s lap and slides his hands down the solid, barreled chest.

“What did I tell you about thinking?” his lips curling into a condescending smile. To his credit, Vander has not made an effort to touch Silco, just stares up with a reverent gaze. When Vander doesn’t answer, nimble fingers slide into his thick brown hair and tug just sharp enough to bring the rapt man back to the moment.

The confused man does let a groan escape this time, then says, “Huh? Oh–Right, I’m bad at it.”

“And, while I appreciate your respect for boundaries,” Silco nearly purrs and is rewarded with a big cock pressing against his ass, so he begins to pepper Vander’s neck with the faintest hint of a kiss, in between his words, “I can explain… my sexuality… to you… later… For now… I would just like to taste you again.”

____

Thanks for reading! lmk what you think!

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 8:46

“Do you have dimples?”

Bakugou doesn’t understand it himself, but you always find your way back to his house after your first visit—asking these out-of-the-blue questions that seem to have no end to them. It’s like a curse has befallen him, one that follows him wherever he goes.

For a moment, his eyes snap in your direction, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side, though his intense glare never once wavers. He didn’t know what the hell you were getting at, and he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to even want to know why you were asking about something so random.

Honestly, he should be used to it by now. But the thing is, he isn’t, because sooner or later you’ll be popping out of nowhere with another of your pointless questions.

“Hah?”

“I asked, do you have dimples?” you repeated.

His eye twitches at the repeated question, and as much as he’d like to give you a snappy remark to get you to stop, he can’t seem to come up with one. So, for the time being, he decides to humor you (and hope for the best that you drop it and move onto another topic).

“Why the hell are you asking?”

“Because Kaminari and I made a bet whether you have dimples or not. I went with yes, you do have them—even if it’s a singular dimple, but Kaminari says otherwise,” you explained, tapping your finger softly against the coffee table.

He scoffs at the childish reason. “And what makes you think I do have one?”

“A hunch,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “I also have just one.” You smiled, showing off your obvious singular dimple on your right cheek.

Bakugou glances at your dimple for a brief moment, eyes scanning over your face and the way that the dimple seemed to perfectly dip into the soft skin of your cheek. He almost found himself entranced for a moment, but his gaze returned to your eyes as he huffed out in mock disinterest.

He was about to dismiss your hunch—maybe just flat-out refuse to even show you—or come up with a lie. But Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t a liar.

“What happens if you win the bet?”

“I get 3000 yen,” you answered.

That’s a lot, he thought.

“I can pay you 3000 yen to shut the fuck up and stop with the useless questions.”

“There’s no fun in that!”

He scoffs again as he leans back against the sofa, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your stupidity. He eyed you for a moment, his head tilting to the side as he sighed. “And what happens if you lose the bet?”

“He gets 3000 yen.”

Bakugou almost wanted to laugh at the fact that you were putting so much faith and money on a simple guess, but he managed to hold back on the amused expression and forced himself to remain calm and unbothered.

He leaned back a bit more, relaxing against the plush seats, letting out a mocking “tch” before he said, “What if I don’t show you if I have a damn dimple or not?”

“Please? Oh my god, Bakugou. Don’t do this to me now! Kaminari’s going to do a ‘victory dance’ when he finds out he won by default,” you half-whined.

He was about to give you his final choice when suddenly you started whining at him. Bakugou rose an eyebrow at you, lips quirking to a frown. As idiotic as it is to him, it looks like it was quite a serious matter to you.

“Tch. Whatever.”

You threw your hands to your face, groaning. “Pretty please, with a cherry on top? Spare me some sympathy—and be a team player for once!”

He found himself fighting a scowl at the way you acted. It was somewhat different this time around, and it was making him feel weird. Damn it. You’re a goddamn nuisance.

“Alright, fine. Just—” He motioned with his hand for you to come closer, an almost annoyed expression on his face. “If you tell anyone else about this other than Dunce Face, I’ll make sure you don’t ever see the next sunrise.”

“That doesn’t sound heroic at all—but yes, of course!” you cheered. “Just a little smile, and I shall confirm the goods.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, already regretting giving into your stupid request but at the same time knowing that he would never let Kaminari win against you in all circumstances possible.

He let out a huff and hesitantly let the sides of his own lips quirk up into a half-assed attempt at a smile, but from the way it was so rigid, it looked more like a painful grimace.

You gave him a confused, somewhat flat look in return. “Dude, you look like you’re about to shit yourself—mmph! ” You didn’t get to finish what you were saying as Bakugou’s palms immediately squished your cheeks together to shut you up.

“Oh shut it, dipshit,” Bakugou grumbled, his grip on your cheeks tightening ever so slightly as he forced you to pout your lips. “You were asking for a smile. I give one, and you wanna give me smart ass remarks about it?”

“I didn’ even gwet toh shee anythin’! That’s how bwad ith was,” you muffled out through pouty lips.

“Are you gonna keep yapping and bitching about what you asked for, or are you gonna accept my goddamn smile?”

“Fine, fine!” you yielded, pushung his hands away from your face. “Do it one more time, and I’ll actually check this time.”

He narrowed his eyes, almost as if he were wondering if you were going to actually do as you said or go against it and keep making smart-ass comments. But as you yielded, he let out a sigh and decided he’d rather just get this done and over with. 

Less hassle for him.

He repeated his ‘smile’ from before, which looked more like a forced sneer, and he waited for your verdict. This was his last straw; he was going to murder you (not).

You had to hold back your laughter but failed to do so. “I really can’t— Bakugou, please! ” you mused, hitting his shoulder playfully. “Your ‘smile’ reminds me of that time Kirishima had to hold the biggest shit before the bell rings.”

That caught Bakugou off guard. He remembered the memory of Kirishima’s panicked expression and the weird waddle he’d walked around in as he desperately tried to find a bathroom made Bakugou snort under his breath.

“Oh my god, you’re laughing!” you gawked. “And have a dimple! Just a singular one, like mine! We’re matching.”

There it was. A singular dimple on his left cheek.

Bakugou tried to regain his lost composure and let out a scoff in an attempt to mask the slight tint of pink that reached the tip of his ears. He forced his hand onto your face, shoving you (lightly, if he may add) away from him to prevent you from getting another look at his dimple.

“It’s not a worldwide discovery, dumbass. I can fucking laugh if I want to, and it’s just a fucking indent on the cheek.”

“Still cute,” you shrugged, pulling up your phone to text Kaminari. “I need to let Kami know that I won the bet, then we celebrate with bubble tea— my treat!”

“Hey wait— You—“

He tried to protest against your sudden celebration, wanting to tell you that he wasn’t going to let you treat him for anything. This whole damn thing started because of a stupid bet, and he doesn’t really find joy in gaining something from it, but as you pulled out your phone and began to text Kaminari, he sighed and leaned back again with his arms crossed tight against his chest.

“Whatever. You’re fucking annoying.”

“Kay,” you answered. “Also, your actual smile is pretty charming, if you ask me. It’s different from the usual sneer you have on your face. That’s just my opinion, though.”

Bakugou’s face grew a bit warm at your unexpected compliment, but he quickly tried to hide it and turned his head to avert his gaze away from you. His mouth opened to reply with a snappy remark or something like that, but he found himself hesitating.

He eventually scoffed and muttered a low, “Tch. Stop spouting nonsense.”

“Bakugou Katsuki has a singular dimple,” you sing-songed aloud, though you knew that no one would hear since his parents weren’t even home.

Bakugou felt his eyes twitch at your teasing, resisting the urge to tell you off and even going as far as to just punch your shoulder lightly. “Shut the fuck up, dipshit.”

He later found out that there was no bet, and you had just made up the whole scenario to confirm your curiosity. That Bakugou Katsuki does have a dimple, a singular one at that.

Could you imagine how furious he was?

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You drag yourself through the door, muscles aching from the day’s mission. Tracking Wanderers had drained every ounce of your energy.

“Welcome back,” Xavier says, his voice even as he glances up from his seat. His eyes linger on your exhausted posture.

“I just need...” you start, but don’t finish the sentence.

Xavier nods once. “I understand.”

Without another word, he rises and disappears into your bedroom. Curious, you follow after a moment to find him arranging pillows against the headboard and smoothing fresh sheets over the mattress. He’s placed a glass of water on the nightstand.

“You had a difficult mission today,” he states rather than asks. “Rest will help.”

You feel a wave of gratitude as he steps back from the freshly made bed. It’s exactly what you need—no questions, no demands for conversation.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

The corners of Xavier’s lips lift slightly. “I’ll be in the next room if you need anything.”

As he turns to leave, his hand briefly touches yours—a fleeting warmth that speaks volumes more than words could. The door closes quietly behind him.

You sink into the bed, appreciating how he knew exactly what you needed without you having to explain. Outside, you hear the soft sounds of him moving around, close enough to be reassuring but giving you the space to decompress.

Just before you drift off, your phone beeps once—a message from Xavier: 

Sleep well. I’ll be here when U wake up.

Simple, direct, but somehow exactly the comfort you needed.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You return to the Hunter’s Association HQ to report your mission. As you close the door, you finally muffle the chaos you’ve left behind. You text Zayne that you need space tonight—just a simple message before pocketing your phone.

When you arrive home hours later, you find the lights dimmed and a note on the counter: “Food in the fridge. Vitamins beside your plate. Take care of yourself.”

You open the refrigerator to find your favorite takeout neatly packaged beside a similar container labeled “Zayne” in his handwriting. A small smile forms despite your exhaustion.

After heating your meal, you sit at the kitchen island, grateful for the silence. The room door opens, and Zayne emerges, apparently just finished with his shower. His eyes meet yours briefly as he nods in acknowledgment.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t press further, instead moving to heat his own meal. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s understanding.

Zayne places two capsules beside your plate. “B-complex and magnesium. You’re probably depleted from today.”

You take them without comment.

He sits across from you, both of you eating in a comfortable quiet. When your phone lights up with notifications, he reaches over and turns it face-down without asking.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Hmm,” he hums.

After dinner, he collects both plates. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. No obligation to talk.”

Later, you pass by the home office to find him reading, glasses perched on his nose. He doesn’t look up, giving you the space you requested, but the door remains purposefully open—an invitation without pressure.

When you finally decide to sleep, you find a cup of herbal tea on your nightstand, still warm.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You close your apartment door, leaning against it with a sigh of relief. The text to Rafayel had been simple:

Need some alone time today. Nothing personal.

You switch your phone to silent and place it screen-down on the coffee table, determined to enjoy the quiet. Twenty minutes into your peace, the phone screen lights up repeatedly. Despite your resolve, curiosity wins, and you peek.

Flood of messages from Rafayel:

just found the most beautiful pearl today [photo attached] not as beautiful as you though  do you think it belonged to a giant clam the ocean was perfect btw not rushing you but when you feel better we should go pearl hunting miss your face already cutie no pressure just know i’m thinking of you [photo of a ridiculous sand sculpture that looks vaguely like you] made special sand art for my miss bodyguard hope you’re feeling better take all the time you need but don’t forget come back to me  i love you cutieee

You can’t help but smile at his stream of consciousness updates. He’s respecting your space physically while still sharing his day with you.

Hours later, your doorbell rings once. When you check, there’s no one there—just a small package wrapped in colorful paper. Inside is a beautiful pearl, cleaned and polished, with a note:

For your collection of memories. Take all the time you need, and keep this little piece of the ocean with you. - Rafayel

The gesture is so like him—giving you space while still finding a way to connect. You place the pearl on your windowsill where the setting sun catches its iridescent surface, creating tiny rainbows across the wall.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You text Sylus that you need some alone time because you know how much he values communication between you two.

Take the time you need. Just keep me updated.

You sink into your couch with a sigh of relief, grateful for the quiet. A few hours later, your doorbell rings. The building attendant calls up: “Delivery for you that needs a signature.”

Inside the sleek black box is a soft blanket, a small air purifier, and some fancy tea with a handwritten note: ‘For your comfort. This should help you breathe easier. Let me know if it helps.’

You smile at the gesture and send him a quick message:

Got the package. Thank you.

His response appears almost instantly:

Good. how are you feeling?

You appreciate that he checks in without demanding your time or attention.

Better. Just needed some quiet.

He replied again,

Understood. dinner will arrive at 7.

True to his word, your favorite meal shows up, from a restaurant you mentioned once weeks ago. The note this time simply says, ‘Eat well.’

Before bed, you message him again:

Thanks for understanding today.

He replies quickly:

Your well-being matters to me. Now rest well. I’ll see you when you’re ready.

The message captures exactly what you appreciate about him—he doesn’t mind giving you space as long as the lines of communication stay open. It’s his way of showing he cares while still respecting your boundaries.

In the morning, when you finally feel recharged, you find another small gift outside your door—a sleek new communicator with a note: ‘This one has better reception. So we never lose touch, even when apart.’

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The door to your shared apartment closes behind you with a soft click. You’d texted Caleb earlier:

Not feeling too well. Need space tonight.

His reply had been immediate:

take all you need. I’m here.

True to his word, he’s nowhere to be seen when you enter, though evidence of his presence remains—your favorite comfort foods in the fridge, a freshly made bed, and your laundry neatly folded.

You curl up on the couch, wrapped in silence. Hours pass as you decompress, your mind slowly unwinding.

At 7 PM, a gentle knock at your door. “Hey,” Caleb’s voice, soft through the wood. “Dinner’s outside if you’re hungry. No need to talk.”

When you open the door, he’s already retreated to the other room. A covered tray sits on the floor—your favorite meal still steaming.

Later, as you’re about to tackle the dishes, you discover they’ve already been done. The kitchen is spotless.

Around midnight, you hear the front door open—Caleb returning from a late Fleet meeting. His footsteps pause outside your door before continuing to his guest room. He’s giving you the space in the bedroom reserved for you without being asked.

In the morning, you wake to find your uniform pressed and ready, your boots polished, and a travel mug of your preferred morning drink waiting. A note leans against it:

Hope you slept well. I had to head in early. Take your time today. I already called your Captain to clear your morning schedule. - Caleb

Through the window, you catch sight of him in the distance, his Colonel’s uniform crisp as he strides toward Fleet Headquarters. He glances back once, spots you in the window, and gives a simple nod before continuing on his way.

Based on this request.

I legit had to open the game and check the chats just to see how they typed, lol, so I tried to match the format as closely as possible.

[kenyummy]

✰ 01. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 01. sparkless life.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: guys i couldnt resist posting criesssss . also master is used as a gender neutral term!!!! couldn't be bothered to put master/mistress every time so

prev. ✰ masterlist. ✰ next.

When you wake up, your eyes are permeated by a hard light. Your eyes are squinted hard and you're having a difficult time getting your eyes to focus.

Your brain is fuzzy and feels like melted candy in your head. What was going on, again...? This bed... it's really comfy. It's like laying on a bed made of clouds, fairy dust, and your hopes and dreams.

(Nothing like your lumpy mattress back home... May told you it built character.)

You reach your hand up, to try and block out the harsh glare directed right into your retina. It dims in a second, and for a moment—you think you've finally developed mutant powers of telekinesis. You sit up—only to discover you were not actually the one who turned off said lights.

"Apologies, Master [name]." An older man with a distinct British accent stands in the door—a few feet away from the bed you're resting on. "I did not realise you had awoken already. I would've turned down the lights, if I was aware."

You blink, surveying the room around you. It's big. Unfamiliar, as well. Modern. Really big. Wait, did he just call you—

"Master [name]?" Your mouth moves faster than your mind, and your brows furrow deep. "What... where am I?"

The older man looks genuinely puzzled at how defensive your stance is. "Oh dear. Perhaps you did end up getting lead poisoning. Or a concussion. ... No matter. This recent amnesia is common within traumatic injuries."

He clears his throat with strict elegance and straightens his posture, "[name]. I believe you were attacked in an alleyway, when your brother found you. You were in the hospital for a few days, and brought back here—back home—this morning. You're currently in one of your father's guest rooms. The doctors said you were healing miraculously fast."

You hiss lowly. You really hope they hadn't gotten a blood sample—you haven't had the best of experiences with people getting your blood.

"You seem to be alright now. A bit..." He looks at your exposed, scarred shoulders. "Scuffed up—but better than when Master Jason had found you."

Your brother... Jason...? Who even...?

What's going on here?

Your heart seems to skip a beat as the calculations start going off in your head. A world you had never heard of... a place you'd never seen before—perhaps you weren't on a different world, and like you had suspected... it was definetly some multiverse shenanigans again.

You knew you should've made Jess take that mission instead of you. Damn. You and your dumb rivalry with Doc.

But you couldn't understand why this random man knows you. He speaks as if you've lived a life with him—like he's known you since...

You chew down on your bottom lip. "... This is... my home. I live here, don't I...?"

You play with words cautiously, speaking slow and methodical. It only serves to confuse the man even further.

"Yes, you... do? Master [name], perhaps you should go back to the hospital. You're sounding rather frazzled—"

You almost jump up, out of the sheets, "Uh—no! I... I'm fine. My head's just a bit... messed up right now. Sorry."

It's not—after that flashbang, you're feeling fine. Your shoulder only burns with a stretch whenever you put too much pressure on it—but you're completely okay otherwise. But you don't think you should let him know that just yet.

"If you insist, Master [name]." He bows his head. "Do you require any further assistance?"

You blink, considering your choices.

Eventually, you land on the safest option. Search your surroundings. Find out what's going on here before going all Spider-ham on them. For all you know—they're super skrulls waiting for the right moment to strike. You need to be smart about this.

"Yes... I would like to go to my room... could you... walk me there?" You don't meet his stern gaze. "I'm not sure I'm able to walk on my own two feet just yet. I'm sorry."

You don't see how his stare softens at your words. "Of course, Master [name]."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and steadies you with a hand on your shoulder as you shakily stumble out of the bed. It's bouncy enough to launch you forward slightly—and it takes every muscle in your body to stop your Spidey-instincts from taking over and jumping backwards.

He slips your arm within his and steadies you as you both slowly walk out of the large guest room. If this was a guest room—you wonder what your room looked like.

The hallways weren't anything to sneeze at, either. Decorated with contemporary art pieces—sleek and so shiny you could see your face in the tiles below your bare feet. You felt so out of place—the civilian clothes you sported since you got here still dressed your body, and it wasn't even close to fitting in.

As you stumble down the halls with a bit of overdramacy, a man suddenly appears from around a corner. Deep black hair and the brightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His smile is wide and he waves enthusiastically, "Hey, Alfred! I got back from Blüdhaven after uh—I heard what happened."

"Hello, Master Dick. It's lovely to see you back home again." Alfred nods his head. The man in question—Dick, apparently, which makes the immature teen in you giggle—gives you a sorrowful expression.

But... doesn't say anything past that. He continues small talk with Alfred—and you're left propped up in the older man's arms with a lost expression.

Did he... just blow you off?

One—that was pretty rude. Two, did he not just say he came back after he heard what happened? Not to toot your own horn or anything—but you'd assume being shot kind of counts as a "what happened".

You press your lips firmly together. This was getting awkward for you, especially seeing how comfortable this huge Dick (yeah, you're taking it and running with it) seemed to be with leaving this sickly, wounded (maybe you're being a tad dramatic) person to stumble like a baby fawn, in silence.

Alfred, however—catches sight of your one-sided tension, and abruptly ends his conversation. "My apologies, Master Dick, but I must help [name] to their room. I would love to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Oh yeah, no sweat, Alfred." He gives the older man a gleeful thumbs up. Then, his eyes meet yours. "Get better soon, okay?"

You avert his stare and only nod in response. Well, at least he noticed you were there. You're still in mild shock, but you somehow manage to keep a pleasant expression. With one last small smile, Dick walks away—where, you don't really care about.

Alfred slowly helps you up a flight of stairs. He only breaks the silence after you find yourself standing in front of a room with a faded name on it. Your name. "... All these years, and only now, you've suddenly changed. I wonder..."

His words are cryptic, but his expression even more so. What was he talking about? "... Huh?"

A small smile fades on his face. "Ah... no. It's nothing. I was thinking out loud. Call me if you need anything else, Master [name]. I am at your service. And please... get better soon."

Somehow, it sounds nicer when he says it. You smile a little, and give him a nod.

"Thank you..." You test out his name on your tongue. It feels natural. "Alfred. I'll try my best."

He leaves with a curt nod and not another word. You finally slide the door open, and take a look around.

You step inside, and it's like you've entered a whole new world, again.

It's... small. Not by regular standards—it's almost double the size of your room at home—but compared to a guest bedroom in this overly massive home... it's rather small. Like a closet, more than a bedroom.

It's empty, too. Your room at home is decorated with posters and trinkets of your favourite shows, pictures of you with Harry and MJ (sometimes even the four), and memorable items you've collected with your friends and family over the years.

Memories. You had memories.

There is nothing here.

It's like you're standing in a blank slate—in a world where you are nothing and yet everything you've ever had. It sends a chill down your spine.

You walk barefoot across cold wood and take a seat on the bedsheets. Bare white with a childish print. Something a young child would use. It looks pretty scuffed up. Old. The mattress creaks under your weight and you wince.

There's a bookshelf just opposite to you. There's not much in it—in fact, it's smaller than small and is almost completely empty. There's nothing but school textbooks and thick novels. And...

It catches your eye almost immediately. A little pink slip in the midst of deep black and brown colours. You stand up—ignoring the creak that follows—and walk over to the shelf.

You slip the book out, and immediately take in its cover. Pink, and with your name in wonky cursive. It's rather dusty, as if it hadn't even been touched in years.

You flip open the cover. Big bubble letters spelling out My diary flash you and you quickly flip the page before the glitter sears into your eyelids.

The first entry is there. Exactly seven years and two months ago. It's nothing like those entries you've seen on those corny 2000's TV shows for tweens—nor is it like those aesthetic journaling girls on Pwinterest.

It's something, familiarly, you. A short clunk of text about your day, on days that had some sort of exciting event going on—something you'd undoubtedly do. It almost makes you grimace.

This whole multiverse thing might be worse than you thought.

Two days ago I moved into a new house. My mom said she couldn't take care of me anymore, and I had to live with my dad. I've never seen him until today, but he's really busy, so we don't talk much. Alfred is nice to me, and his cooking is really yummy.

There's a little sketch of a baked dinner—and despite your pre-tween art skills, it does seem rather tasty looking.

You flip the page. The next entry is a week after the last.

I still haven't talked with dad yet. But I did meet two new people. Alfred said that they're my new brothers. Mom never wanted any more babies, so I was very excited to meet them! Jason is fun to play with. He's really bad at hide and go seek, though—I always win! Dick is fun too, but he's busy a lot, like dad. But he always makes time for me and Jason. I really like it here.

There's a small picture of three stick people holding hands. One is significantly short than the other two—labelled with your name above. The one on the left to you is Jason, with black curls and a wide grin. The one on the right is labelled Dickie, much taller than the other two and with shaggy black hair.

The drawing is innocent. Cute. Wholesome, if you will. There's even heart stickers pasted (and peeling, by now) between each of your heads.

You flip the page with a small, fond smile. The next entry is three days after that one.

Dad played with me, Jason, and Dickie today. He was really bad at hide and go seek too—but Dad and Jason chased each other all around the house before I caught both of them. I was so happy I won today! Dad took us all out for dinner, even Alfred. Alfred said he only came because I always look very happy when we're together. The dinner was really yummy!!!!

The drawing underneath is a picture of what looked like a smaller version of you, standing triumphantly with a little tiara on your head.

You flip the page. This time—there's a significant gap between the dates. This was a whole 5 months after you last wrote in your diary.

I don't know where Jason is. Dad and Dickie look really sad. They've been really busy for a long time, and we don't play much anymore. The only times I see Dad is at dinner. But we don't talk. Sometimes he doesn't eat dinner, either. Alfred still puts my drawings on the fridge, and he says that Dad and Dickie are just sad now, and they'll be better soon. I miss Jason. I want him back home.

There's no silly-looking drawing to go underneath this entry. This Jason—apparently the man who saved you—seemed rather fun-loving, despite whatever happened to him. You wonder what it was.

You flip the page, again. This entry was 3 months after the last.

I miss Dad, and Dickie. Dickie told me he had to go away for a bit, because he has something important to do somewhere else. Dad is busy all the time. I haven't seen him in 4 days. I don't play with anyone but Alfred now, but he's not that fun to play with, because he's so serious all the time. Dad tells me to go on my iPad and not bother Alfred when I'm bored, but I miss them.

Next one is 2 days after.

I met a new boy today. Dad told me he's my new brother. I was pretty excited because he's my age. But he didn't want to talk to me. He said he was too caught up in important stuff, and that I should just come back later. But he looked real annoyed when saying it—so I didn't come back. He didn't say anything, so I don't think he cared.

A week later.

My dad is Batman, and my new brother is Robin. I'm freaking out. He never told me—I saw them sneaking out one day and I got really mad. Why didn't he tell me? Did Dickie and Jason know? Was I the only one who didn't? Tim got mad at me when I started yelling. I felt really sad so I hid in my room to get away from them. I've been here since. Alfred brought me dinner, but I'm not hungry.

So... this Batman who you saw before, is actually your dad? In this world, this is your father? You almost drop the diary in shock, but you can't tear your eyes away. You can't stop reading.

The next few entries don't catch your eye—it's all teen angst about how you're sick of how busy your dad is, how annoying Tim can be, how Dick won't even visit your room anymore—until something else catches your eye.

3 years later.

Jason is back. He's back home. I don't know why, but he's back. I was so excited to see him again—everyone else has become so busy and won't even talk to me. Nobody else has time for me, but Jason did. But he looked different. He's way older than me, now. He won't even look at me. I tried to hug him but he just put a mask on and walked away. Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do? It's not fair.

Your writing grows into chicken scratch near the end—as if conveying your frustration. You skim through a few more entries. More teen angst. More about how you can't even hold a conversation with your siblings anymore.

Some were sweet, like how you met some people, unnamed, and treasured their friendship so deeply, but they were few and far between.

I met a girl today. She's my sister now. Her name is Cassandra, and she has very pretty eyes. I tried to talk to her, but dad got pretty mad at me because apparently she doesn't like to talk much. How was I supposed to know that? She didn't even look at me as dad pulled her away. Who even is she? Why does my dad like her better than me? Why does he like them all better than me? It's not fair.

You're bitter. You're upset, and so, so bitter. It's so abundantly clear that as time went on, you became progressively more and more spiteful. It was rather sad to watch.

This stupid little kid tried to kill me. Claimed I was unworthy. I couldn't give less of a shit what he thinks—but my family couldn't give less of a shit about me. They said he's troubled, that he needs patience.

The new few words were less than family friendly. Unkind? Definitely. Deserved? Possibly.

I can't believe this. I'm so sick of this. I want to get out. I can't take this anymore. Jason kills people now, but Bruce still loves him. Even Steph and Babs get more love from Bruce than me. They're not even in the family, but they're better. Because they're superheroes, they're better. Maybe I'll be a hero myself. Maybe then, they'll see me.

You flip the page. That's the last entry. The last page of the book—but behind it, there's a page made of sticky notes on the back cover. Your eyes widen in shock at what you see.

It's all...

"Spidey," you read out the name atop this pasted page in a low whisper.

Your fingertips trace over the detailed drawings. Your costume. Though not made of nanotech—the suit was intricately designed with spider patterns falling all around your arms and legs, with a large spider torso. It looked somewhat like Silk's suit.

Web shooters, with thorough calculations on how much you'd have to bulk up to swing without taking your arm off (which, by what you're reading, was humanly impossible for a regular you), and detailed explanations on what the web fluid was made out of.

More environmentally sustainable than your ones. You'd have to take these notes back home.

It wasn't like your family would go looking—you can't help but think, chewing on your cheek. This was incredible. You must've been a real genius to figure all this out.

Back home, you had Reed and Tony help you with all your spider stuff. Sure, you were the one who came up with all the base ideas and constructed it all yourself—but they helped out a lot with all the technicalities. But to come up with something like, from what you can tell, all on your own...

It was nothing short of incredible. And your family had no idea.

You snap the book shut, eyes narrowing down at the ground. Your Aunt May never would've treated you like this—and if you were correct, this other you must be with your aunt right now.

Good for them, you think. Maybe they'd be happier there, anyway.

A sudden knock at your door brings you out of your stupor. You slip the book away quickly as Alfred opens the door, bowing his head slightly. "Master [name], dinner is ready. If you're feeling better, please come down."

The prospect of a family dinner leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, especially after all you've read from this diary. No matter. You don't know how this you behaved before, but you have bigger issues to deal with than becoming a copy of this sad child.

But despite everything... Alfred really did seem to care for them—for you. You nod, smoothing out your cami. "Thanks. Let's go."

You and he both head down the stairs, and you finally come face to face with the family you've heard so much about.

They're all grinning from ear-to-ear, laughing about something that "happened on patrol" as you take a seat at the end of the table—beside a blonde girl who you think was called Stephanie—chewing on the food.

It was good. Really good. Almost as good as Aunt May's meatloaf. The thought makes you feel a little homesick, but you persevere. The hard glare given to you across the table by this small kid (definitely Damian) isn't helping, though.

Dick catches the look and follows his little brothers gaze to you. He doesn't say anything about it—only ruffles the boy's hair, chuckling, and asks why he seems so glum. The child hisses and starts trying to stab the man with a steak knife, to no avail—of course.

That was the last time you were even glanced at for the rest of the dinner. You almost can't believe it. How could somebody really fade into the background like that? How could such a family let it happen?

How could they be so ignorant? You lose your appetite soon enough, and stand up. The chatter dies down for a second. Stephanie—being the closest toward you, gives you an uncomfortable smile, "Are you not going to finish? You were out for a while... you need energy to get back up and do..."

Whatever it is you do at home, you guess that's probably what she was thinking. Who said you hadn't gotten a telepathic mutation?

She doesn't finish her sentence. You'd just met these people and already you were sick of this. Seriously, you don't think you could get any more uncomfortable if somebody strapped you to a chair and tossed you down a dark well.

You miss the most fantastic of fours you know. They'd never do this to you. Sue was far too sweet.

You shake your head, plate held tight in your hand. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. There's much more important things out there in Gotham, isn't there? Besides—I have more than enough time to heal. Not like I'm doing any hero stuff, huh?"

Your laugh lacks any kind of humour, and you walk out in your typical Spidey fashion. The chatter doesn't spike up for a good ten minutes until after you leave.

You meet Alfred in the kitchen, and he's doing countless dishes alone. There's a stack of plates almost as tall as he is. You roll up your sleeves.

He gives you a confused look. "Master [name]? I have told you before, you—"

"I don't care what you told me." You say, suddenly—but you backtrack when you realise how flat your tone was. Cheeks flushed, you correct yourself, "Ah—sorry. I meant... I don't care what you told me, because it doesn't matter if you don't want help... I'll offer it anyway, you know? I can't help it. It's how I am."

It's why I'm Spidey. Not because I have powers. Not because I'm good at swinging around. Not even because the costume is awesome.

It's because you can't help but help others. You have the power to do so—now it's your responsibility.

You take a sponge, and douse it in dishwashing liquid. You scrub down a porcelain plate beside Alfred in silence.

The pensive look on his face was now replaced by a small, fond smile.

we getting into the typical diary entry stuff okokokkkk but. love interests next chapter. smirks let me cook!!!@

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[nephynes]

enhypen as the seven deadly sins please please please! i love your writing so much PLEASE!!!! (aggression!!)

hyung line + jungwon as 5 of the 7 deadly sins

nfsw warnings: toxic behavior, power imbalances, sub/dom dynamics, panty stealing, dubcon, stalkerish behavior, mentions of mental health issues, humiliation kink, praise kink, degradation kink, obsession, jealousy, just lots of filthy smut.

MDNI

════════════════════════════

ׂ╰┈➤ Sunghoon as Greed

You first met him at the firm, technically your boss's son, but rarely introduced that way. Everyone knew who he was. You didn't need a surname to understand what kind of power moved through him—the kind that didn't beg or apologize.

You were new, hired as a junior assistant with more nerves than confidence, still learning how to walk in heels without looking uncertain. He didn't speak to you at first. Just glanced in your direction when he passed through in tailored suits, cologne subtle and expensive, always with that sharp indifference. He was like the view from a penthouse; cold, impressive, and very far away.

It wasn't until one late Friday evening, after everyone else had gone home, that you heard the click of his shoes behind you.

"Still here?" His voice was smooth, clinical.

You turned, startled, clutching a folder to your chest. "Just finishing up."

He walked closer, no real urgency in his steps. "Come with me."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"For dinner," he said, pausing just long enough to smirk. "Unless the instant ramen you’re gonna have tonight is more to your liking."

You should've said no. You should've remembered the warning your supervisor gave you, the rumors whispered over coffee. That Sunghoon liked things pretty, obedient, and quiet.

But you followed him out of the building anyway.

That first dinner turned into two, then three. He was smart, sharper than anyone you'd ever met. Intense in a way that made it hard to breathe around him. He never asked questions. He made statements, and you either agreed or you didn't and when you didn't, he'd tip your chin up with a finger and say things like, "You look better when you don't try to talk over me."

He never said he liked you. He just started sending cars to pick you up. Ordering for you. Undressing you without ever being asked. One night, he took you to a penthouse suite you didn't know he owned, and that was the first time he laid you out on silk sheets, pushed your panties to the side and fucked you like you were his to ruin. You learn quickly that Sunghoon doesn't ask. He just claims. He takes you to five-star restaurants, seats you on his lap in the backseat of his car, whispers filth in your ear while his driver pretends not to hear.

He makes you sign an NDA. He buys you clothes you didn't ask for. You hate that you keep them. You hate that you want him.

One night after he's done fucking you senseless, and he's tucked himself beside you, fingers trailing your thigh.

"Give them to me," he said, voice low.

"What?"

"Your panties."

You laughed, but he wasn't joking. And when you slid them off and handed the sheer, pink and still damp panties to him—he folded them, slipped them into his coat pocket, and kissed you slow.

It became a pattern.

You started catching him doing it without asking. After he fucked you against the mirror in his office. After you rode him in the backseat of his car. You'd blink and realize he'd pocketed another pair. He didn't care if they matched. Didn't care if you noticed. He wanted them because they were yours.

And because, in some twisted way, he wanted to own every piece of you.

“You’re already shaking,” he’d murmur. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

And then he did.

Mouth between your legs, tongue greedy and relentless, hands locking you in place when you tried to squirm away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he’d laugh, breath hot against your thigh. “I’m not done.”

You came once, then twice. He didn’t stop.

Not when you whined. Not when you begged. Not even when your voice cracked from how raw and sensitive you were.

Sunghoon was greed. Not loud or showy, but indulgent. Unapologetic. Always reaching for more. He kept your lip gloss in his drawer. Your old earrings in a small box by his bed. He pressed bruises into your thighs with his hands and teeth and liked seeing them the next day.

He never said he loved you.

But he did call you "mine."

And when you tried to pull away, when things felt too fast, too close, too permanent, he found you at your apartment door one night, soaked in rain, hands in his pockets, his voice almost gentle.

"You can leave," he said. "But I'll still have all your little pieces." You opened the door anyway, he even stayed the night.

And your panties went missing again.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jake as Lust

You met him on accident. In the smoky back room of a speakeasy-style bar, with red velvet curtains and low lighting. You're not supposed to be here. Neither is he.

It's one of those nights when your friends drag you out to "the kind of place you go when you want to do something stupid." You expect not him, a random stranger in the corner booth looking like sin itself, leaning back with his shirt unbuttoned just enough, watching you like he already knows your secrets.

A wrong kind of night. Or maybe the right one, if you believe in things like fate. You were just looking for a quiet place to breathe, heels off, your makeup a bit smudged from dancing with your friends. But when you opened a random door, there he was—shirtless, sprawled on someone else's sheets, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey like it owed him something. Maybe that's when you realize the room isn't random at all, neither are the seven others across the hallway you presume also have beds in them.

Jake didn't ask why you were there.

He just looked at you with that tilted smile and said, "If you're gonna stare, you might as well come closer."

You almost laughed. Almost rolled your eyes and left. But something in his voice or maybe the heat in your chest, made you stay.

You told yourself nothing would happen. That you'd sit, talk, maybe flirt a little. But he reached for your wrist, pulled you into his lap, and made you forget how to say no.

Jake didn't take things slow. He kissed like it was a habit, tongue already in your mouth before you caught your breath. His hands were under your dress within seconds, fingers parting your thighs like he already knew exactly where to touch.

"You're soaked," he muttered into your neck, his breath hot. "God, you like this. You like being bad, don't you?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

He pulled your panties to the side and slid two fingers inside you without warning. Deep. Perfect. You gasped, clutching his shoulders, grinding down on his lap like your body was possessed.

He was rough but careful, hungry but focused. Every movement meant something. When he finally pushed you back on the bed and fucked you raw, your head tilted back and you nearly sobbed his name but you didn't even know it yet. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't soft.

It was lust. Pure, unfiltered and aching. He later told you his name when he spilled his cum over your stomach that night.

Jake saw you after that night. Often. Always in secret.

He liked you in red, even bought you lingerie that matched the marks he left on your neck. Sometimes he'd fuck you in the bathroom at parties you'd both find yourselves at. Other times, he'd call you in the middle of the night and make you come over, only to bend you over the kitchen counter before you could even take off your coat.

"Say my name when you cum," he'd whisper against your ear, cock buried deep inside you. "I want everyone in this building to know who's fucking you."

He was insatiable.

It didn't matter how many times you gave yourself to him, he always wanted more. You'd wake up with bruises on your hips, your thighs sore, your lipstick smeared across his sheets. Jake knew where to touch. Knew how to angle your hips just right. Knew how to whisper filthy things into your ear in between groans, how to press his mouth against your neck and make you cry his name like it was a prayer.

"You take me so well," he groaned, thrusting deep, your legs wrapped around his waist. "You were made for this. For me."

You came harder than you ever had. Twice. He didn't let you rest. Just rolled you onto your stomach and pulled you back onto his cock, panting against the back of your neck.

"Come on," he murmured. "I'm not done."

Even when you begged him to slow down, to let you breathe, and whispered that you were going to pass out if he kept hitting that particular spot with his cock, Jake just smiled, laughed even. Brushed your hair back and said, "Don't beg unless you're begging for more."

You knew what Jake was. He was Lust in every sense.

Not love. Not devotion.

Just raw, dripping need.

With Jake, it was about consuming.

And you'd never be untouched again.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jungwon as Envy

Jungwon wasn't loud about it.

Not his feelings. Not his rage. Not even the way he looked at you across lecture halls like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss you or crush your head under his foot.

You were always neck and neck—academically, socially, even in the way people talked about you. They called you brilliant. Beautiful. Precise. And he hated how often your name came up next to his like you were equals.

But you were.

That was the problem.

You'd been friends at a point, even hooked up once or twice. Studied together, shared notes, laughed over shitty cafeteria coffee. Until you started ranking higher. Until your professors started using your name instead of his when they handed back tests and said, "Perfect score."

He told himself it didn't matter. That he didn't care.

But Jungwon never knew how to leave you alone. No matter how many times he told himself he would. He'd tell himself that this was the last time. That next time you smiled at him with that bright, infuriating mouth of yours, he'd ignore you. Let you go. Let you be someone else's problem.

But he always came back.

You didn't make it easier. The way you sat in lectures like you owned the room—half-listening, half-smiling, chatting away with your friends and still managing to top every exam like it was second nature. Like you didn't even try.

It drove him insane.

Especially because he did try. He studied for hours. He lost sleep. He took notes in color, annotated every page, memorized every word. And you still beat him. Again. Effortlessly.

So when he showed up at your dorm one night, hoodie pulled over his head, jaw tight, you already knew something was wrong.

He didn't say even hi. Didn't ask to come in. Just stepped past you and turned, eyes sharp.

"What'd you get on the midterm?"

You blinked. "Hello to you, too."

"Don't play with me. What was your score?"

You tilted your head, sensing something coiled in him, tight and trembling. "Ninety-eight."

He went still.

The silence stretched before he spoke again, "I got a ninety-five."

You shrugged, light on purpose. "That's still good, Jungwon." "The score closest to yours is a seventy-seven." You really did try to reassure him. "It was just a midterm, anyway."

That snapped something in him.

"Just a midterm?" he asked, voice rising, hands clenched. "I studied harder than you. I didn't go out. I didn't sleep. I worked for it."

You crossed your arms, something bitter tasting in your mouth, starting to make you feel like you've had enough of Jungwon's attitude over grades. "You're not upset over a three-point difference, are you?"

Jungwon didn't answer. He stepped in close, grabbing your face with one hand—not gently. His fingers were shaking.

And then, in the jagged quiet of his frustration, a cold truth settled in his chest. It wasn't just that you were better. It wasn't just the scores or the effortless grace you carried through everything or the fact that you didn't even care.

He wanted to be you.

To carry your ease. To live with that natural brilliance and calm that made everything look so damn easy. He hated himself for it—the way his jaw clenched tighter, how the envy burned deeper, how he couldn't stop thinking about how effortless you made it seem.

But he swallowed the thought down. Locked it away where no one could hear it. Because admitting that would be admitting how deep this obsession ran. How much he wasn't just jealous or envious, but broken by it.

You opened your mouth, maybe to push him back, maybe to tell him to leave, but he kissed you before you could. Hard. Brutal. Not romantic but claiming.

He pushed you against the wall, hands under your shirt, yanking it off like he would lose his mind if he didn't. You clawed at his hoodie, dragged it over his head, all teeth and rage and heat. When his mouth left yours, it moved down your neck, biting hard enough to leave bruises.

"You make me fucking insane," he growled, pulling your panties down your legs and tossing them away. "You walk around like you don't know what you do to me."

"Maybe I do," you whispered, goading him. "Maybe I like watching you lose."

He shoved you onto the bed without answering.

When he fucked you, it was angry.

Hands holding your hips down, thrusts deep and fast, unforgiving. No teasing, no slow buildup—just raw, punishing need. His palm covered your mouth when you cried out.

"You wanted this," he panted against your neck. "You asked for it, running your mouth like that." "Getting higher marks when you didn't even fucking study."

You clawed at his shoulders. "Maybe I like seeing you break." He groaned, "I hate you so much, I fucking hate you."

He grabbed your jaw, forced your eyes to his. "You don't see anything. You don't know what it's like to want someone so bad you start hating them for it."

Your thighs shook as he pounded into you, your cries muffled by his hand, your body trembling from overstimulation. He didn't stop. Even when you begged.

"You beat me," he whispered, voice cracked. "And I still fucking want you." "Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. "So tight like you need this."

You moan, trying to push at his shoulders, trying to squirm away, but he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, forcing your knees to meet your shoulders and take every thrust exactly how he gives it—relentless, punishing, like he wants to fuck the difference in your scores right out of you.

"You think you're better than me?" he grits, voice breaking, hips snapping forward. "You think I don't see the way everyone looks at you?"

You can't answer—can barely breathe.

And maybe that's what he wants.

Because he doesn't slow down. Doesn't hold back. You're dripping down onto your sheets, the slap of skin echoing through the room, your body rocking with each deep, brutal thrust.

Jungwon groans low in his throat, like he's hurting too. Like your cunt is a punishment he's taking on, like if he fucks you hard enough maybe he'll stop wanting you, stop needing to be near you just to feel whole.

But he doesn't stop.

Not until you're trembling, walls fluttering around him, legs shaking so hard he grabs one to kiss your ankle, your eyes are wide at the gesture. Such a tender contrast to the brutal way he's thrusting his cock in and out of you.

He finishes with a growl, deep and violent, spilling inside you with his teeth sunk into your shoulder like he wants to brand you from the inside out, holding your wrists down, breathless and trembling.

After, he doesn't even move. Just stays on top of you, chest rising and falling like he'd just lost a war.

You thought he'd leave?

He didn't.

He stayed the night, curled around you like you were the one thing anchoring him.

And in the morning, when you woke up sore and bruised, he was already watching you. Still wanting and still hating himself for it.

ׂ╰┈➤ Jay as Pride

Jay is the reason the entire west wing always smells like turpentine and cigarette smoke. He doesn't even smoke indoors, but his scent lingers in the stairwell after midnight, when he slips out between classes to clear his head and sketch between drags. Professors give him too much slack. Students give him too much space. Everyone calls him a prodigy, a savant, the kind of talent that only passes through once in a generation.

You've seen his work. It's infuriatingly good.

Technically flawless. Emotionally devastating. There's one piece in particular, tucked in the corner of the senior gallery—a stark, enormous canvas layered in violent reds and pale, impossible light, you almost stopped breathing the first time you saw it. You'd never tell him that, if you ever spoke to him.

You're not better than him. You've never pretended to be. But you're good enough to matter. Good enough that when you get your own studio assignment, Jay shows up uninvited.

He leans in your doorway, sketchbook under one arm, a thin pencil between his fingers. He watches you like a critic would, sharp eyes skimming over your work in progress, half-finished oils drying on canvas, the shape of a face you're still unsure of.

"You should've left the jaw unfinished," he says casually. "It had more tension before." You stiffen. "You don't think I know what I'm doing?"

He shrugs. "I think you want it to be perfect. That's what's fucking it up." You turn to glare at him, only to find his mouth curling into a smirk. He loves that. That you bristle. That you care.

Jay walks in without asking, flips your sketchbook open like it belongs to him, and then—after a long pause—closes it gently, setting it down. "You're good," he says, and it sounds almost like a confession. "Better than most of the leeches in this place."

You cross your arms, small smile tugging at your lips as you think of the many ways you want to mess with him. "But not better than you?"

He grins. "No one is." He says as he turns on his heels to walk straight out, leaving a trail of his perfume in his wake.

The studio was meant to be yours—it is on paper.

Two months of solitary light, your name on the roster, your pieces hung at the next juried review. You're already weeks ahead on your concept. You've bled for it. Earned this. No one's supposed to be here.

But by the second day, Jay starts showing up.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't smile. Just drops his bag near the door, nods at your half-finished work, and sketches in the corner like the space was his first.

By day three, he starts speaking. Minimal and blunt.

"You're losing proportion." "The underpainting's too warm." "That's not tension, it's laziness."

You hate that he's never wrong.

Day four, he moves closer. Silent steps around your easel, watching. Eyes flitting over your work, your wrists, your breath.

You say nothing. You don't need to. He's the best in this academy. Everyone knows it. But that doesn't mean he belongs here.

By the fifth day, he crosses a line.

You're bent over the canvas, trying to finish a live study, your model long gone, the moment already slipping through your fingers, that's when he walks up behind you, picks up your brush, and drags it straight down the curve of a spine you've been perfecting for an hour.

"That's not where the weight lives," he says. Cool and dismissive. "She's collapsing here, not lifting."

Something in you goes taut. You turn, furious. "Are you fucking serious?"

He doesn't blink. "It was wrong."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Jay's expression doesn't shift. "You needed correction."

You shove him hard in the chest. He stumbles. His back hits the bench behind him, and he catches himself just in time, but you're already advancing, eyes dark.

"That was my piece."

He recovers quickly, tries to stand taller, to level the balance again, but before he can speak, you shove him again. Harder this time.

He actually falls. Hits the floor on his back, breath punched out of him. The brush clatters beside him.

And you step forward. You don't crouch to check if he's okay. You don't help him up. Instead, you plant your bare foot right on his chest, the heel of it pressing against his sternum.

He stares up at you, frozen, his breath shallow.

You tilt your head.

"Apologize."

His jaw clenches. "You shoved me—"

"Apologize," you say again, firmer this time. "For touching my work."

He tries to rise, a flicker of defiance still in him, but you press your foot down harder—enough to stop him cold. His hands clutch at the floor beneath him, caught between his need to assert himself and the ache rising visibly between his legs.

Because from this angle, he can see a lot of you. Your skirt has ridden up from the movement, your lacy panties now perfectly visible above the curve of your thighs. Sheer, delicate, soaked with heat.

Jay swallows.

He tries not to stare, but he does. And when your foot slowly drags from his chest down to the bulge straining in his pants—he gasps.

You press your foot lightly into him, right there, and his hips twitch. He lets out the softest sound—humiliated, aroused, and ruined.

"I bet you've never let anyone do this," you continue, voice like silk over skin. "I bet you're used to people fawning over your work, begging for your attention. But that's not what you want right now, is it?"

You press again, a little firmer.

Jay moans under his breath. His hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

"Big," you hum, foot pressing just enough to make his hips rise involuntarily. "Of course you are. Pretty boy with a big cock. But that ego's even bigger, huh?"

He grits his teeth. But he doesn't stop you.

"Apologize," you say again, just above a whisper.

He chokes on a breath. "I—"

But still, no apology. Pride like armor, even now.

So you stop.

You left you foot and reach for your brush.

"If you can't say it," you murmur, dipping it in red, "maybe I'll paint it instead. Park Jongseong, crawling at my feet."

He makes a sound like he's breaking, before gathering himself and walking out, trying to pretend that you not looking at him after that doesn't affect him.

He doesn't come the day after. Or the one after that.

But then on the third day after, just when you think you've broken him too far, he walks in.

Same time as the last, 3:02 p.m. Same soundless tread of shoes on wood, same scent of clean linen and paint, same boy with storm in his eyes.

But this time he doesn't say anything.

You glance up from your sketchpad, narrowed eyes tracking his movements. "Here to correct my work again?" you murmur, dry.

Jay doesn't answer. He just walks over and sits beside you—closer than usual, silent. He doesn't take out his sketchbook. Doesn't touch a pencil. Doesn't even glance at the canvas on the easel. He just... watches.

His stillness and the quiet, it unnerves you. You try to work but feel the heat of his stare like a brand, tension creeping up your spine. After ten minutes, you can't take it anymore. You set your brush down, turn to him—and he kisses you.

So suddenly, so forcefully, your breath punches out of your lungs. His hand is at the nape of your neck, lips feverish, open-mouthed. You stumble a little on the stool, catching yourself on the table behind you. He follows, crowding into your space.

You shove at his shoulder, panting. "What the fuck are you doing—"

"Don't push me away," he says, voice wrecked. "Don't—just—kiss me back." His pride is trembling at the edges. You see it. He doesn't want to be here like this, doesn't want to need this, need you, but he does. And he hates that he does.

You hesitate for a beat, then lean forward and kiss him again. This time, slow, more controlled. His hands fist in your shirt like he's grounding himself. Like he's falling.

You break the kiss first, and your fingers trail down his chest, then lower, to the waistband of his pants. You feel him tense beneath you, breath shallow.

"Take them off," you say softly.

Jay's eyes flicker. "You're serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

His throat works as he swallows. You watch his hands move to his belt, slow and trembling slightly. When he's down to just his boxers, you press your palm between his legs. He's already hard—straining. You grin. "God, Jay. Is this what you were thinking about while I painted? Sitting there like a good boy, pretending not to want it?"

You shove him—hard. He stumbles back off the stool, genuinely shocked that you did this again, and when you follow him, your hand is already tugging his waistband down.

"Wha—" His voice cracks as your fingers dip into the band of his boxers.

"Don't move," you murmur, low and even, as you drag them down his thighs. "You wanted to be here. You kept showing up. So now you get to stay."

He's too stunned to protest. Too conflicted to push back. You catch the way his cock twitches as the cool air hits him, already half-hard and pulsing with tension. The humiliation in his eyes is palpable—and you drink it in like victory.

You give him a little shove to the chest, and his back hits the studio floor with a thud. The look on his face is pure disbelief, cut with something darker—need, maybe. Shame.

Jay looks like he wants to throttle you.

He's glaring up at you like you've committed some personal betrayal, like every inch of you genuinely offends him. The cocky curve of your mouth. The control you refuse to surrender. The way you look at him—not in awe, not in reverence, but like a challenge he hasn't yet won.

He swears, one day, he's going to wipe that look off your face. He just doesn't know if he wants to do it with his mouth or his hands.

His body betrays him, though. The sharp inhale he takes when you touch him. The way his back arches, sharp and desperate, when your hand strokes over his flushed cock again. His wrists strain under your grip when you pin them above his head, and the look he throws you is venomous. If he could kill with a glance, you'd already be a corpse.

"You know," you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "you can just admit you like being dommed."

Jay jerks under you, flushed and fuming. "Go to hell."

You laugh, smooth and low. "Everyone likes pleasure, Jay. Even you."

He hates that you're right. Hates that his body is already shaking, already giving in. His breath stutters. You don't stop. You move with slow, infuriating precision, stroking him with the kind of focus that says you have all the time in the world. You can feel him trembling beneath you. Tension coils in his thighs. His breath hitsched every time your hand glides over his tip, smearing his precum all over him.

The humiliation bleeds into every inch of him, his chest heaving, his face flushed and burning, eyes darting everywhere but your face. And the worst part? He's so close. On the edge. Teetering. His pride is in shambles.

"You gonna cum?" you ask sweetly, tilting your head.

He pants out a desperate, broken sound. "Y—you fucking wish."

Your smile is all teeth as you lean down and wrap your mouth around him, slow and steady. He gasps, all sharp and wrecked, and you feel him twitch on your tongue. His fingers curl helplessly into fists, wrists still pinned, every inch of him going taut beneath you.

"Fuck, fuck, I— I'm gonna—"

"Mhm." You pull back just enough to murmur against him. "Go on. Let go, Jay. I'm not done with you yet."

His pride doesn't stand a chance.

He cums hard, body arching off the studio floor, mouth dropping open in a groan that barely sounds like him. The sound echoes through the empty studio. It's loud, raw, and humiliating. His cum spills hot and heavy over your hand, and you ride out every twitch, every curse that falls from his lips like a plea.

When it's over, he's limp beneath you. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. His jaw clenched in frustration even now.

You swing a leg over his waist, straddling him again just to watch the way he shivers.

"Pathetic," you murmur, wiping your hand clean on his shirt. "And you still haven't apologized." He doesn't speak. He just stares, eyes wide and glassy, face red with everything he refuses to admit. But you see it. You see all of it.

And tomorrow? He'll be back.

ׂ╰┈➤ Heeseung as Wrath

You meet Heeseung in group therapy. Your therapist calls it a "community-centered support circle," but you know what it really is. Folding chairs, stale coffee and eye contact you don't want. You're only there cause your anxiety and panic attacks have gotten so frequent they’ve started giving your fingers tremors, but he's something else entirely. Something worse.

Heeseung's there for anger management.

He doesn't say much the first few meetings. Just sits at the edge of the room with his fists clenched and his jaw locked like his whole body is trying not to detonate. You don't know what's more unsettling—the fury rolling off of him in waves or the silence that contains it.

It was the one session where he spoke that changed everything. "I don't want to talk about what I did," he says evenly, eyes pinned to the floor. "But I remember everything. Every second. And I don't regret the reason."

No one says a word, but you look at him, and that's all it takes. After that, he's everywhere. He walks you to your car after group, hands shoved in his hoodie, voice quiet, never directly beside you.

"You don't check your surroundings. You should. That's dangerous."

He calls that night to make sure you got home okay. You never gave him your number, but it doesn't occur to you to ask how he got it. He starts coming to your apartment, always unannounced. Just shows up, leaning against your doorway like he lives there. Like he belongs. And maybe he does, because you start needing him—his calm, his rough-edged presence. His quiet protection.

Heeseung doesn't do love. He even tells you he doesn't date.

One night you laugh too hard at something a guy who works at the bookstore says. Heeseung watches it all from across the street, leaning against his car. Later, you find out that guy quit his job. No explanation. Just stopped showing up.

"What did you do?" you ask him one night, voice quiet.

Heeseung shrugs. "Told him to watch how he speaks to you. That's all."

"Heeseung, that’s… cruel."

"Maybe." He leans closer, voice dropping. "But I've never seen your hands shake when you're with me."

You're not dating, not officially. But it doesn't matter. Because no one else would dare touch you. And Heeseung doesn't ask permission when he kisses you, or when he finally fucks you.

That night is a blur of heat and confusion. He shows up at your door past midnight, fists clenched, in a compression shirt tight on his body. He doesn't ask if he can come in, just does, shuts the door behind him.

"You let someone else walk you to your car," he says, tone dead cold. You blink. "It was just—"

"Don't you fucking lie to me."

And then his mouth is on yours, brutal, consuming, the kiss of a man who wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave. He lifts you with ease, backs you into the wall, hips pressing in.

Heeseung doesn't fuck to relieve tension. He fucks to mark. To brand. Clothes scatter. His hands never stop touching you, even when you whimper under his touch, even when you try to slow him down.

"Heeseung—w-wait—"

"Don't run from me," he growls, thumb pressing between your legs. "You want it. You've always wanted it."

And God you have. You do.

He drops to his knees and rips your panties clean off. Doesn't ask or pause. Just buries his face between your thighs like a man starved, moaning softly like your body is the first good thing he's ever tasted. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and he lets you pull, lets you ride against his tongue until you're gasping, shaking. He sucks your clit into his mouth so harshly it has you breathless, he doesn’t stop for a minute, not even to breathe, he’s relentless in the way he drags his tongue through your folds—from your clit to your clenching hole.

He kisses up your stomach, breath ragged. His voice near a growl. "You let anyone else see you like this?"

"N-no—"

"That's fucking right."

Heeseung fucks you like he's furious about it. Furious that you let him in. Furious that no one else gets to. Every thrust is sharp, fast, almost punishing, his hand around your throat, his mouth at your ear.

"So fucking sweet for me. Innocent little thing," he murmurs, his voice trembling with restraint. "You drive me insane."

"D-Don’t stop!" you gasp.

He slams into you, hard. "Baby, I couldn’t stop if I tried." He groans

He's sweating, jaw clenched, body taut like a bow ready to snap. He fucks you into the mattress, the wall, the floor. You lose track. The only thing you know is Heeseung—the scent of him, the heat, the way his hands grip your waist like he'll break you if he's not careful, and the way his cock doesn’t soften even after he’s cum inside you twice already.

"Gonna cum," you whimper.

"Then cum," he snarls. "Make a mess, baby."

You do—body arching, shaking, falling apart beneath him. He finishes inside you, barely holding back a growl, collapsing beside you with breathless rage.

You lie there in the quiet for a while, your chest still rising and falling in shaky waves, limbs boneless from what he just did to you. There's sweat on your skin, and the ache between your legs is deep, curling. But it's not the bruises or the overstimulation that catch you off guard.

It's him.

Heeseung.

The same man who slammed you into the mattress like he wanted to own you is now staring up at the ceiling like he's seconds from unraveling. He's on his back, one hand over his eyes. The other's still linked with yours, fingers twisted tight like if he lets go, you'll vanish.

"You okay?" you whisper.

He takes a while before he speaks. "No," he says, voice wrecked. "Not even close."

You don't know what to say. You've never heard him sound like this before, like the anger is gone and all that's left is the wreckage it built.

He turns to you, finally, and his eyes are glassy. Not tears. not quite, but something scarily close. The look you get from someone who's spent years building walls just to be seen through in one night.

"I didn't mean to be like this with you," he mutters.

"Like what?"

"Crazy. Obsessed. Possessive."

He closes his eyes like it hurts to admit.

"You're the only thing that makes me want to be soft again. And I don't know how."

You shift toward him, press your palm to his bare chest over the rapid thump of his heartbeat. It's thunderous and wild.

"Heeseung," you say gently. "I never asked you to be soft."

His lashes flutter. He looks at you like you just cracked the sky open.

"I just asked you to be honest."

And for a second all the rage in him quiets. He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"I think I’m in love with you," he whispers.

You don't answer.

You just kiss him, slow and deep and this time, it's not about control or heat or needing to brand each other.

It's about staying.

Heeseung's wrath was always loud. But this? This is the part where he finally learns how to burn silently and only for you.

════════════════════════════

• a/n: when i say i got so carried away with this😭 that’s why some are longer than others, i was genuinely losing control as i was writing, i thought i was going insane! i hope you enjoyyy, i’d love to get feedback (it’s my first time ever writing anything like this)

[junovrsmp4]

three is not a crowd

OR

5 times Chris walks in on you and Matt fucking + 1 time he gets to join in on the fun

pairing: established!matt x reader, chris x reader, matt x reader x chris

summary: what it says on the tin basically

warnings: THREESOME, PURE FILTH, dick riding, oral (female & male receiving), teasing, edging, over-stimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, p in v, slight degradation/praising, slight angst, happy ending yay

word count: 6.9K

author’s note: im a whore for both of them. that is all. (also this has plot, and is mostly beta read but i havent slept in hrs so if some mistakes did slip thru my bad

1

“Hey Matt, have you seen my-” Chris begins to ask as he pushes Matt’s bedroom door open, expecting his brother to either be lazing around in bed or be at his desk, gaming.

What he doesn't expect is the sight he is instead greeted by, of you, Matt’s girlfriend of the last year and a half, astride Matt’s lap, riding his dick while he leans against his headboard, head thrown back and hands grabbing your hips, guiding you, slowly.

Chris is shocked, understandably, and he should just turn around and book it. Instead, he stands frozen, watching the way your head is nestled into the crook of Matt’s neck, your shoulders shaking. If Chris ignores the sound of his own pounding heart, he can almost hear the soft whimpers you’re letting out at each downward thrust of your hips.

At the sound of a soft, deep groan, Chris’ attention shifts to Matt, who has his eyes shut, and his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. There’s something surreal about this scene, seeing Matt, who looks nothing like Chris, but also looks the most like him, fucking this beautiful girl who’s been on his mind for months now.

“Matt…,” he hears you whine loudly against his brother’s neck, and Chris has to grit his teeth, fight against the urge to shove his hands into his pants and fist his growing erection. This shouldn't turn him on so much, hell, he shouldn't even be here right now. He should have run in the opposite direction as soon as he realized what he’d walked in on, but he’s mesmerized by the way you move, your back arching as your hips move back and forth. The slow, sensual, almost hypnotic, movements of your body as you ride Matt’s dick has him clenching his fists, nails digging into his palms and it’s easy to imagine him in Matt’s place as he gets this view of what it might look like to fuck you. Your moans grow louder, and Chris thinks it might be because you’re getting close, and god, he feels so hot underneath his skin.

“Shh baby, didn't you say we needed to be quiet?” Matt whispers against the side of your head. “Can’t have Chris hearing us, can we?”

At the sound of his name, Chris’ heart hammers faster, and he looks up at Matt’s face, only to see that his brother’s gaze was already on him, watching him with a slight smirk before thrusting his hips up, presumably driving his cock deeper into you, making you moan even louder than you already were.

Breaking out of his stupor, Chris stumbles backwards before hightailing it to his room, slamming the door behind him. It takes all of five seconds for him to get his cock out of his sweatpants, furiously jerking off as he leans against his door, biting into the hem of his t-shirt that he’d pulled up over his chest, and only another five seconds before he shoots his cum all over himself.

2

Chris knows its wrong, wanting his brother's girl. This was never a problem before, because any time he found out Matt liked someone, Chris immediately lost interest. It was the brothers’ code; they never fought over girls, and besides, they always just liked different ones.

You, though…it was hard not to like you, even after he found out Matt had his eyes on you.

Chris remembers the first time he met you, how nice you’d been to him and his brothers, how easily you’d fit into their lives. He’s not going to lie and say he’d wanted you right from the start. It was a gradual thing, slowly creeping up on him before he realized what had gotten him.

You just made him feel so comfortable, and surprisingly, the two of you had a lot in common. But then again, you had a lot in common with Matt, and Nick. And yet, you were so different. You were smart, playful, and so, so kind. You were just the right amount of goofy and serious, and you just, fit well into the dynamic Chris and his brothers shared.

It shouldn't have surprised him when Matt eventually told him and Nick that he was into you and planned to ask you out. It all happened so quickly after that. You and Matt had gotten together and, now you weren't just the new friend that Chris and his brothers were always hanging out with, but his brother's (his brother who was also his best friend, really) girlfriend.

Which is why Chris knows it’s fucked up. Wanting you. And he knows it’s even more fucked up that he wishes he could have a repeat of what happened a few weeks ago when he accidentally walked in on you and Matt. The amount of times he’s jacked off to that memory alone the past few nights is insane, his mind supplying images to create his own version of events where he doesn't run away.

Especially fucked up is the fact that Matt had seen him, had looked cocky that he’d caught Chris watching them, and even that fact hadn’t deterred Chris from chasing orgasm after orgasm to the thought of fucking you, imagining how tight and wet your pussy might be, what it might taste like.

Speaking of the fucker who seemed totally unfazed by recent events, Matt sat across Chris, scrolling through his phone, while Nick sat beside him, editing their latest video. Chris was trying his hardest not to flip the fuck out, but his whole nervous system seemed like it was fried. Nick had already yelled at him twice to stop moving so much because he was apparently jostling the table too much, and Matt had just let out a bemused chuckle without lifting his eyes from his phone the entire time.

Just as Chris was about to get up and retreat to him room, the doorbell rings, before Matt gets a series of texts.

“Oh, she’s here-” Matt says, before shooting out of his chair and rushing to great you at the front door.

“Hey, hey, hey!” your cheery voice rings through the hallway, as you and Matt make your way into the kitchen, and Chris almost chokes on the sip of Pepsi he’d just taken because holy fuck-

You were wearing a short, tight black dress that hugged the lines and curves of your body just right, the square neckline barely covering your chest. His eyes slipped further down to the way the fabric of the dress cinched at your waist, and to the slit at the side of the dress that came up to mid-thigh. That and the combination of tall strappy heels you had on made your legs look…really good. So good that Chris wishes he was between those legs, licking a path up your calf to your inner thighs, leaving bruising kisses to mar the smooth, unblemished skin of your legs, before finally, finally-

Nick hoots just then, exclaiming about how hot your fit looks, pulling Chris out of his daze. He watches as you bask in the compliments being showered onto you by both Nick and Matt now, and can't help but smile at the way you try to hide your blushing face.

So, it’s completely out of left field when he sees you again later that night, sitting on the couch with your hands covering your face but this time it’s to hide the loud moans that threaten to slip from your mouth as you watch Matt kneel in front of you, his mouth pressing kisses into your inner thighs…just like Chris had imagined doing earlier.

It’s ridiculous really, how Chris had been feeling slightly normal after dinner with you and his brothers, because as awkward as he may have been feeling about you and Matt, being around you and his brothers, having good food and just laughing about random shit made him feel really fucking good. Like everything was normal and he wasn't fantasizing about fucking his brother’s girlfriend. Like he hadn't accidentally walked in on them fucking.

Of course it’s just his fucking luck that as soon he’s feeling just that slightest bit of normalcy, he’d decided to go to the kitchen and grab a Pepsi from the fridge at 3 AM, only to find his brother about to eat you out on the couch.

“Matt-” you whine, as your back arches off the couch, one of your hands moving to grab Matt’s hair, the other trying and failing to hold back your moans. “Matt, please- nnggh- stop teasing.”

Chris feels all his blood rush down south and it leaves him lightheaded. The low lighting in the room accentuates the shadows of your body and he can see the muscles in your legs flex as your thighs clench around Matt’s head, trying to get him to move his mouth closer to where you want him. You’re not in the tight black dress he’d seen you in earlier, but in a blue baby tee and black lace-trimmed hipster briefs. There’s an almost imperceptible quiver that wracks through your entire body in anticipation for what’s to come.

Matt doesn't keep you waiting for long. Chris' breathing grows even more jagged as he watches Matt’s fingers push your panties to the side before he runs his tongue flat up your pussy. Chris can't see as much as he’d like to, but his overactive imagination does the job for him, imagining how wet you must be.

Chris feels like such a sick perv for still standing there, watching with wide eyes as Matt (his literal brother) enthusiastically licks and kisses your pussy, and he almost wonders how neither of you haven't noticed him yet. Then again, you and Matt seem so lost in each other, and now there’s another ugly thought circling Chris’ brain, one that makes his chest hurt a little.

He forgoes his Pepsi for the night and quietly returns back to his room, cock half-hard, and his heart just the slightest bit heavy.

3

“Alright, what’s going on with you?” Nick asks him, while his eyes are still fixed on his phone.

He and Chris were sitting on the couch (Chris had been avoiding the section that you and Matt had used during your late night rendezvous), and Chris was idly flipping through his Netflix watch list.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Chris says with a heavy sigh, slumping further into the couch.

It’s quiet, and the silence makes Chris look up at Nick, who was already looking at him with a curious frown.

“Seriously, what the fuck is up with you?” Nick asks, and he actually looks concerned, which throws Chris off a bit. “You’re usually bouncing off the walls and annoying the shit out of everyone in your nearest vicinity, but lately you've just been, I don't know- I’m like actually worried, did something happen? Is everything okay?”

Chris swallows around the lump that had formed in his throat and takes a minute. To do what, he doesn't know. It’s not like he’s going to prepare himself to tell Nick what he’d witnessed, twice, and how he was feeling about it. Really, how does one go about telling their triplet brother that they’d accidentally witnessed their other brother in an intimate situation with said brother’s partner, not once, but twice, and had enjoyed it, to the point of having nightly fantasies about it?

There were more complicated feelings lurking just under the surface, more than just Chris wanting to fuck you, but he did not have the mental bandwidth to unpack all that, so that was that. It’s not like he had honest to god feelings-

“See, at this point, you would’ve been yapping away-” Nick says, interrupting his train of thought, “-but instead, you’re just sitting there, looking all sad and miserable.”

“Okay, I don't look sad and miserable,” Chris says with a roll of his eyes. At least, he hopes he doesn't. “I’m just tired dude. Haven't been sleeping well lately.”

“Right.”

“What? It’s the truth.”

“Didn't say you were lying,” Nick says, matter-of-factually, in that signature Nick tone that lets everyone know when he isn't buying their bullshit.

“I’m fine,” Chris says slowly, waiting for Nick to stop looking at him so intensely.

“Sure,” Nick drawls out. “You’re also a shitty liar.”

“Fuck you,” Chris grumbles, chucking the TV remote at Nick, who flails to try and dodge it, letting out an indignant squawk when it bounces off his shoulder and falls to the ground.

This, of course, results in Nick throwing whatever was closest to him at Chris, which happens to be an empty water bottle, and eventually they're just chucking it back and forth, cursing at each other in between laughter.

It’s the most relaxed Chris has felt in weeks.

Too bad you had to walk in at that exact moment.

“Hey guys!” you say cheerily, plopping down on the couch, next to Chris. You’d stayed over for a couple of nights now, as you usually do, and Chris should be extremely used to your presence, except he feels his skin prickle as soon as your close to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating off of your skin.

“God, how are you so chipper every morning?” Nick asks, shaking his head with a poorly hidden smile.

You twirl a strand of your hair around your finger, and bit the corner of your bottom lip. “It helps that I wake up to one of the hottest guys ever, and then get to hang out with his hot as fuck brothers,” you say with a smirk, waggling your eyebrows at Nick.

Chris wishes you hadn't just said that because now his mind wanders (more like sprints) to the memory of this morning, when he’d walked past Matt’s open bedroom. He’d heard the telltale sounds of skin slapping against skin, and your voice, whining Matt’s name over and over, which had him stopping right before Matt’s door, eyes wide, mouth agape. This couldn't be happening right? There was no way he’d walked into this situation for a third time.

Chris debates on whether he should just turn back around, go downstairs, out the front door, and bash his head against a tree, or if he should soldier on and just walk past to get to his room.

The sounds were getting to him. His cock strained against his grey sweatpants, creating a very obvious tent. His clothes suddenly felt a size too small, the air around him too thick, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead. He should leave, run far, far away from his house probably, but a sick part of him wants more than anything to see what’s got you moaning this time.

He rounds the corner and is met with a sight that almost has him falling to his knees.

It’s unfair, how incredibly gorgeous you look straddling Matt’s thighs, bouncing on his dick rhythmically, your head thrown back. You’re leaning back on your hands, supported on Matt’s knees, and Chris watches the way your body undulates as you swivel your hips, ribs flaring as your chest heaves. Every gasp you let out is a punch to Chris’ gut, leaving him feeling winded.

You’re so lost in the throes of pleasure that you don't hear when Chris groans out loud, but he knows exactly when Matt hears him, because his head rolls lazily towards him, his hands that had been grabbing your hips tightening, and there’s little to no warning before Matt’s flipping you over and thrusting into you with vigor.

“Does that feel good baby?” Chris hears Matt ask, his voice rough and low. “Tell me how good my dick makes you feel.”

“Fuck, so good, Matt- please, please, please-” your moans turning into whimpers as Matt’s thrust pick up in pace. Chris can tell exactly when Matt hits the bundle of nerves inside you that has you seeing stars because your back arches off his bed, hands scrambling to find purchase. Your fingers clench into the pillow above your head, as you beg Matt to go harder, faster.

Chris’ eyes bounce back to Matt, who’s watching you in awe, and he’s seen that look on his face numerous times before, like Matt can't get enough of you. Chris’ breath hitches, because he wishes it was him, in Matt’s place. Him, worshiping you, making you feel good. He wishes he was the one that was ripping those sounds out of you.

He catches Matt’s eyes just then, and Chris has never wanted to punch him in the face more than he does in that moment, because it almost feels like he’s mocking Chris.

See what I have, what you so desperately want…

Chris holds up a middle finger, directed at Matt and whatever god was up there who’d clearly forsaken him. He had half the mind to just yell but the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass you. So with a scathing look at Matt, and a mouthed fuck you, he walks to his room, the sound of Matt’s laughter the last thing he hears before Chris angrily slams the door and sheds his clothes, pumping his cock to the memory of your voice.

It’s the hardest he’s cum all week.

4

Chris walks in on Matt pounding you against the wall leading to the garage. At this point, it had to be on purpose. The two of you had to be planning this, because how was it always Chris that ended up walking in on them, and not Nick? Knowing his brother, Nick would’ve gone around voicing his disgust at having caught you and Matt fucking, any chance he got.

So, it had to be on purpose.

Matt’s whispering dirty things in your ear, loud enough for Chris to hear every word.

“You’re so fucking pretty baby-”

“I want to ruin you, want you to feel me for days-”

“You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” and that has you letting out a particularly loud whine. The next bit Matt whispers into your ear is too inaudible for Chris to comprehend but he can tell how much it affects you, because you absolutely lose it just then.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

“Can y’all stick to fucking in Matt’s bed?”

At the sound of Chris’ voice, you look up at him, startled, and it’s electrifying, your stare. Chris sees your eyebrows furrow, your lips, plump from being bitten (by yourself, or Matt, who cares at this point), fall open. Matt’s shoulders stiffen for a second, so Chris knows he’s aware that Chris is right behind them, but the asshole just keeps fucking going. And you, you’re still staring.

“Chris-” you gasp, your nails digging into Matt’s shoulder. Chris thinks you’re going to push him away, scramble to pull yourself together.

You surprise him by pushing back down onto Matt’s cock with even more fervor, your hands moving up Matt’s neck to grab onto his hair, pulling hard.

Chris watches you cum on Matt’s cock for the first time that night, all while your eyes were locked on his.

5

Chris doesn't like being angry. He very rarely is. And usually, he gets over it really quick.

Which is why it’s shocking to everyone when he gets cold and hostile towards Matt seemingly out of nowhere, and the anger doesn't subside.

It gets in the way of their work. Filming becomes exhausting, and it leaves all three brothers feeling frustrated and annoyed at each other.

It’s in the middle of filming a new car video when it all goes to head. Nick and Matt had attempted to film a video, but Chris couldn’t hold back the jabs at Matt, interrupting him every time he spoke, insulting him for no reason whatsoever, which only made Matt retaliate just as hard.

“That’s it-” Nick yells, his hands pushing his hair out of his face in frustration. “I’ve fucking had it with you two. I’m getting the fuck out of this car and the two of you are going to stay in here and talk. Don’t even bother coming back in until you sort out whatever-” he gestures wildly between Matt and Chris, “-is going on with you two!”

And with that, Nick storms back into their house.

Chris stares out of the window with his arms crossed, seething. He can tell Matt is looking at him, can see part of his reflection on the window, but Chris isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking first.

Matt, much to Chris’ annoyance, was completely calm and collected.

“Chris-” Matt begins to say, but Chris just chucks his empty Pepsi can at him without looking. He hears it clatter against something (the steering wheel, he thinks), before dropping down onto the car floor with a dull thud.

Matt sighs, and Chris wants to yell, because Chris is the one that should be huffing and sighing, he’s the one that’s tired of all this bullshit.

“Are you trying to prove something?” Chris asks, because he never could stay quiet for too long. “Is that it? What the actual fuck Matt?”

Chris had fully turned to face Matt, who at least had the decency to look somewhat abashed now. His face was tinged pinked, and he was fiddling with his rings.

Chris continues. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but if you’re just trying to get me to see she’s your girl, I fucking get it, okay? You’ve made that really fucking clear. Did I say or do something to warrant this shit, because if you think I’m out to get her, I’m not, okay? Jesus- do you know how fucking insane-”

“She wants you bro.”

Chris blinks. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it.

“I used to catch her staring at you sometimes, and there were times she’d just keep scrolling through pictures of the two of us together- you and me, I mean- and…I don’t know, she’d have this look on her face.” Matt trails off. He looks at Chris, trying to gauge his reaction so far, but truth be told, Chris was still trying to process what Matt had initially said.

“What…?”

“Look, the two of us are happy together. I love her, she loves me, but I think she…” Matt coughs out, and it’s the first time since this whole thing has started that Chris has seen Matt this awkward. “She’s into you too. She never really told me, but it got pretty obvious after a while. And eventually, I- I started bringing you up, when we- um, yeah. She wants us both.”

Chris starts laughing. Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Alright, good prank dude- I’m still so fucking mad at you but-”

“I’m not kidding, Chris.”

Right. Because why would Matt joke about something like this?

“Um…”

“Yeah…”

And that’s how Chris finds himself back in Matt’s room. You and Matt were sitting on his bed, albeit a little far apart, meanwhile Chris had taken a seat in Matt’s gaming chair. Chris almost wants to call the two of you out on the pure torture you’d put him through the past few weeks, but one look at your face has him abandoning that train of thought.

You look so…remorseful. You’re slightly curled in on yourself, like you’re bracing for some sort of attack, and Chris’ heart melts. The last thing he wants is for you to feel upset, so he tries to lighten the mood.

“So, do you just wanna see which one of us has the better dick or-?”

He smiles as you sputter, eyes wide as you finally look up at him.

“There we go,” Chris whispers. “You’re finally looking at me.”

“Chris…I’m so sorry,” you whisper, lips trembling. “God, this is so stupid, why did we decide to tell him-”

“Hey, hey-” Chris chides. “I think I’ve been kept in the dark long enough, actually. I just wish y’all hadn’t used such a weird ass fucking way to tell me.”

“Well, to be fair, she didn’t even know you’d seen us that first couple of times,”

“Oh, god-”

“-And, we kinda assumed you’d take the fucking hint or something.”

“Yeah, I thought the hint was ‘I know you wanna fuck my girl, so I’m gonna make sure you catch us fucking every chance we get so you stay the fuck away’,” Chris says with a raised brow, staring deadpan at Matt.

“Wait, what-” you start, but you’re interrupted by Matt.

“Yeah, he’s wanted to fuck you for a while too.”

And that's how Chris finds himself with a front row view of Matt fucking you, up close and personal. Matt has you on all fours, facing Chris, while he pounds into you from behind, hard and deep. Each thrust punches a high-pitched moan out of you, and Chris watches, enraptured by the way you take it.

Chris watches to his heart's content that night, no longer worried about getting caught, no longer stressed about wanting to fuck you.

Chris watches you fall apart in Matt's hands over and over, and all he can think about is when he can finally have his turn.

+ 1

They’d had to wait for the perfect moment, a night they could be sure none of them would be interrupted.

They'd been planning for this night for a few days now, and it was finally here.

Chris and Matt stand side-by-side in front of Matt’s bed, arms crossed over their chest as they watch you squirm in his bed, their combined attention making you nervous. They’re both barely dressed, Chris in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, the front of which were already tented from his hard dick, while Matt was just in his black boxers. The low lighting of the room made Matt’s rings glisten as he rubbed at the stubble that he’d slowly allowed to grow on his face.

“How are we feeling, baby?” Matt asks you, smirking at the way you visibly gulp. “You ready for us?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, looking up at Chris through your lashes before nodding.

That’s all the cue he needs.

Chris stalks over to you, slowly, climbing over the bed and crawling over you, his hands landing on either side of your head as he holds himself above you. You lay back, your hair fanning around your head on the pillow, your eyes wide as you wait for Chris’ next move.

“Can I kiss you?” Chris asks, wetting his lips, and he doesn’t have to wait long for his answer. Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling at the strands close to his nape, bringing his lips onto yours. The kiss is heady, a wild mess of tongue and teeth, because you’d both been waiting for this, dying for it, and here it was, finally happening.

“Chris-” you gasp, open mouth sliding over the hot skin of his cheek as he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, biting harsh kisses into the skin there, before tracing his tongue across your jaw.

“Fuck, fuck- you smell so good, I need you so bad ma-” Chris blabbers, his brain-to-mouth filter long gone. He vaguely registers Matt settling onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, as Chris kisses a path down your body, laving every inch of skin he can access with nips and kisses. You arch your back as Chris circles one of your nipples with his tongue, sucking on it as he flicks the other. He alternates between kissing and nipping your nipples, all the while, you have an almost painful grip on his hair, pushing your chest harder into his face.

Matt watches your face intently, seeing the way your features scrunch up in pleasure, mouth wide open as you gasp and whine. There’s a small part of him that knows he shouldn’t be so okay with his own brother having his way with his girlfriend, but it’s almost like he gets a 4K view of what it might usually look like when Matt’s the one doing these things to you.

Chris continues his path downwards, fingers hooking into the sides of your panties and slowly, agonizingly slowly, pulling them off of you. Your legs instinctively squeeze shut when the cold air hits your wet core, but Chris’s hands gently pry them open, staring at you in wonder.

“You’re so fucking wet, fuck-” Chris groans, before licking a stripe up the seam where your thigh meets your crotch, so close to where you actually want his tongue.

“Please, please-” you whimper, pushing your hips up closer to his lips, feeling his hot breath fan over you pussy. You hear both him and Matt chuckle, before Chris has his mouth on you, licking the wetness gathered in your folds. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the obscene sounds of Chris’s mouth as he eats you out like a man starving.

It’s almost too much, the way he’s sucking on your clit, before pushing his tongue into you, his face pushed deep, you’re sure he can’t breath. The pleasure builds, heat pooling low in your stomach. You feel Matt’s fingers brush against your forehead, pushing the hair that was starting to stick to it from all the sweat.

“You feel good baby?” Matt asks, tone soft, but his eyes glint dangerously. “One of us wasn’t enough for you, was it? You’re such a dirty girl, wanting me and my brother.”

You whine, head pushing against his thigh closest to your head. Chris laughs, pulling his head back to chime in.

“Greedy little slut, that’s what she is,” he says, cheeks rosy and face glistening from the nose down, his chin absolutely soaking wet. “You gonna cum soon ma?”

You don’t even know what you respond with, just that Chris goes back to eating you out, this time, bringing his fingers to your entrance, sliding one finger, then two, into your sopping wet cunt as he licks random paths across your folds, occasionally circling your clit and sucking on it harshly, all while thrusting his fingers in and out of you, causing you to buck your hips up wildly. Your orgasm, only the first one of the night, is fast approaching, and your thighs clench around Chris’ head. The only warning he gets is a sudden yell of his name before you gush all over his face.

“Did you just- did she just squirt?” Chris asks, eyes wide as he takes in the mess that you’d made. His face and neck were now fully wet, and there was a perfectly round wet spot right underneath you. His fingers flutter over your now slightly puffy pussy, watching your folds quiver.

“Fuck, it’s too much- Chris, wait,” you whine, hands moving to grab Chris’ wrist. He doesn’t stop with his ministrations though, fingers pumping in and out of you, prodding at the bundle of nerves inside you that caused your vision to white out. It was fast, intense, and Chris manages to pull a second orgasm out of you before you’d even managed to catch your breath from the first one.

Chris sits up on his knees, reaching his arms behind him and pulling his tank top off, throwing it behind him. He hooks his arms around your thighs before pulling you down the bed, closer to him, allowing Matt to slot himself behind you.

“Can you turn over for me ma?” Chris asks with a gentle pat against your hip. It takes some effort, your limbs feel loose and languid, but you manage to flip onto your stomach. Hands grab your face, tipping your head up, and you see your boyfriend looking at you with a smirk, tongue peeking out to run across his teeth.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, voice like dripping honey with a hint of something razor-sharp. “This everything you imagined?”

“Yes- oh god, Matt- I need you, please-”

“You have me baby,” he coos. “You have me and Chris. That’s what you wanted, right? ‘Cause one dick was never enough to keep you satisfied.”

“Ngghh- please, please, I-” you whimper, mouthing at Matt’s dick through his boxers, startled when you feel a sudden smack against your ass, pain blossoming across your skin.

“If she’s already this cock dumb, I wonder how she’s gonna get when we actually get our dicks in her,” Chris wonders out loud with an amused huff, palming at your ass cheeks as he rubs his clothed dick against it.

You continue begging, your pussy soaking wet and clenching around nothing in anticipation for what’s to come, hips arching off the bed while your back dips low, shoulders tucked between Matt’s spread thighs as you lick him through the only piece of fabric that is keeping you from tasting him, from having his cock fill your mouth.

Chris smooths his palm down your back, making you arch your back even further, before he spreads your cheeks, seeing the way you twitch at being put on display.

“I think she’s waited long enough, hasn’t she?” Matt asks Chris, nodding his head slightly as if to tell Chris to get on with it. Chris doesn’t waste any time pushing his sweats down his thighs, freeing his cock. You turn your head back to try and peek at it from over your shoulder, but Matt has a firm hand on your head pushing you towards his crotch while he pulls his dick out of his boxers. With one hand holding the back of your head, and the other around his dick, Matt slaps it against your cheek, amused at the way you so desperately try and get him to guide his cock into your mouth instead.

Simultaneously, Chris is behind you, rubbing the tip of his dick through your folds, gathering the wetness there. Above you, you feel Matt lean towards his dresser, before rifling through the top drawer and chucking something at Chris. There’s a sound of a bottle cap clicking open, and lube being squeezed out, before you hear the squelch of it as Chris spreads it over his dick.

Later, you’ll think they must have planned this head of time, but both Matt and Chris decide to push their dicks into you at the same time, Matt feeding you his cock, pushing past your lips, applying gentle pressure to the back of your head, while Chris spreads your folds apart and drives his dick into you, the tip catching inside you for a moment, before he thrusts his hips and pushes his dick deeper into you.

“Look at that,” Chris says, smacking the palms of both his hands onto your cheeks at the same time, before kneading at them. “She takes dick really fucking well.”

“It’s like she’s made for it, isn’t she?”

Chris fucks you like he has all the time in the world, savoring the feeling of your pussy clenching around him, fascinated by the sight of his dick disappearing in you at every thrust. You stretch around him so beautifully, and you’re so fucking tight, he wonders how he managed to fit it all in you in one go.

At the other end, Matt watches you with soft affection as you suck on his cock, tears streaming down your face from the exertion on your body and minimal air supply. At every thrust of Chris’ hips, you would get pushed closer to Matt, which would push his dick deeper into your mouth, making you almost gag on it.

You have no concept of time anymore, or where your body starts and Chris’ and Matt’s end. You feel like one big mess of limbs, moving fluidly, with the common purpose of chasing your orgasm. You hear Matt’s groans getting louder above you, and you know he’s getting close. You’re not far behind yourself, but Chris still seems like he’s nowhere close to being done.

Pulling your mouth off of Matt’s cock, you circle your hand around the base of it, before stroking your hand up and down, twisting it around the head. You swipe your thumb across the slit at the top while you tongue at the underside of the head, all while looking up at Matt through hooded eyes.

“Cum on my face, Matt, please-” you beg, mouth slightly open, a line of spit connecting your tongue to his dick. Chris' thrusts are picking up, but you keep your elbows planted firmly on the bed below to keep yourself steady for Matt. There’s a tingle building low in your spine, but you focus on Matt, the way he looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His hair is a mess, and his body is flushed. The hand he has on your head grips your hair tight, and the other joins your hand in pumping his dick. It only takes a few more seconds of that before Matt lets out a loud groan of your name, spurts of thick, hot cum landing across your face, and you close your eyes as it drips down your face, some of it landing on your tongue.

Matt leans back heavily against the headboard, and before you can register anything, you’re being flipped onto your back, face still covered in Matt’s cum. Your shoulders hit Matt’s chest as Chris crowds against you on the bed, his hands now on the back of your knees, pushing your legs back against your chest, before thrusting his dick back into you.

The sudden shift has you blinking back stars, and this new angle has Chris’ dick brushing against your sweet spot on every thrust, and all you can do is sob at the immense pleasure you feel. Matt circles his arms around you, one hand playing with one of your nipples, while the other moves down your stomach and edges closer to your clit. The tingling sensation grows, and grows, your hands scrambling to find purchase on Chris’ shoulders as he thrusts particularly deep into you before you finally snap, screaming as your third orgasm is ripped from you, the force of it pushing Chris’ cock out of you as you squirt all over him, yourself, and the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably.

You’re fully gasping and sobbing now, the intensity of your orgasm wracking through your whole body. You watch through hooded, teary eyes, as Chris leans over you, furiously stroking his cock as he soaks in the view of you, hot and messy, ruined because of him, before he too eventually reaches his orgasm, cum pulsing out of him and landing high on your chest, across your nipples, one spurt even hitting your chin.

The three of you are a heaping mess of limbs after, all basking in the afterglow of a night well spent, tired, but satiated. Matt and Chris lay on either side of you, stroking whatever part of your skin they can reach, occasionally batting each other’s hands away and pulling you closer to either side, like you’re not all squished together already.

“We should do that again sometime,” you say after a long beat of silence. Matt snorts, eyes closed, but the corners of his lips are quirked up in a small smile.

“Y’all are crazy if you think I’m never fucking you again after I just got a taste,” Chris states. “Besides, I think there’s a lot of lost time I need to make up for, hm?”

After that night, Chris gets to have his turn with you, over and over. Sometimes, Matt is present, and the brothers somehow always turn things into a competition of who can make you cum the quickest, who can make you cum multiple times, who can make you absolutely incoherent by the end of the night.

Now Chris had his own reason for always being so chipper in the morning. It helps that he finally gets to fuck the hottest girl he’s seen, who just happens to also be fucking his brother.

author’s note: i put too much fucking effort into an idea that essentially started as a joke, its gonna be so funny if this flops because i literally stayed up till 4 am twice in a row to write this lmao- anyways, let me know what you think! my inbox is open and waiting for your thoughts (: likes, comments and reblogs r much appreciated <3

taglist 🩵 (comment on my pinned post to be added or removed):

@luverboychris @bigbeefybitch @liz-stxrn @slut4chriss @sturniolosgirl @coochiedestroyer1 @kvtie444 @vschrissturn @hercigaretteblush @fwskullz @m4rriii @anabanana28 @sturniolosange1 @webbersturn @odeezier @johnniesrealwife @freshsturns @marlenafortuna @carolineheartsmatthew @incndescentglow @starniolosposts @urfavgirllyyyyy @mattsturniolosworld @lilyloveschris @sturniozo @lookingformyromeo @heartss4matthewq @lanasturniolo @ezziewinchester @s-s-842 @sturnlova @55sturn @chrisopeningabag

[melminli]

Love To Dream

summary - there was this one girl that thanos really wanted, though, she didn't really want to have anything to do with him. unfortunately, that made him want her even more.

pairing: (thanos) choi su-bong x fem. reader

word count: 1.5k

contains: modern au, mention of drugs, enemies to lovers vibes ig, crack, yearning

a/n: i don't even know what this is tbh but I felt like we all deserved some laughs ;)

Life was good - life was really fucking good, Thanos thought to himself as he winked charmingly at a group of hot girls. They had been looking in his direction for a while now while giggling, clearly interested in him. He continued to watch them as he sipped his drink, music pumping through his veins like adrenaline. Thanos's eyes darkened as the girls continued to cast lustful glances in his direction - he knew he could easily get more than one of them into bed tonight and why wouldn't he? It hadn't been long since his last performance on stage, reminding everyone present once again of his legendary status in this club.

However, his attention was focused somewhere entirely else after the most breathtaking person ever decided to walk past him. The pick-up lines he had been thinking of for the group, vanished from his mind after this angel showed up in front of him since the other girls could barely compare. The whole thing looked like something out of a scene from a Kdrama because time seemed to pass in slow motion and your hair was swinging in the air like that of a princess - which would have been the perfect time for some product placement because it just looked so damn soft.

Thanos had his mouth wide open in shock and put a hand over his heart to check if it was still beating while his eyes never left your figure. You - who was leaning prettily against the bar right next to him as you ordered something from the bartender.

“Hey.” he finally recovered from the moment and casually moved towards you. “I'd introduce myself, but I assume you already know me.” he talked to you with his flirty face as soon as you looked up at him.

You smiled shyly. “Yeah, I watched your performance,” you answered him and seemed quite grateful that he was speaking to you right now. “You were pretty good.” you giggled slightly as you complimented him.

“Yeah, that's just how I am.” he sighed as he looked around the room as if it was a burden for him to have to live with all the recognition. His eyes met yours again and he tried to impress you by unpacking a few bars while emphasizing them with the movements of his hands. “Girl, I know you and I are meant to be because after I looked at your pretty face everything stopped being. If only you saw what I can see, you'll understand why I want you so desperately.” he rapped to you, stealing the last line from some One Direction song, but you didn't need to know that.

You shyly put your hands in front of your face to hide your smile. “Oh my god, that was so incredibly sexy, I'm so horny for you right now.” the words came out of your mouth and made Thanos screw up his face weirdly for a second.

Because first of all, those vulgar words didn't match your innocent demeanor in the slightest - and secondly, you said exactly what Thanos had imagined you would say - it was actually a bit creepy since you literally said it word for word. Thanos hardly thought that he could foresee the future all of a sudden or that you could maybe read minds, though he decided to ignore the whole thing as soon as you started touching his chest softly with your hands. He wanted you so bad.

“You don't even know what you're doing to me right now,” he whispered to you while you felt him so sensually and he was about to kiss you, hadn't you stopped his lips with your hand as you laughed into his face. “I think you should wake up now. Otherwise, the pink elephant will keep handing out balloons to people.” You told him, pointing behind him to where the bar was supposed to be.

“Hah?” he asked you confused and turned around while continuing to hold you in his arms, but all he saw were a few dogs breakdancing - and that was nothing out of the ordinary. He continued to look at the scene with a grin, even though some inner voice inside him was stressing out about kissing you immediately as if he was running out of time. He finally turned back to you and was about to continue when he suddenly heard a man speak. “You really should wake up man.” Nam-gyu's voice told him and Thanos only caught himself almost kissing him after he took a closer look. He just pushed him away from him in disgust and then -

Thanos woke up from his sleep, bathed in sweat, when he saw your face in his field of vision. “Finally, you're sleeping like a dead man. There's some guy at the door who wants to talk to you,” you told him as he sat up tiredly while slowly recovering from his strange dream.

That's right. You weren't just some hot girl he met at the club, you were his fucking roommate. Thanos discreetly pushed more blanket over his lap as he tried to shoo you away from his room with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah - I'll be right there, just - give me a moment,” he said without looking you in the face.

You just sighed slightly and complied with his request, though not without letting him know how unhappy you were. “I told you to stop giving our address to these dealers. I don't like it when they show up here,” you grumbled under your breath before dashing out and closing the door behind you.

After that, Thanos let out a very heavy sigh and stroked his face aggressively. “Now she's showing up in my dreams, too? Fucking great.” he grumbled to himself and got up from the bed to put on some decent clothes. His eyes met his own reflection as he pulled a shirt over his head. “Get a grip man, what's wrong with you?” he asked himself as he grimaced in annoyance. “You're Thanos the destroyer, not some kind of -”

“Stop taking so long and come here already!” your voice suddenly shouted, coming through his door slightly muffled.

He looked even more annoyed at that and made his way to the living room while shouting back at you. “I'm fucking on it, alright!” and it only took a few loud steps from him to your front door for him to yank it open to fix the damn problem. He looked at his friend, completely bothered by his presence. “What do you want?” he asked him and was kinda glad that it at least wasn't Nam-gyu because he just really didn't want to see his face at the moment and probably for a little while.

“Hello, to you, too.” the man in front of him greeted him, already used to his weird mood swings. “I just wanted to do you a favor by bringing you some of the pills you wanted because last time you almost beat me up when I didn't have them with me,” he explained, holding the bag, which Thanos grabbed instantly before inspecting it more closely. “Don't act like you didn't deserve it, I paid you the money in advance, man. Of course, I was angry,” he complained again and would probably have beaten him up for real right now if he had ruined his morning over something completely unnecessary. However, he would still have to make sure that something like this didn't happen again so that you didn't have another reason to kick him out of the apartment.

“You know, maybe this was meant to be. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been greeted by an absolute hottie today,” he said happily as he stood there, still interested. “Is she your cousin or something? Do you want to introduce me to her?” he asked and was quite confident in the way he acted, but Thanos just looked at him emotionlessly for a few seconds until he slammed the door in his face.

"Okay, he's gone now!" he exclaimed, bored, and made his way into the kitchen, where you were sitting with a cup of coffee or something while scrolling on your phone. "Don't open the door for that guy if he shows up again," he said, grabbing a cold Sprite from the fridge. You just looked at him with a displeased look. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll make sure that he and no one else shows up after today. But, I'm just saying that in case it still somehow happens."

Thanos then opened the can and drank from it while he continued to watch your face from the side. Eventually, he sat down next to you, although, to his dissatisfaction, that didn't seem to get your attention. "Hey, you want to go on a date?" He asked, and you weren't sure how many times he asked you that by now. You kept scrolling on Instagram. "You know my answer to that."

Thanos continued to grin hopefully. "Yes?" he asked and then watched you disappear out of the kitchen with your cup of coffee in your hand - probably to your room. "You should be glad that I'm even asking you! Other girls would die for..." he muffled towards the end before he stopped talking entirely once he realized that you weren't giving him a reaction.

Maybe, I should just go back to sleep, he thought to himself dejectedly, unable to believe that he had actually better chances with you in dreams with pink elephants and breakdancing dogs.

[leyavo]

| Infestation | 2

Part 2 previous part> [Bug masterlist]

Ever since Bug joined the 141…

The guys keep going on about calling an exterminator whenever they see you hanging out with Roach.

“Looks like we’ve got an infestation.”

Roach as always doesn’t say a thing, scrolling through his phone and humming to himself.

You’re paired with him on most missions, something about being able to communicate with your own kind. Roach doesn’t speak, but you find your flow quickly, speaking up for him every now and then over the radio. *Roach whisperer*

Soap makes little antennas above his helmet with his fingers when he’s talking about Roach.

Gaz asking you what type of bug you’d be when you’re all bored out of your brains, waiting for the go ahead to move forward. “Roach is already taken,” he says pointing to Sanderson beside you.

“Why’s he called Roach?” You asked Price, knowing you wouldn’t get an answer from Roach himself.

Well you did ask, but it was like trying to guess at a game of charades. Roach’s hands swatting through the air, head bobbing and boot stomping as if you were fluent in whatever the fuck he just signed. Definitely not sign language either.

“Fuckers hard to kill.”

You start to understand him the more you’re around him. How he points to the floor when you need to crouch beside him, the darting of his eyes showing you his desired direction. His palm tapping your upper arm to get your attention. He might not talk, but his vocal with his sounds. A little screech when’s a bit too close to death, a whistle when he’s impressed or clicked his tongue when he’s annoyed. (He does talk but rarely).

Fuckers hard to kill.

“I give him two minutes,” Ghost mumbled over the radio. The guys placing bets on how long it’ll be till Roach crawls out the crumbling building.

You’d narrowly missed an explosion, sprinting away from the blast. Only getting thrown forwards by the impact instead of stuck in the destruction.

And they were right. You don’t know how Roach emerged from the rubble in one piece. Simply patting a flicker of ash eating through the sleeve of his jacket. No cocky remark as he slipped back into formation and scanned his surroundings.

Part three

[tender-rosiey]

1am thoughts, thinking about Gojo introducing kid Megumi to his newborn baby and Megumi being protective of them and even calling them his little sister/brother at one point and gojo is running LAPS he's just overwhelmed and happy over a small yet powerful phrase.

to protect — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this is so cute i am gonna cry also megumi is like 11-12 here

you’re finally back home, after a long day at the hospital. you’re finally engulfed in the comfort of your bed while your husband is still sat up with his little girl bundled in his arms.

he hasn’t let go of her since you have been discharged.

“’toru, honey, you have to sleep soon; you can hold her tomorrow,” you sleepily murmur to your husband.

he nods and whispers, “I know. It’s just I—I can’t believe it’s real,” he kisses her forehead softly, “that she is finally here, our little princess.”

a tired smile makes its way to your lips. you hum in understanding, gently caressing his cheek. he sighs happily, before looking at you, “but you, missy, actually need to rest. you’ve had a long day.”

you frown and he chuckles, and his hand moves to stroke your hair, “rest, pretty. you were a champion today,” you move to nuzzle closer to his side and your arm wraps around his torso.

and so his little girl is comfortably nestled in one of his arms, while the other is wrapped around you so his hand can pet your head lovingly.

satoru truly feels like he is holding the world in his hands right now.

suddenly, the door slowly creaks open and a very familiar face peaks from it. satoru chuckles, “come in, megumi; they’re both asleep anyway.”

the boy carefully pads his way to gojo.

he is so used to seeing him being all goofy and unserious, so it catches him a bit off-guard how serene and quiet he is being right now. megumi looks at the sleeping baby then whispers, “what’s her name?”

“d/n,” satoru answers fondly.

megumi nods then observes her for a small while, “she really is a perfect mix between the both of you.”

a soft and quiet laugh escapes satoru’s lips, “you’re right,” he looks up at megumi with a grin, “you wanna hold her?”

the boy is taken back and his expression betrays him as nervousness takes over his face. his eyes don’t leave the girl and his gaze is more than troubled, “…what if I hurt her?”

satoru shakes his head, “you scared? she is my daughter; she is the strongest baby ever,” he grins, “no one can hurt her.”

megumi rolls his eyes, but quickly directs his focus to the little girl. he takes a moment, before he extends his arms. satoru gently places her in his arms. megumi’s hold on her is protective, and he doesn’t look as awkward as satoru thought he would.

actually, he is quite the natural.

he gently rocks her, and he can’t help but smile at her sleeping face. megumi whispers to her, “hi there.”

she coos at him, and starts swaying his arms around. she slowly opens her eyes, and a tiny smile appears on her chubby face. megumi’s eyes widen a little, and he immediately looks at gojo, “she is smiling.”

satoru laughs, “she is a very smiley baby, but i think she likes you a lot. she only smiled at y/n and me,” he feels you stir a bit in your sleep.

he pulls you closer and rubs your shoulder then he giggles at how quickly you fall back asleep. while satoru is occupied by you, megumi is staring in awe at little miss gojo.

later, satoru wakes up in the middle of the night to check on his little girl in the adjacent room. he groggily gets up, after kissing your forehead. he walks there, and when he finally reaches the room, he notices the lights are already on, and the door is left a bit open.

he peaks a little into the room, and sees megumi standing by the crib. he is fondly looking at d/n, and gently petting her head. he is whispering something to her, but satoru is still able to hear it all the same.

“don’t grow up to be annoying like your dad, please.”

satoru scowls, and contemplates bursting into the room, and bullying the hell out of megumi. however, he ultimately decides against it. he doesn’t end up regretting the decision.

megumi gently boops her nose, “you’re like a little sister to me now, so I promise to protect you.”

she squeals and makes grabby hands at him, and he chuckles, “you believe me, huh?”

satoru slowly backs away from the door and walks away. when he is a safe distance from the door, he starts running and bursts into your shared room.

he dramatically falls to the ground, “that was… the cutest thing ever! after d/n and y/n’s smiles, of course.”

he stands up, proudly. his heart is at ease as he now knows that there is yet another person to look after his baby girl, if something happens. a content grin is on his face as he enjoys the silence and comfort. it’s short lived, as always.

a pillow is thrown at his face, and he stumbles to the ground.

“that’s for waking me up, satoru!”

“noooo, baby, I am sorry!”

“uh—,” megumi awkwardly stands at the door, holding d/n up, “guys, she pooped.”

satoru grins, and excitedly stands up—with a camera that he got out of nowhere to take photos of her—he coos, “aww! your first shit, pretty girl? what a good girl!”

megumi places her on the changing table beside your bed. the smell of her great ‘achievement’ fills the door, and he takes the chance of gojo being distracted to run out of the room, before another nuclear explosion drops.

the girl is gleefully clapping upon seeing her dad, and he reciprocates the smile tenfold. he gently holds her feet and sways them slightly, “such a big girl, already pooping!”

“want daddy to change your diapers for you?” he coos and the girl just puts her thumb in her mouth and starts kicking her feet. he chuckles and slowly opens the diaper. he is met with the vilest smell, and he can’t believe his sweet daughter can produce such smells.

however, he quickly composes himself, and tries to make his way through the travail of changing the diaper. he proves to be too weak because he, after a moment, looks at you, “uh, babe, teamwork makes the dream work?”

you groan, falling back to the bed.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[mrsstarkey1]

getting rafe hooked on dress to impress

my fav thing i’ve ever written i can’t even lie

word count: 1.2k

obx masterlist

you yawned loudly and abnoxiously as you walked into rafe’s bedroom. you kicked your shoes off, grabbing one of rafe’s t-shirts from his drawer, changing out of your uncomfortable clothes. “didn’t think you were coming back, it’s late as fuck.” rafe said, looking at you oddly as he sat up on the bed against the headboard.

“longest fucking day of my life. need to unwind.”

rafe smirked, reaching his whole body over the bed to grab your forearm. "like the sound of that," he mumbles.

you let yourself move toward him, but you groan, “not like that.” rafe momentarily pouts, but doesn’t let go of your arm. in fact, he pulls you closer onto the bed with him urging you to cuddle up into him.

he snakes his arm around you, soft fingers tracing circles into your side. "wanna talk about it?"

you yawn and shake your head, "nah, can we just watch a movie or something?"

rafe nods, grabbing the TV remote from the nightstand. "you don't wanna watch some chick-flick do you?" he asks, grimacing already.

you sigh dramatically, “i guess not. fast and furious?”

rafe obligies, satisfied with your suggestion. you get comfortable on the bed, your head rested on rafe's shoulder and your phone rested on his chest as you scroll through tiktok.

about 20 minutes later, you see a video about the new halloween update on dress to impress and gasp before you can stop yourself. rafe jumps slightly, eyes wide. “jesus christ, what’s wrong?”

"sorry, nothing," you grin apologetically, "can I borrow your laptop though?"

he looks at you like you've lost your mind, but he still grabs his macbook from the nightstand, handing it over to you. you sit up excitedly, leaning up against the headboard.

you open the laptop and sign into your roblox account, side eyeing rafe as he gives you an odd look. "the fuck are you doing?"

"playing a game," you respond innocently.

he raises his eyebrows, "roblox? wheezie used to play that shit.. when she was 8," he says, judging you hardcore.

you glare at him, "you don't understand," you sigh. "just watch me play, it's genuinely fun."

he watches you click on dress to impress, making a disgusted face. "yeah I can't defend you on this one," he says and you shove his shoulder.

"well have you ever played dress to impress?" you ask him.

"obviously not," he says, his sassy side on full display.

"well don't judge then. just watch and i'll let you play a round when i'm done," you say with a smile, patting his cheek softly.

"hell nah," he says, directing his attention back to the movie.

you shake your head, giving up on getting him to play. you start a round, looking around at all the new pieces they added. the theme is holiday for your first round, so of course you do halloween.

you notice rafe's eyes on the computer screen as his curiosity clearly starts to creep back in despite himself. he watches as you piece together combination of a witch hat, spiderweb dress, and dark boots.

“what even is this shit?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant but clearly intrigued.

you grin, not taking your eyes off the screen since you only have a minute left. “you compete with other people to make the best outfit based on a theme. you'd be pretty good at it, you've got great style," you say, trying to persuade him.

he gives you a look, shaking his head, "sounds dumb as fuck," he says, and you just laugh. he's silent for a moment before turning slightly to have a better view of the screen, "so what you just like... dress them up and shit?"

you nod, watching the time run out. "yes, then everyone votes on each outfit and the top 3 get on the podium. see," you point to the screen, "the voting's starting now."

an outfit that's completely off theme struts down the runway and you grimace, "see like that one's ugly as fuck so i give it a 1. oooh look, this ones mine," you say with a proud smile. "doesn't she look great?"

rafe shrugs, "i guess."

you ended up getting third place, losing to two terrible outfits. you curse under your breath, before turning to him. “you wanna try a round?” you smile, looking up at him.

rafe scoffs, glancing back at the movie, but curiosity gets the better of him. “alright, fine, hand it over.” he takes the laptop.

"okay the theme is beach day," you tell him.

he hums in response, looking around at the clothes aimlessly. "rafe, you gotta pick something that actually matches,” you say, stifling a laugh as he pairs a yellow bikini top with neon green shorts.

"shh, I have a vision," he says, dismissing your words. "wait why the fuck doesn't she have a face?"

"you gotta go to the makeup and hair room, over there," you point at the screen.

he scrolls through the makeup options, finally decided on one. "mhm, she bad ain't she?" you chuckle, knowing rafe is secretly loving this.

time runs out just as he adds the coconut drink, and you see him watching the screen eagerly, waiting for the voting to end. one girl dressed in long pants and a jacket walks out and he looks over at you, disgusted, "this bitch didn't even look at the theme." all you can do is laugh and nod your head in agreement.

when rafe places second, he smirks, looking way too pleased with himself. "ha," he says, "i did better than you."

you roll your eyes. "yeah you're done playing," you say, snatching the laptop back.

the next night, you texted rafe that you were gonna come over after your morning shift and you didn't get a response, which was odd. you let yourself into his house with the key he'd given you. "rafe?" you called out, walking into the living room. "you here?" no response.

you furrowed your eyebrows, walking up the stairs. maybe he was just in his room, you thought, taking a nap or something. you creak open his bedroom door, met with the scene of him sitting on his bed, looking intently at his laptop.

his eyes shoot up to look at you and he slams his laptop closed, guilty look in his eye. you raise your eyebrows, "what were you doing?" you question him, walking toward the bed.

he rubs the back of his neck with his hand, shaking his head. "nothin.'"

your eyes narrow, "were you watching porn?" you joke, sitting down next to him.

he sighs, "worse.." he trails off. he mentally debates for a minute, before pulling his laptop back into his lap, opening it slowly to reveal dress to impress on full display.

your hand shoots to cover your mouth, laugh escaping your lips anyway. all he does is glare at you, "this is your fucking fault."

you lean into him with a laugh, "I know I know, sorry. don't be embarrassed, rafe." you press a kiss to his lips.

as you kiss him, you can’t help but laugh again, glancing at his screen. "okay wait that's actually a cute outfit. you're getting good," you nudge him, "fashionista," you add quietly with a chuckle.

he looks at you straight-faced, "I'm only playing this dumbass game because you dragged me into it. i was just bored so,” he gestures to the screen.

“sure, rafe, whatever you say,” you tease, cuddling up beside him. "feel free to keep playing, don't stop at my expense."

he scoffs, but gives in and restarts the game.

you wrap your arm around his middle and watch as he puts together outfit after outfit, the grin rarely leaving your face.

you just love your little fashionista.

----

requests are OPEN 💌

[hedgehog-moss]

My chickens have not been lucky this winter—the youngest one, Louise Michel, despite her revolutionary name, was eaten by a fox earlier this year. At least this new year was off to an auspicious start for this fox and her family. It made me think about Fantastic Mr Fox and how this book indoctrinates small children into directing their empathy towards the beleaguered fox family, while the hen characters are complete non-people—they are even called stupid at one point, even though they are just sitting in their coop, doing their chicken job!

Anyway. Dru survived the fox attack unscathed and non-traumatised, which made me respect her even more than I already did. Drusilla is quite old by now, and she has survived everything—the fox attack that killed her first coopmate, Cordélia; several air strikes by birds of prey; Pandolf trying to scare her to serve his own dog interests... Even though she has long stopped laying eggs, she is a precious asset to my chicken coop: I am going to get new baby hens in the spring and I need Dru to teach them her strategies to win the Darwinian struggle for existence. As an elderly hen, her job is no longer to provide eggs, but wisdom.

And then I heard Dru cry out one afternoon, as if she had been attacked by something.

I felt confused as I ran out to rescue her—I'd seen her just five minutes before when I went out to distribute hay, she was near the pasture gate hanging out with the llamas, donkey, and dog. There's no way a fox would attack a chicken surrounded by such a security detail. I quickly found her, sitting just outside the pasture, in her normal brooding position, she didn't seem hurt—but Pandolf ran towards her as well, and she didn't move out of his way. That was very unusual. Pandolf runs at things and people like a fluffy corrida bull, happy to knock you over with the force of his love (there's a reason the French equivalent of "like a bull in a china shop" is "like a dog in a bowling game"), and Dru always makes sure to jump out of his way, boosting herself with her wings if necessary.

I wondered if she had a broken wing, but when I started examining her she made a very eloquent "urghh go away" gesture at me with both of her wings, so she could move them. Her legs didn't seem injured either, but she refused to get up. I ended up carrying her back to her coop so she could sit in peace and process her feelings, but she wasn't feeling better the next morning. She clucked at me amicably when I visited her but she didn't go outside all day, so I had to leave food and water outside her room like a bemused parent trying to accommodate an angsty teenager.

Since I hadn't been able to detect any injuries and she was eating normally, I thought she might be depressed. Maybe it had taken her some time to understand that she had lost her friend and was all alone in her coop, and then the realisation had hit her, and her normal chicken activities suddenly felt meaningless. That didn't really explain the sharp cry I'd heard the day before, though.

(I hadn't noticed until I took a closer look at the above photo that there is a dirty stain on the wall of the laying box! Embarrassing. But to my defence, chickens are not very clean creatures and keeping their coop clean is a Sisyphean task. I guess I always focus on cleaning the parts where the hens sit and walk, and hadn't leaned over to look at the inside wall. I've now cleaned it up with a brush—but I almost regret doing so, because a friend gave the stain a beautiful and mystical interpretation:

I waited a couple of days to see if Dru's agoraphobia got better, but on Day 3 of her refusing to leave her coop, I decided to take her to the vet.

The farmer who was sitting next to Dru and me in the waiting room seemed very puzzled about my decision to bring a chicken past her prime and no longer laying eggs to the vet for a diagnosis. At first he assumed that I hoped to have her diagnosed as Safe To Eat.

I told him about how this hen is very good at surviving, and I want her to pass on her knowledge to future generations.

Dru looked cranky at the vet, maybe because there was a poster on the wall that said "What's for dinner tonight?" and she took it personally.

Fun chicken fact: the rounder a hen is, the angrier. She may look like an adorable cream puff, but she is a ball of rage:

The vet noticed that her leg was a bit swollen, and said it could be an infection, or maybe some heavy animal had stepped on her foot. He gave me antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and then I had fun trying to make my cranky chicken take her meds every day. Do you think getting a cat to take a pill is difficult? Try it with an animal who evolved from raptors.

Here are screenshots from a video (which my wifi refused to load)—Dru wasn't having a good time, but trust me, neither was I. It was a daily struggle. On the other hand, I discovered that she loves cherry tomatoes! I had a cherry tomato plant in my greenhouse that was only here to keep the aquaponic system going in the winter, I wasn't eating the fruit as they were bitter February tomatoes, and for some reason it didn't occur to me to offer them to my chicken until I was walking around the greenhouse looking for some insect to reward her for taking her medicine. The daily tomato treat delighted her a lot more than some boring insect :)

Well, we are reaching the end of this adventure—Dru will get new coopmates soon (and hopefully start teaching them her secrets immediately) and the vet visit was very worth it 😊 She still has trouble going down the ladder of her coop so I go get her every morning and carry her near my house, but she is walking and, more importantly, scratching around for food again! Here's a little video:

Oh, no, wait, we aren't done—I must ask everyone to take part in the Trial of Pirlouit.

The vet did say it looked as if some heavy animal had stepped on Dru's foot... Considering the llamas are very delicate walkers, and Pandolf is a reckless brute but isn't heavy enough to break a chicken's leg, this makes Pirlouit the main suspect.

[clockwayswrites]

More DoMAYn D5 Cont Chapter 2, Part 2

masterpostish just look at day 5. mental abilities iffy, please no con crit or editing <3

Danny, Jason, and Mr. Wayne all pile into the back of a car that Vlad would be jealous off. Neither of the adults even blink at the mud that’s getting on the floor and seats from the graveyard. Still, Danny tries not to fidget too much and make the mess worse.

Jason still has Danny’s sleeve in his grip, even as he’s leaning heavily against his dad. It means that Danny can’t get the seat belt in, but Alfred is driving like he’s got the most precious cargo so it doesn’t really matter.

“We need to go to Leslie’s,” Mr. Wayne says.

Alfred gives a nod. “I’ve already notified her that we’re on the way. She’ll be expecting us at the staff entrance.”

“Danny, are you hurt at all?”

Danny can’t help but start a little at that. “What? Oh, no, I’m okay. I just helped Jason out.”

“Leslie is a doctor and close family friend, we’re going to her clinic. If anything is wrong, they can see to it,” Mr. Wayne explains.

Danny shakes his head. What’s all the concern about? “No, really, I’m okay. Just a little cold and muddy.”

“How long were you out there, dear boy?” Alfred asks from the front.

“Just a few hours.” With his parents were gone ghost hunting, it was easy enough to just leave when he needed to. Sure, he planned in extra time to make sure he got there and find the graveyard and the plot, but he had his phone to entertain him.

Mr. Wayne is watching him with too seeing eyes. “So, you knew to be there?”

Fuck. “Um, the sticky notes.”

Searching around in his backpack one handed is a little hard, since Jason won’t let him lean far, but he manages to grab the slightly crumpled square of bright green paper with the time, plot number, and cemetery name on it.

Mr. Wayne takes the note like it’s something that could explode. “Do you know who these come from?”

“Yeah?” Danny’s nose scrunches up at that. “I’m not going to listen to strange notes from someone I don’t know.”

“Well, that is wise,” Alfre says. He almost sounds amused for some reason that Danny doesn’t get.

It seems safest just to be quiet for the rest of the drive. Besides, his silence gives Mr. Wayne tie to focus on his son. Danny listens without trying to as Mr. Wayne checks over Jason’s battered fingertips. Jason’s answers are stilted, but Danny thinks that Jason is already speaking more clearly. When Jason’s voice starts getting rough, Danny offers the thermos.

“It’s just tea,” he explains, looking at Jason rather than Mr. Wayne. “I thought Jason would be cold, you know, being underground all that time, so I brought it with me. He’s had some apple slices too and an oatmeal cookie.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Alfred comments. “We were in such a rush, we brought nothing with us.”

“Oh, no, yeah, course you were,” Danny says. “I’m sure that was… startling.”

“To say the least, but in the very best way,” Alfred says. He catches Danny’s eye in the rearview mirror for a moment. “In Gotham, you learn to accept the impossible.”

Danny nods as if he understands.

-

Arriving at the clinic is a flurry of activity. Mr. Wayne helps Jason into a waiting wheelchair. Alfred ushers Danny out of the car. There’s an older woman with kind eyes and a stern voice directing everything. Before Danny can even protest he has a fuzzy fabric hooked up to a tube squeezing his arm. He’s seated next to Jason because Jason wouldn’t stop trying to move until Danny was close enough to touch.

“I’m fine?” Danny tries to tell the nurse.

“Hold out your other hand please,” the nurse says instead of listening and sticks what Danny guesses is some sort of monitoring thing around Danny’s fingertip.

“Bruce,” the older woman says, a firm question in the man’s name. She has Bruce pulled off to the side and her voice low.

“Alfred got a call just after eleven,” Bruce says with a little motion, “from someone named Danny that he was in the cemetery with Jason. Alfred heard Jason over the line, got me, and we as quickly as we could. And… there he was, Leslie, just sitting there.”

The woman, Leslie, Danny guesses, shoots a glance towards them. “He looks like Jason.”

“He knew me,” Bruce agrees.

Clone? With transferred memories?” Leslie asked, as if that was a normal thing to just have to ask.

“We haven’t run any DNA yet,” Bruce says back, unphased.

“No, it’s Jason,” Danny protests. He doesn’t care that he’s not supposed to hear from so far away, he wouldn’t let Jason be doubted like this. “As long as Jason is who was in that grave, then that’s Jason. I helped pull himself out myself!”

“It is simple that the earth was hardly disturbed that brings questions,” Alfred soothes.

“That’s because—it’s just… I’m a—a meta!” Danny says. It’s… enough the truth. He reaches out a hand and waves it through the machine the cuff is connected too. “I heard him screaming in his coffin. I pulled him out!”

Jason grabs Danny’s hand as soon as it’s solid and clings to it. “I’m—I’m me. I don’t—I… I remember dying. Dad, I remember d-dying. There was so much smoke. The door wouldn’t open and-d I t-tried…”

Mr. Wayne is across the room in an instant and has Jason wrapped up in a hug. Danny looks away, as if he can give them any privacy being right there. Leslie at least gives him a distraction by coming over to take off the weird cuff and finger thing.

He doesn’t like the way she crouches down in front of him though.

“It’s Danny, right?” she asks. It’s like she’s using a ‘teacher voice’ but one step to the side. It’s weird.

“Yeah,” Danny answers anyways.

“Danny, how long were you out in the cold?”

“Why does everyone care about that?” Danny asks in what is totally not a whine. “It was only a few hours.”

“Well, Danny, I’m asking because your blood pressure and pulse are both really low,” Leslie explains. “Is that normal for you?”

“Oh, is that what those were measuring?” Danny asks with a little shrug. “I don't know? I don’t feel that different from normal. Like, I’m just a little tired but it’s been a busy day, you know?”

“I’m sure it has,” she agreed in that same patient voice. “When was the last time you were to a doctor?”

When had it been? Was that weird? “Since I was little, I guess? My parents are biologists, and they just take us to the pharmacy for shots and things.”

“Well, Danny, since you’re here and we’re going to be running some tests on Jason anyways, how about we run some tests on you t—”

“No!” Danny is up and out of the chair before she can even visit. He can’t go far because, well, Jason, but he’s not going to stay sitting down for this. “Nope. No tests. I’m not a lab rat.”

Leslie is almost frustratingly calm. “You’re not, and no one is going to try and make you into one. I just would like to make sure you’re healthy. How about this, any test we do on Jason, you can watch. If I think it would be a good one for you to do, I’ll ask and you can decide if you want to or not, okay?”

Danny chews on his lip as he thinks that over. Slowly, he nods. If he can always say no later, it doesn’t hurt to agree for now, he figures.

It makes Leslie smile. “Great. We’re going to start by taking care of Jason’s hands, okay?”

Danny doesn’t really have any say in that, but he nods anyways. Mostly just because one of Jason’s hand is in his. As it is, they take care of one hand before having Danny swap sides, and then take care off the other. They make Danny scrub up in between and change into some clean, if too big, sweats, but he’s fine with that. He doesn’t want to be anything that makes Jason sick.

They take the chance to weight Danny and take his height during that, but those are fine. That’s normal, right?

He tucks himself between the wall and the exam chair thing Jason is one when he gets back in the room. Jason’s bandaged hand finds his sleeve.

“This is just a basic reflex test,” Dr. Leslie explains as she taps on Jason’s knee with a prehistoric looking tool. Jason’s knee jerks forward. “Your reflexes are a little slow right now, Jason, but if you did just… come back, there might be some rigor mortis still in play. Jason, do you feel stiff?”

Jason nods slowly. When he speaks it’s very carefully, as if his tongue doesn’t want to listen. “Everywhere. Like… when had that bad flu. All fuzzy too… it’s hard to… yeah.”

Dr. Leslie breathes deeply and lets it out slowly. “Okay. There’s only so much we can do here, but let’s run through some more tests.”

[nightingale-prompts]

Dying to Love- DCXDP

Dating is hard. And Danny has bad at tough go at it.

"She called me creepy." Danny sighed into his coffee cup.

"What? You're not creepy." Tim reassured.

This has been an ongoing thing. Every time one of Danny's dates canceled, rejected, or ghosted him he ended up pouring out his sorrows with Tim.

"Well, who wants to date a funeral director?" Danny gripes.

It was kind of hard to explain how they met. The Waynes wanted to move a headstone for their no longer dead son/brother. Danny had to oversee the process that day and thankfully they didn't need to dig up remains.

Danny didn't know why Tim wanted to be his friend but who was he to complain when he didn't know anyone in this city. No one had any reason to talk to him since he was always working. Constantine came in on occasion at least. The Bats did as well.

And Danny? He keeps to his own. What humans do is on them. The ghosts are enough of a handful. Yeah, it was cold but so was he. The mortuary was comfortable, and he liked this life.

Yes, it was emotional. How do you tell a family that their newborn who died of SIDS needed to be held for a few hours before they were ready for burial? Or that grandma was mad they didn't cremate her like she wanted?

The ghosts weren't always there. Most of the time he was alone. It was rare that one lingered around the body or didn't pass on immediately. It just meant that death let them slide for a while. She was unpredictable like that. That's how he got here.

It's a lonely life though.

Did he just want friends? Well sure. So he somehow became friends with Tim Drake. Easy. Okay not easy, he and Tim just had common interests like true crime. They both could talk for hours on that alone.

But that's not the same as dating and he wanted to have a relationship. So he went on a few dating apps and had a few meet-cutes. But they never last.

"Danny, you aren't creepy." Tim lied. "You love what you do and someone will understand."

"Tim, even my coworkers don't want to talk to me." Danny sobbed.

"Well, male morticians have a bad rep. They might not know you well yet. Give it some time."

Tim knew very well that Danny was creepy. Danny had a habit of talking way too much about his job. Not everyone finds embalming and cutting open bodies fascinating. But he'd never tell Danny to stop.

"I actually invited my last date over and she ran the moment she came in."

"She must be uncomfortable going to guys' places. That's normal."

Tim knew why that happened. Danny collected occult and haunted items. He would make displays of death masks, haunted dolls, animal and human bones. Danny does tarot readings for himself every morning. It's not normal behavior. It's actually the reason Tim started talking to him. He had suspicions that Danny might be a serial killer. He wasn't, he just had hobbies.

Tim was an enabler on all this. He thought about pointing Danny in the direction of some edgy types or those into witchcraft. But if he did that then Danny would be dating someone else.

Tim was good but he wasn't a saint. So everything Danny fumbles with a potential partner he stands by to pick up the pieces. Call him what you want, it's not like he was sabotaging his friend. He just didn't want him dating other people. And honestly, if someone doesn't like his interest then why aren't worth Danny's time.

"Hey, do you I know Red Robin's number?" Danny asked suddenly.

"Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I think if I were with someone used to this for of thing it would be easier. Also, he's the good-looking Robin."

Tim 100% filed that away as a gloat over Dick.

That being said, if he did give out that number would that further the manipulative asshole title that he probably already earned. He was nothing if not smart enough to be self-aware.