#and u r just a guy. ur just a guy in the world and u want to fit in and be loved so. what do u do 😔😔 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicfever · 4 months ago

Note

could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

1K notes · View notes

lumisverse · 1 month ago

Text

✦ 5wirl w scene gf 👾

headcanons + chats .ᐟ

cw. explicit sexual content, possessive / jealous behavior, verbal degradation, obsessive attachment / unhealthy dynamics, dubious consent tone

an. this one was requested by @xxxxxxxrawrxxxxxxx — thank u so so much for the request !! i really enjoyed writing this one hehe, hope u guys like it too <33

✦ XIAO

💌 MYSPACE MSG FROM: xxxhaosboi

subj: … u didnt text back. its fine i guess. if ur mad jus say it. if u hate me jus say it. if u miss me jus come over & sit on my bed like u always do. i cleaned the blood off ur fishnets btw. also i think abt the way u sound when ur breathless. a lot. dont ignore this.

he never takes the bracelet off. ever. you gave him a cheap little kandi bracelet w/ black & red beads that says “mine” in glitter letters and he hasn’t taken it off since. you thought he’d hate it. he never mentions it. just stares at it when he misses you. punches walls with it on. fucks you with it still tight around his wrist.

his idea of flirting is staring at you like he’s in pain. xiao doesn’t know how to be normal about you. you walk into the room wearing a miniskirt + fishnets and he just looks away like his entire soul short-circuited. he won’t say anything. he’ll just grab your wrist later and mutter, “don’t wear that in front of anyone else.” (he’ll finger you wearing it two hours later. still won’t speak. just moans into your neck like a warning.)

doesn’t know what to do with his hands unless they’re on you. he’s the type to sit on the edge of the bed, hoodie up, face flushed red, while you straddle him in your torn plaid skirt, chewing your gum like a brat. his hands stay hovering — near your thighs, your waist — until you guide them where you want them. after that, he doesn’t stop touching. almost like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

bites. a lot. he says he doesn’t care about marks. lies. he’ll bite your collarbone just hard enough to bruise and mutter, “mine.” his voice cracks when you bite back. if you scratch him up during sex, he’ll sit in front of the mirror after with his shirt off just staring at the red trails on his chest. silent. dazed. weirdly proud.

fucks like he’s trying not to cry. xiao’s quiet. careful. intense. he makes love like he’s trying not to break something — or like he already has. doesn’t talk much during, but the way he holds you down, the way he groans your name like it physically hurts — it’s everything. when he cums, he goes silent, eyes clenched shut, breathing shaking like he’s holding something back. (you don’t ask. he won’t say. he just buries his face in your neck and holds you tighter than ever.)

💬 MYSPACE CHAT @ 2:11AM

xxxhaosboi: whr r u xxxhaosboi: itz 2am xxxhaosboi: come ovr xxxhaosboi: miss ur thighs xxxhaosboi: miss ur voice xxxhaosboi: miss da way u say my name like ur breaking xxxhaosboi: … xxxhaosboi: im fine btw. xxxhaosboi: u dont hav 2 worry

✦ VENTI

💌 MYSPACE MSG FROM: drunknmelody

subj: i wrote ur name on my dick with sharpie felt inspired then cried then came thinking abt ur voice when ur on top of me anywy pls text back im still outside da bar. the sky looks like ur eyes when ur pissed off. <3

he’s the loudest in the room and the weakest for you. venti is chaos in studded belts — yelling during shows, climbing onto speakers mid-set, stealing sips of vodka from strangers. but the second you walk in, he's immediately locked on you like a dog. gets quieter. follows you like a shadow. bites his lip when you ignore him. he’ll let the world watch him burn if it makes you look.

he’s a slut for validation — especially yours. you call him pretty and he literally preens. he’ll spend an hour redoing his eyeliner after you say it’s “not sharp enough to hurt.” he wants your praise more than he wants air. moans louder when you tell him he sounds good. loses his fucking mind when you call him “my favorite little whore” while tugging his hair.

loves performing with bruises you gave him. venti wears your bite marks like stage props. scratches across his chest? his favorite tank top is low-cut now. bruises on his hips? he shows them off when he changes strings mid-set. gets off on being ruined by you. gets off harder when you watch him from the crowd like you're gonna take him apart again after.

gets hard way too easy. it doesn’t take much. fishnets? a gum pop? you licking a lollipop on purpose while making eye contact? done. he’ll sit next to you, shifting in his seat, pretending like he’s not throbbing in his skinny jeans, while his hand slowly sneaks to your thigh. sometimes he gets so desperate he’ll beg — quietly, breathlessly — for just a taste of you.

cries when he cums sometimes. he doesn't always mean to. it’s just — when you’re on top of him, kissing him too sweet, calling him your muse while his back arches off the mattress and his fingers dig into your thighs — something in him shatters. he’ll laugh it off, wipe his face, say “wow u broke me haha,” but he means it. you ruin him in ways he’ll never write down. not even in his songs.

💬 MYSPACE CHAT @ 12:03AM

drunknmelody: BB drunknmelody: bb im drunk drunknmelody: bb im DRUNK n also in love maybe idk drunknmelody: come spit in my mouth or sing w me drunknmelody: or both drunknmelody: ill write u a song if u sit on my face drunknmelody: nd call it art

✦ KAZUHA

💌 MYSPACE MSG FROM: kissesonkuts

subj: ur name is carved in my ribs i wrote 4 stanzas about the way ur lip gloss smeared on my jaw u kissed me like i was disposable i liked it the bruises u left still ache when i breathe too hard. pls do it again (i miss u) (i miss how u taste when ur mad)

he writes poems about you and hides them in your purse. you’ll find folded scraps of paper tucked into your fishnets or band hoodies with lines like “the moon envies your thighs / the sky bleeds for your kiss.” if you ask, he’ll pretend they’re “just drafts.” but his hands shake when you read them out loud.

goes feral when you call him sweet things during sex. he acts all calm and poetic but he melts when you whisper “my pretty boy” or “my favorite toy.” he’ll literally start rutting into you faster, breath hitching, moaning like it’s too much. the second you say “good boy”? he’s whimpering. losing rhythm. cumming too fast. it’s adorable.

he loves your lip gloss so much it’s practically a kink. he keeps one of your used tubes in his bag and sometimes just smells it when you’re not around. when you straddle him in glitter gloss and call him yours, he gets dizzy. likes it best when you kiss him messy — mouth sticky, spit-slick — so it smears down his jaw.

his hands are always on your thighs. in public? resting just above your ripped fishnets. at home? gripping the backs of them while he fucks up into you, breathing against your chest like it’s his first time again. he treats you like art — kneels for you, worships you — but fucks like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t leave bruises.

aftercare king. like. above and beyond. draws a bath. plays your favorite song. lights a black cherry candle and rubs your thighs with lotion while kissing your knee caps like a simp. tells you you’re beautiful while cleaning you up with his shirt. then curls into you and falls asleep tangled in your fishnet-clad legs like a cat in love.

💬 MYSPACE CHAT @ 11:58PM

kissesonkuts: i saw someone who looked like u today kissesonkuts: i almost threw up kissesonkuts: u still have my hoodie. its ok. keep it. kissesonkuts: it still smells like ur perfume kissesonkuts: i sleep w it pressed against my face like a fucking loser lol kissesonkuts: come over. bring the eyeliner that smudges when i bite ur throat.

✦ HEIZOU

💌 MYSPACE MSG FROM: heizoumoanz

subj: i want u. lik now. bite my lip til it bleeds call me a slut again u make me feel like art n a crime scene all at once come over ill be hard in 3 mins (jk i already am lol)

he knows everything about you. like, everything. memorized your favorite eyeliner brand, your childhood trauma, and the exact pitch you moan at when he hits the right spot with his fingers. he acts casual, but don’t be fooled — he’s obsessed. keeps your selfies in a secret folder labeled evidence. jacks off to them. won’t admit it unless you catch him.

talks so much during sex. filthy. teasing. relentless. “mm, getting wet just from kissing? you are easy, huh?” “who do you belong to, sweetheart? say it louder. make the neighbors know.” makes you beg to cum just because he likes how wrecked your voice sounds. the second you cry? he’s losing his mind. he lives for the mess.

has a thing for catching you off-guard. pulls you into a bathroom stall at shows and fucks you stupid over the sink, palm over your mouth. unzips your hoodie just to suck bruises into your chest before you’ve even said hello. he likes it when you pretend to hate it — when you roll your eyes and call him a menace right before letting him finger you behind a merch booth.

lives for your scene look. your ripped tights? your layered hair? your hot pink skull necklace?? he’s biting his lip every time you walk by. will absolutely offer to “help” fix your lip gloss and end up with your gloss-stained thighs around his head. takes polaroids of you mid-makeup just to jack off later. calls you his decoration of sin. he’s so annoying about it.

he’s a dom but in a bratty, obsessive way. he likes control, but only because he needs it. he’ll pin you down and eat you out like it’s a crime scene, muttering “fuck, look what you do to me” while rutting against the bed. if you ever top him? he short-circuits. gets so red. whines. begs. hates how much he loves it. he’ll swear he’s still in charge after. he's not. you ruined him.

💬 MYSPACE CHAT @ 4:10AM

heizoumoanz: bby i literally cant sleep heizoumoanz: my sheets still smell like ur perfume heizoumoanz: also my dick still hurts from what u did last night heizoumoanz: thank u heizoumoanz: u want head in the band room tmrw or u tryna be good this week heizoumoanz: jk ur never good heizoumoanz: nd i luv u for it <3

✦ SCARA

💌 MYSPACE MSG FROM: scenewhoreabuser

subj: u looked fuckable onstage dont roll ur eyes im serious i wanted to drag u into the greenroom and make u scream over the sound of ur stupid little band u like when im mad. dont lie. u left teeth marks on my shoulder again. i didnt cover them up. i want ppl to ask.

he treats your love like it’s a sickness. he acts like you're a drug he hates being addicted to. says shit like “you’re rotting my brain” while tugging your hair back and kissing you hard enough to bruise. but he needs you — claws at your waist under his oversized hoodie like he’ll die if you let go. you’re the poison in his bloodstream and he’s drinking deep.

hates sharing you. hates it. you so much as smile at someone else and he’s gripping your thigh so hard it bruises. he’ll whisper, “don’t fucking test me” in your ear at parties with that smile that means he’s two seconds from starting a scene. then drags you into a back room and fucks you dumb to prove a point. makes you moan his name until it echoes. makes sure they hear it.

he’s mean. like. mean. chokes you during head just to see your mascara run. calls you his “stupid little bitch” while you whimper under him. but the second you get shaky? he’s cradling your face like you’re made of glass. “hey. look at me. you okay?” he’ll never say sorry, but the way he kisses your hands after? you know he means it.

he’s obsessed with how you taste. he’ll spend literal hours between your thighs, eyes glazed over like he’s in a trance. mutters filthy praise while licking you out like he’s starving. when you pull his hair and cum on his face? he grins. licks his lips. calls it “breakfast.” then spits it back into your mouth just to watch you blush.

he's the kind of guy who bites your neck during arguments. you’ll be yelling at him, mascara smudged, threatening to walk out—and he’ll grab your hips and bite. just enough to hurt. enough to make you gasp. “go on,” he hisses. “leave with my teeth still in you.” you never do. not when he kisses you like he’s trying to ruin you. not when he already has.

💬 MYSPACE CHAT @ 3:06AM

scenewhoreabuser: ur ignoring me again. cute. scenewhoreabuser: who was that guy u hugged after the show scenewhoreabuser: tell him to stop breathing or i will scenewhoreabuser: ur mine. u know that. scenewhoreabuser: come over n prove it. scenewhoreabuser: wear those fishnets i ripped last week scenewhoreabuser: i wanna finish the job

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!

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misaerabl · 2 months ago

Text

MUTED 𝝑𝑒 - masterlist

✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚ gamer&commentary creator!e x influencer!u (enemies to lovers) SUMMARY : wc... ? ˙⋆✮˙ A lifestyle creator with a flawless feed. A reaction channel with a talent for starting drama. Your world is all soft lighting and subtle shade—Ellie Williams is loud edits, louder opinions, and a fanbase that lives for her chaos. You and Ellie were never supposed to cross paths. But one reaction stream, one too-perfect subtweet, and the internet writes its own narrative: a rivalry they can’t get enough of. You’re curated. She’s unfiltered. You go viral for routines. She goes viral for ruining them. It should’ve ended online—but now you’re stuck sharing a cabin, sharing space, sharing tension that won’t stay hidden behind screens. Ellie is frustrating. Fame is relentless. And somewhere between stolen glances and snarky remarks, the line between content and connection starts to blur. Because when everything is made to be watched, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.

˙⋆✮ READ THE REST ON AO3!

PROLOGUE -- "not sorry"

ellie.exe is live...

The screen is dimly lit in cool purples and flickering LED strips. A soft lo-fi playlist hums beneath the click-clack of keys and the occasional irritated—

“Dude, seriously?”

Ellie, tucked into a hoodie and headset, squints at her monitor, brows furrowed in the way that makes her fans screenshot the stream and tweet things like “she’s so baby when she’s mad”.

She's midway through a stream of some hyper-buggy online multiplayer game her chat begged her to play. She’s not good at it. She’s not pretending to be good at it.

Which is, naturally, why thousands are watching.

“Okay, there is no way that hit me. Roll back the tape. That’s cheating. That’s hacking, actually. I’m reporting him.”

The chat explodes:

lmaoo classic ellie L NOOB.exe pls check out @/reader’s new vid tho omg 😭 she’d beat this game faster than u lmao grwm girl supremacy!!!

Ellie groans, tossing her controller onto her lap and reaching for the watered-down iced coffee she’s been sipping since the stream started. The condensation leaves a faint ring on her desk.

“Okay, okay—pause. I need hydration and emotional support.”

Sip. Grimace. Another sip.

“Wait, who are you all yelling about?”

The chat floods with one name: your username, a wave of heart emojis, thirst comments, and “SHIP??” spam.

“Reader?” Ellie squints at the screen. “The GRWM chick? Seriously?”

A few more keystrokes, a few clicks.

“Okay, I mean… sure. Gotta give the fans what they want.”

The game feed shrinks into the corner. A new window opens on her overlay—your latest video.

GRWM: Night Out Routine (Even If You Cancel Last Minute) 💄🍷

The video fades in. You’re cross-legged on your bed, silky robe slung off one shoulder, hair twisted up with a claw clip, all soft lighting and softer skin. You’re smiling at the camera, walking through a lineup of glassy skincare bottles like it’s second nature.

Ellie leans forward slightly. Just a bit.

“She’s giving Vogue cover, but also… does she even sweat?”

Chat starts twitching:

UR EYES R TOO WIDE STAND UP she plugs her sephora code every 3 minutes she’s got you in a chokehold already babe 😭

“Like, does her skincare budget exceed my rent?”

She pauses—lets the silence sit there a second.

“I’m not judging—I’m just confused. Does she live at Sephora?”

The chat absolutely loses it.

no bc the tension already you’re just in love just say it someone ship name this rn you guys are delusional. ellie hates people like her

Ellie lifts her hands in mock surrender.

“Chat, I’m not a hater—I’m just a broke, bitter lesbian. Calm down.”

She smirks. Just a little. The kind that makes her left cheek dimple slightly, which only makes her chat explode even more.

nah she’s BLUSHING for real

She minimizes the window. Boots her game back up.

“Anyway. I’m going back to getting absolutely smoked in this trash server. Thanks for the detour, creeps.”

But it’s already too late.

The screen recordings are circulating. TikToks are multiplying like bacteria in petri dishes. The fan edits are being born—dramatic music, soft fades, your skincare and her flustered commentary spliced together.

Meanwhile, on your end. Your phone buzzes with a flurry of DMs. Some from fans. Some from mutuals. All of them saying the same thing:

“girl... ellie.exe just reviewed your grwm and i’m SOBBING” “you gonna let her talk to you like that or...?” “you got her blushing on camera 😭”

You scroll. You find the clip. You raise a brow.

Fuck this girl. Fuck her.

You stare at your screen for a bit before hitting post on the tweet.

you @/yourhandle ✨ skincare hits different when your lighting source isn’t a 3am Twitch stream 😘

Your mentions explode. The war has begun.

You swipe through your mentions, catching glimpses of your own face edited onto Mortal Kombat fighters, people tagging Ellie and begging her to respond. You tell yourself you’re over it. That you’ve said what you needed to say. That she doesn’t matter.

And then someone DMs you again.

“uhhhh did you see her tweet 💀”

You open Twitter.

ellie @/ellie.exe some ppl act brand new just because the sun hits them once and they didn’t burst into flames. proud of you 😇

You blink. Read it again. Your jaw actually drops.

That smug, passive-aggressive, “not-a-reply-but-yes-it-is” tone practically has her signature all over it. She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to. It’s as good as a shot fired.

Like she didn’t start this by coming for your routine with her crusty gamer hands and talking about you like you were a mall display instead of a person?

Oh, hell no.

You set your phone down. Pick it back up. Type. Delete. Type again. Your jaw clenches as you pace your room, bare feet dragging across a fluffy rug as the late afternoon sun pours across your floor—the same one she saw in your video. The one she smirked at like it offended her personally.

You finally hit post.

you @/yourhandle ✨ no hate to the gamers but if your selfcare knowledge is based on your reflection in a loading screen… maybe hush 😘

You don’t even wait to see the fallout this time. You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you and go to pour yourself something strong and unnecessary.

By the time you come back, Twitter’s already turned your quote tweet into a meme. Your face on a skincare ad. Ellie’s on a GameStop receipt. Someone edited a fake YouTube thumbnail:

“GRWM to fight a gamer lesbian (gone wrong) (emotional)”

You try to laugh, but it comes out tight.

Your blood is hot. Not quite angry, not quite amused. It’s something in between. Something irritating and unfamiliar. Something that smells like obsession.

comments: “they’re gonna make out or kill each other, no in between.” “this is the weirdest foreplay i’ve ever witnessed and i’m here for it” “ellie.exe called her sensitive and now she’s dismantling her entire existence 💅”

You actually exhale a disbelieving, “Oh my God,” into your empty room.

She’s insufferable. Infuriating. Smug. And you hate—hate—the way her face lingered in your head after watching her watch you.

You were supposed to win this. You were supposed to make her shut up. So You make her... By Clicking the block button.

KEEP UP! KEEP UP!

prologue... (you are here!) - "blocked. not sorry" part 1. - "fuck the algorithm" part 2. - "room for conflict" part 3. - "for the record" part 4. - "under your skin" part 5. - "pull focus" part 6. - "bad timing" part 7. - "talk about it" part 8. - "white noise" part 9. - ??? + more!!! (next parts will be posted daily! see you tomorrow!, please comment to be added to the taglist!)

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