#gonna look for some sugar and chaos >:3

[thegreateggbandit]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!! ✨🍬🎃🍫✨

I've put on my EGGcellent costume ( >:3 mehehe) and am going to look for candy and shenanigans!

[kiyawritesforf1]

WEIRD VIBES ONLY

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Words : 2.5k

The 4+1 times people overheard Lando and his Girlfriend’s weird conversations.

1. The Pit Crew Misadventure

Lando Norris was fresh off a practice lap, helmet still tucked under his arm, when Y/N bounded into the McLaren garage like a caffeinated squirrel. She’d swiped a wrench from a toolbox—because of course she had—and was twirling it like a baton. “So, if we’re doing it in the cockpit,” she said, voice low but not low enough, “I say we go full throttle. Maximum chaos, no holding back. I want sparks flying.”

Lando grinned, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, but I’d need to adjust the seat first. Can’t have you slipping around when I hit the apex. Precision’s key.”

Dave, a lanky mechanic with a permanent oil smudge on his cheek, was lugging a tire past them when his ears caught the exchange. Cockpit? Full throttle? Slipping around? Sparks? His brain short-circuited. He pictured Lando and Y/N sneaking into the car after hours, doing unspeakable things on the carbon-fiber seat, probably breaking half a dozen FIA regulations in the process. The tire slipped from his grip, bouncing once before rolling into a stack of toolboxes with a clang.

“You alright, mate?” Lando called, eyebrows raised.

Dave didn’t answer. He bolted for the break room, where he found his buddy Pete sipping a lukewarm coffee. “Mate,” Dave hissed, “Lando’s about to defile the car in ways I can’t unsee. Send help. Or a priest.”

Pete choked on his coffee. “What, like, in the car?”

“Full throttle,” Dave whispered, eyes wide. “Sparks and everything.”

Meanwhile, back in the garage, Y/N tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “So, confetti cannons in the sim rig—yes or no?”

“Yes,” Lando said, “but we’re blaming Oscar if it jams.” They high-fived, oblivious to the existential crisis they’d just triggered.

2. The Supermarket Scandal

It was a rare off-day, and Lando and Y/N were prowling the aisles of a Tesco near Silverstone. Y/N, in a hoodie that swallowed her frame, held up a box of Frosted Flakes like it was a sacred artifact. “Okay, but if we’re doing it with the tiger,” she said, “we’ve got to time it perfectly—right when the sugar hits. That’s the sweet spot.”

Lando, pushing a cart with one wobbly wheel, nodded with the seriousness of a race strategist. “Timing’s everything. Too soon, and it’s just messy. Too late, and we’re sticky for hours. I’m not dealing with that again.”

A middle-aged woman in a sensible cardigan—let’s call her Janet—was browsing the oatmeal section nearby. She froze, her hand hovering over a box of Quaker Oats, as her imagination ran wild. Doing it with the tiger? Sugar hits? Sticky for hours? She envisioned some depraved, cereal-mascot-fueled roleplay, complete with Lando in a Tony the Tiger costume and Y/N wielding a can of whipped cream. Her basket trembled in her grip as she backed away, abandoning her oats to escape the depravity.

Later that night, Janet regaled her book club with the tale. “I don’t know what’s wrong with kids these days,” she said, clutching her tea. “That racer boy and his girlfriend are freaky. I’ll never look at Frosted Flakes the same way.”

In reality, Y/N was already rigging their Roomba with a cereal bowl while Lando filmed, cackling as the vacuum skidded across their flat, flinging flakes everywhere. “This is gold,” he said, dodging a stray piece. “TikTok’s gonna lose it.”

“Next time,” Y/N replied, “we add milk.”

3. The Hotel Lobby Horror

The night before the Monaco Grand Prix, Lando and Y/N were sprawled across a plush couch in the hotel lobby, surrounded by marble floors and overpriced chandeliers. Y/N kicked her sneakers off and propped her feet on Lando’s lap. “If we’re using the feathers,” she said, “I want them everywhere—total coverage, no gaps. It’s gotta be epic.”

Lando smirked, poking her foot. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after. Last time, I was picking them out of weird places for days. My socks were shedding for a week.”

Behind the reception desk, a concierge named Philippe—crisp suit, impeccable mustache—nearly dropped his tray of complimentary sparkling waters. Feathers? Total coverage? Weird places? His mind conjured a scene straight out of a risqué rom-com: Lando and Y/N tangled in a pile of plucked pillows, feathers drifting through the air like some avant-garde sex ritual. He coughed, adjusted his tie, and spent the rest of his shift warning coworkers to steer clear of Room 312. “They’re… creative,” he muttered. “Very creative.”

Upstairs, Y/N was sketching a feathered dinosaur costume on a napkin while Lando scrolled through gaming forums. “Think we can get it done before the next stream?” she asked.

“Only if we bribe Carlos with pizza,” Lando said. “He’s got the hot glue gun skills.”

4. The Paddock Panic

The paddock at Spa was buzzing with pre-race energy when Y/N sidled up to Lando near the McLaren hospitality tent. She lowered her voice, but the wind carried it just far enough. “I’m telling you, the harness is key. Strap me in tight, and I’m good for at least twenty minutes.”

Lando chuckled, tossing an energy drink can between his hands. “Twenty? Bold. I’d say fifteen tops before you’re begging to get out. You’re not built for that kind of endurance.”

A journalist from Racing Weekly, lurking behind a potted plant with her notebook out, perked up like a bloodhound. Harness? Strap her in? Endurance? She scribbled furiously, her pen practically smoking. This was it—the scoop of the season. She could already see the headline: “Exclusive: Norris and GF’s BDSM Secrets Revealed!” She pitched it to her editor that night, claiming she’d uncovered the spicy underbelly of F1’s golden boy.

Back at the tent, Y/N adjusted the straps on a go-kart harness, grinning at Lando. “Twenty minutes around the track, and I’ll smoke you,” she said. “Loser buys dinner.”

“You’re on,” Lando replied, “but when you tap out at fifteen, I want extra garlic bread.”

+1. The Truth Comes Out

It all came to a head at a McLaren team dinner after the Italian Grand Prix. The restaurant was cozy, all dim lights and clinking wine glasses, with the team sprawled across a long table. Dave the mechanic was there, still haunted by the cockpit fiasco. Janet, who turned out to be Oscar Piastri’s aunt, had tagged along with a friend. Philippe the concierge, off-duty and visiting a cousin in Monza, sat at the bar. The Racing Weekly journalist hovered near the dessert cart, hoping for more dirt.

Lando and Y/N were at the end of the table, heads bent together as usual. Y/N tapped her fork against her plate. “Lando, if we’re doing the whipped cream thing tonight, we need to prep the tarp. I’m not scrubbing the ceiling again.”

Lando nodded, chewing a breadstick. “Yeah, last time it got everywhere—total disaster. Took me an hour to unstick my shoes.”

The eavesdroppers leaned in, senses tingling. Dave whispered to Pete, “Whipped cream in the cockpit?” Janet clutched her pearls, imagining a dairy-drenched tiger romp. Philippe pictured feathers and cream, while the journalist scribbled, “Kinky Dessert Fetish Confirmed.”

Then Y/N pulled out her phone and shoved it in Lando’s face. “Look, here’s the vid from last time,” she said, loud enough for the table to hear. The screen showed their kitchen, a tarp on the floor, and a towering, wobbly whipped-cream sculpture that collapsed mid-build, splattering them both. Lando’s shriek of “MY HAIR!” echoed through the restaurant as Y/N doubled over laughing on the video.

The table erupted. Oscar snorted into his pasta. “You two are idiots,” he said. Zak Brown shook his head, grinning. “I don’t even want to know.”

Dave dropped his fork. Janet blinked, her scandal evaporating. Philippe coughed into his wine, and the journalist snapped her notebook shut, muttering, “Well, that’s not printable.”

Y/N caught the stares and smirked. “What? It was for a charity bake-off livestream. We raised, like, two grand.”

Lando leaned back, arms behind his head. “Next time, we’re building a spaghetti catapult. Way less sticky.”

The eavesdroppers slunk away, red-faced, as Lando and Y/N clinked glasses, already plotting their next absurd adventure. Their dynamic was weird—borderline unhinged—but it was theirs. Cute, chaotic, and definitely not what anyone thought. Best to just leave them to it.

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[nuelles]

Giddy Up, Spencer || Spencer Agnew

Summary: When Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers lands the cast on your family’s Southern farm, Spencer Agnew is fully prepared for heat, hay bales, and general chaos. What he’s not ready for is how flustered he gets around you—a fellow cast member, longtime farm girl, and expert at making him forget how words work. As the challenges get messier (and the rooster attacks more personal), Spencer finds himself tangled in something far trickier than obstacle courses: feelings. By the time the final challenge rolls around, it’s not just about winning points—it’s about whether he’ll finally cowboy up and kiss the girl who’s been roping his heart all week.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x Southern!Reader

Tropes: Opposites Attract, Ridiculous Challenges, PDA, Farm Chaos

Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Flirting, Carl the Rooster, Author knows nothing about farm life, not proofread

WC: 7.1K

Requested: Yes (by anon) thanks for the idea sugar <3

Author's Note: Tried listening to some country music while writing, hopefully it translated through lol also I wanted to add a lot more challenge-wise but decided to just focus on Spencer and Reader oops

If anyone had told Spencer Agnew he’d spend a week filming Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers on a real-deal Southern farm, he would’ve laughed, made a sarcastic remark about outlaw fashion, and then quietly prepared to die in 90-degree heat.

But no one told him that the real danger wasn’t the heat, or the bugs, or Ian’s over-enthusiastic cowboy accent.

It was you.

You stood at the edge of the gravel driveway in cut-off jeans, a tied-up flannel shirt, and worn-in boots that looked like they’d actually touched dirt before today. Sunlight hit your face just right as you waved at the approaching van.

“Welcome to the farm, y’all!” you called, Southern drawl like molasses—warm and impossible to ignore.

Spencer, from the back seat of the van, whispered, “Okay. Nope. Not emotionally ready for that.”

Damien, beside him, raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Spencer sat up straighter. “For the full Yeehaw Cinematic Universe. Obviously.”

Damien grinned. “Sure. That’s totally what you meant.”

There was something about the way you said y’all that short-circuited his frontal lobe. This was going to be a long trip.

As the van came to a stop, Spencer gave himself a pep talk: You were just a person, a beautiful, smart, and funny person. And this was just like any other work trip — 

“How was the ride, darlin’?” Spencer had been so in his head that he hadn’t noticed Shayne open the side door or seen his fellow castmates get off, leaving him by himself in his dissociated state. “Hope you’re not getting second thoughts about coming to my family farm,” Spencer shook his head, trying and failing to get the words out.

“Yes — No, I mean no, I was just giving everyone a head start, you know, since I'm gonna win this.” You arched a brow at him but shrugged nonetheless, “Can’t wait to see that, sugar.”

Fuck

You helped them unload gear, directing people to where the bunkhouse was, where the bathrooms were, and where not to step if they didn’t want to get chased by a rooster named Carl.

Spencer tried to keep his cool. He really did.

But then you handed him a bottle of water and said, “You better hydrate, darlin’. Don’t want you droppin’ like a sack of flour on your first day.”

He almost said “thank you.” What came out was: “Ha ha yeah cool cool flour me.” His brain screamed internally. Why did he say that? What did that even mean? It was like his mouth had disconnected from his consciousness and gone rogue.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Courtney, walking past, snorted so hard she almost choked on their gum.

“Flour you?” you repeated, smiling with a raised brow.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Sorry. I meant... thank you. I’m not used to being in the presence of someone who knows how to wrangle cattle and also looks like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.”

You tilted your head. “You callin’ me a cowboy romance cover model?”

Spencer blinked, realizing what he’d just said, and immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean, not in a weird way. Like, respectfully. Like, you’d have a hat and a horse and emotional range.”

You laughed again, clearly entertained. Spencer fought the urge to bury himself in the hay bales behind you.

“I’m just saying if there was a book where someone tames a mysterious stranger with a YouTube career and too many emotional metaphors, I feel like you could carry the whole plot.”

There was a pause.

Then you grinned. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m sweating and emotionally compromised.”

You laughed, soft and amused. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Spencer stood very still, wondering if it was possible to pass out from sheer attraction.

Shayne wandered over, squinting. “Are you two flirting or having a stroke? I can’t tell.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He was still rebooting.

A few minutes later, Ian clapped his hands together and yelled, “Alright, y’all! Y/N’s family was nice enough to let us crash here, so find a partner and head inside, tomorrow’s filming day!”You pointed toward a wooden fence across the field. “Home is this way. Mind the goats.”

Spencer squinted. “Wait. Actual goats? Like, roaming? With agendas?”

You gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the country, cowboy.”

As you walked away, Spencer turned to Damien and whispered, “They just touched my shoulder, and I think I need a moment alone.”

Damien just sighed. “You’re gonna die out here, man.”

Spencer nodded, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And I’m gonna look hot doing it.”

Spencer woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against him.

For a solid three seconds, he thought it was Damien doing a bit.

Then he opened his eyes, saw the rustic wood paneling, the dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight, and—most disturbingly—a goat staring at him through the bunkhouse window like it had questions.

Spencer stared back.

The goat blinked.

Spencer slowly rolled over and groaned into his pillow. “This place is haunted.” 

He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed, praying that today would run smoothly— and that his brain would listen to him when you were in front of him.

Slipping on his shoes and glasses, he made his way towards the kitchen. He already knew he looked like a tired zombie. He needed caffeine, and since he’d forgotten his Kickstarters, some good ol’ black coffee would have to do.

In the bunkhouse kitchen, Shayne was already half-dressed in outlaw gear, sipping from a mason jar of coffee like he hadn’t spent the night curled up like a shrimp on an ancient twin mattress.

“Morning, city slicker,” he said cheerfully as Spencer shuffled in.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the weak sunlight pouring through the screen door. “Is this… what morning is supposed to feel like?”

“Welcome to farm time,” Courtney muttered, chewing on whatever breakfast seemed to have been put out and reapplying their mustache for the day. “Time moves differently out here. Like prison.”

“Pretty sure I heard a ghost rooster,” Spencer said.

“That’s just Carl,” Damien yawned, flopping onto a creaky couch. “Y/N says he only goes after people who walk funny.”

Spencer blinked. “I walk fine.”

Everyone stared at him.

“…I walk differently.”

“Oh, by the way,” Damien added, “Y/N also said there’s some Mountain Dew Kickstarter in the fridge for later—made it very clear it’s not a morning drink.”

They’d thought of him. Maybe today really would look different.

An hour later, the full cast had gathered near the massive hay maze built behind the barn. It was tall enough to block your view across the field and rickety enough that it looked like one good sneeze could knock it over—which meant it was perfect.

You strolled over from the barn, clipboard in hand, wearing a fresh plaid shirt tied at the waist and a cowboy hat that probably should’ve looked ridiculous—but somehow didn’t. The sun hit your face, and Spencer had to physically resist the urge to sigh out loud.

“Morning, y’all,” you called, flashing that smile that somehow made dirt roads and sweat look romantic.

Spencer took a gulp of water and muttered to himself, “Cool. Totally normal reaction. Just a normal coworker crush. Not a crisis.”

You came to a stop beside him, giving him a once-over with your eyes. “You look ready.”

“For what? Farm-themed death?”

You grinned. “Maze challenge. First event of the day.”

“Right. Hay. Running. Definitely my strong suit.”

“Did you sleep alright, darlin’?” you asked, teasing. “Did Carl behave?”

Spencer deadpanned, “Carl and I had a heart-to-heart about boundaries. I think we understand each other now.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re funny in the morning. That’s rare.”

“No, I’m delusional from sleeping on a mattress stuffed with, I assume, corn husks and regret.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if  they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

As the rest of the cast decided who’d go in after, you passed by Spencer again, leaning close with a crooked smile.

“Don’t worry,” you said quietly, voice smooth and warm. “I believe in you, cowboy.”

Spencer didn’t trip walking into the maze.

But it was close.

Spencer stepped into the hay maze like he was entering a war zone.

He could hear Damien behind him whispering, “Godspeed, buddy,” and Shayne yelling, “Remember us when you’re famous—or dead!”

The opening corridor of the maze was narrow, lined with hay bales stacked taller than his head. It smelled like dust and livestock trauma. Somewhere in the distance, a walkie crackled with static, and Courtney’s voice echoed: “There will be consequences for cheating, and those consequences will be dramatic reenactments.”

Spencer muttered, “That’s not ominous at all.” Time to impress you and show everyone just how quickly he could get out of there.

Cut to: The Other Cast, Waiting Outside the Maze

Courtney, Shayne, and Damien stood on a picnic table, squinting into the maze like over-invested sports commentators.

“Ten bucks says he takes a wrong turn and ends up back at the entrance within five minutes,” Courtney said, arms crossed.

“I’ll double it if he trips over a scarecrow that isn’t even in the challenge,” Shayne added.

Damien held up a hand. “Guys. Come on. Let’s have some faith in him.”

They all turned to see Spencer on the GoPro feed, spinning in a circle and yelling, “WHO DESIGNED THIS? WHO HURT YOU?”

“…Okay, yeah. Ten bucks says he doesn’t make it to the puzzle without an existential crisis.”

Back to Spencer

Spencer turned a corner and hit a dead end.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Symbolic. Love that.”

He backtracked, only to find two identical-looking paths.

Left or right?

He squinted at a hay bale on the left. Someone (Shayne, probably) had taped a piece of paper to it. In bold Sharpie, it read: “This is totally the right way. Definitely. Trust us.”

Spencer stared at it for a moment. “Hmm. That’s not suspicious at all.”

He went left anyway.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped on a booby trap—an explosion of glitter and feathers shot into the air, coating him like an arts-and-crafts project gone rogue.

From somewhere deeper in the maze, a triumphant cackle echoed.

“SHAYNE!” Spencer shouted.

Eventually, by some miracle (and yelling “Marco” until someone shouted “Polo” in confusion), Spencer stumbled into the center clearing—face flushed, shirt wrinkled, and glitter sticking to his hair.

There was a folding table with a jigsaw puzzle.

And next to it, you.

You leaned against the hay wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at your lips. “Well, well,” you said. “You made it.”

Spencer exhaled dramatically and pointed at the puzzle. “Please tell me that’s it. I don’t have to milk a cow next, right?”

“No promises.”

You stepped up to help him with the puzzle, and he glanced at you sideways. “Are you here to sabotage me?”

“Officially? No. Unofficially? Maybe a little.”

He grinned. “Great. Love that. Betrayed by the one person I trusted.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You trust me?”

“I’m covered in glitter and hay. It’s been a long day.”

Together, you managed to finish the puzzle—barely—and Spencer took off running toward the exit, dragging you behind him with a triumphant, “WE’RE FREE! WE SOLVED YOUR RURAL CURSE!”

Everyone cheered.

Spencer collapsed in the grass, face-up, arms spread. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, grinning. “You alright, cowboy?”

He looked up at you, dazed. “Emotionally? No. Spiritually? I think I was reborn inside that maze.”

Courtney leaned over and whispered to Shayne, “Double or nothing, he doesn’t survive the next challenge.”

Later that afternoon, after everyone had recovered (read: collapsed dramatically in the grass for twenty minutes), Ian gathered the cast near the barn with a suspicious gleam in his eye and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“Time for our next challenge!” he announced. 

Courtney squinted. “Why do I feel like that’s code for ‘someone’s about to get tackled’?”

You stepped up beside Ian with a grin. “Because someone is—if they don’t dodge fast enough.”

You gestured to a pen just behind you. Your eyes twinkle with excitement, ready to see how everyone would react to the challenge, “Alright, y’all,” you drawled, “this one’s called the Rope ‘Em Rodeo. Teams of two, timed challenge. One person’s gotta lasso a moving target while blindfolded—guided only by their partner’s voice. The fastest team to rope the target wins. Bonus points if you don’t trip and die.”

“Wait—moving target?” Damien asked warily.

You whistled.

From behind the barn, your cousin appeared, leading an actual miniature pony—outfitted with pool noodles taped to its sides like jousting armor. Angela immediately gasped.

“Her name is Clementine!” you said proudly.

Clementine, to her credit, looked like she could not care less.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, eyeing the pony. “I have so many questions, and I’m scared none of the answers will help.”

You clapped him on the back. “You’ll do great.”

The heat simmered off the dirt like a stovetop left on low, and Spencer was already regretting everything.

His bandana was tied over his eyes, itchy and crooked, the rope felt weird in his hands, and somewhere to his left, Clementine the miniature pony let out a huff that sounded judgmental.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and called out, “Just to clarify—I’m blindfolded, holding rope, and about to throw it at a live animal?”

You laughed from the sidelines. “Clementine’s tougher than she looks. And technically, you’re tossin’ the rope near her.”

Spencer tilted his head toward your voice. “That sounds hard.”

“It absolutely is.”

There was a brief pause as he sighed, and the cast behind you murmured in various tones of amusement and very little help. You held the walkie-talkie up to your mouth, your voice warm in his ear through the little earpiece Ian rigged together last-minute.

“Alright, sugar,” you drawled, smile audible. “Take three slow steps forward.”

Spencer shuffled forward like he was walking across lava, arms stiff, rope gripped like it might bite him. “You’re sure this is the right way?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m literally watchin’ you. Trust me.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” he muttered, toeing the dry dirt. “Blindly following the voice of a person who regularly threatens me with roosters.”

“Threatens?” you said, feigning offense. “Carl just likes his personal space respected.”

“I said good morning!”

“And he said, ‘Try again.’”

A ripple of laughter from the others floated across the field. Spencer tried not to smile, but you could hear it in his voice.

“Okay,” you said, focusing. “You’re close now. Couple more steps, then turn about fifteen degrees left.”

Spencer turned right.

“Other left.”

“That’s aggressive,” he muttered, adjusting.

“Alright, now square your shoulders. Clementine’s dead ahead. I need you to aim just a little above her shoulder, then let the rope fly when I say.”

Spencer exhaled slowly. “You ever guided someone into blind-lassoing a pony before?”

“Nope.”

“Cool. Great. Feeling very alive.”

You grinned. “You should. Now… swing it smooth. On my count. Three… two… one—now!”

The rope sailed through the air in a perfect lazy arc. It spun once, then twice—before looping right over Clementine’s neck.

The pony didn’t even flinch. Just blinked.

There was a stunned second of total silence.

Spencer stood frozen. “What happened? Did I rope a person? Is Damien crying?”

You were already running toward him, laughter breaking loose from your chest. “Spencer, you did it! You got her!”

He pulled down the bandana, blinking at the scene before him. “Wait. I actually got the—?”

“Roped her fair and square,” you said, reaching his side.

Spencer looked down at the rope, then at Clementine, then back at you, stunned. “I have no idea how that happened.” Spencer stood there, blinking in disbelief, still gripping the rope that now loosely hung from Clementine’s neck. Glitter clung to his shirt from the earlier maze disaster, and now sweat dotted his brow under the high afternoon sun.

You leaned in, teasing, “Beginner’s luck?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “Divine intervention. Or you bribed the pony.”

“Pfft. Clementine doesn’t take bribes.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This is either the coolest or weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Possibly both.”

“You did real good, darlin’,” you said softly, grabbing the rope to lead Clementine back toward the post. “Kinda proud of you.”

Spencer opened his mouth—then promptly closed it. Whatever words were forming, they scattered like the hay in his hair. You gave him one last crooked smile before turning to the others.

“Alright, y’all! Who’s up next?”

Team Two: Shayne & Courtney

Shayne marched up like he’d just been handed the role of a lifetime, saluting the crowd.

Courtney pulled the bandana over their eyes with a flourish. “Let’s ride, partner!”

Shayne whispered something dramatic like, “Let the spirit of the wild west consume us,” before guiding Courtney into the arena with a flair for the theatrical.

“Step left! No, your other left! No—wait—SNAKE!” Courtney screamed and threw the rope. It sailed wide, wrapped around a random hay bale, and yanked it straight into Shayne’s shins.

He went down like a sack of yams.

“Y’all okay?” you called, fighting laughter.

Shayne groaned, face in the dirt. “I’ve been humbled.”

Courtney tore the bandana off. “I roped something, though!”

Team Three: Angela & Tommy

 Tommy approached with precision, arms folded, already in Game Mode.

Angela, meanwhile, was bouncing slightly on his heels. “Okay, so I have lassoed before—granted, it was a belt loop and a chair leg, but I feel good about this.”

Tommy side-eyed her. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He guided her with shocking clarity—left, left, steady, swing—and when she let it go, it soared in a clean arc…

…and gently landed around Clementine’s neck.

Gasps all around.

“Did we just win the whole game?” Tommy whispered.

Angela smirked. “We roped the pony. That’s a win in my book.”

Clementine sneezed, clearly unimpressed again.

Team Four: Ian & Anthony

When these two stepped up, the chaos was immediate.

“Ian, I swear to God, if you say ‘yeehaw’ one more time—” “YEE-—sorry.”

Anthony stood in front of him like a fed-up schoolteacher. “Just listen to me. No bits. For once in your life.”

Ian pouted. “But I was born for the rope.”

He took two steps, swung wide, and nearly nailed a camera tripod.

A very long, slow silence.

Anthony sighed. “You’re banned from rope.”

Team Five: Amanda & Arasha

Amanda stepped forward with pure confidence. “I grew up on country movies. This is in my blood.”

Arasha blinked. “...I once saw a horse. Does that count?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda said cheerfully, tossing her bandana on. “We got this.”

Arasha tried her best to guide her, but Amanda had already sprinted full speed across the field, yelling, “YEEHAW!” while swinging the rope above her head like a rodeo queen.

It hit Clementine’s butt.

The pony made an offended noise and trotted a circle in protest.

“Y’all alright?” you called again.

“Great!” Amanda said, grinning. “I call that a direct hit.”

“On the wrong end,” Arasha muttered, facepalming.

When all was said and done, you were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt. The cast gathered again in the middle of the field as Ian tallied scores using an old clipboard and what looked like a cartoonishly large pencil.

“Alright! Time for the final tally,” Alex declared. “Some teams roped with elegance. Others roped with… whatever Ian and Anthony did.”

“That was art,” Ian shouted. “You just didn’t get it.”

Courtney threw a hay bale chunk at his feet.

“Angela and Tommy take the point for fastest clean rope,” Ian announced. “But I think we all agree that Spencer gets the honorary ‘Most Unexpected Cowboy Arc’ ribbon.”

You whooped. “I second that!”

Spencer just looked around like he’d blacked out for the entire event. “Wait, what? What’d I win?”

“Respect,” Damien said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And possible tetanus.”

“And Clementine’s admiration,” you added, reaching out to gently pluck a piece of glitter out of Spencer’s hair. “She don’t trust easy.”

Spencer, thoroughly flustered, offered a shaky thumbs-up. “Great. Big honor. Thanks. Yeehaw.”

You leaned in with a wink. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of us, cowboy.”

And Spencer didn’t say anything—because he couldn’t say anything.

His brain was still buffering.

The sun had dipped below the hills, leaving the farm bathed in that syrupy golden hour glow. Crickets chirped lazily in the tall grass, fireflies blinked like tiny stage lights, and the air finally cooled enough for people to stop complaining in real-time about heatstroke.

A bonfire crackled at the edge of the field, its orange light flickering across everyone’s faces as they gathered around in mismatched folding chairs, hay bales, and one deflated pool float someone had decided was “rustic.”

You were perched on a log with a s’more in hand, cowboy hat tipped back on your head. Spencer sat across from you, chin in hand, blinking like he was trying not to combust.

Courtney took a huge bite of a marshmallow and pointed at him. “So. You roped the pony.”

Spencer, already mid-sip of water, choked slightly. “Are we still on this?”

“Buddy,” Damien said with mock sympathy, “we will be on this until the end of time.”

“Legend status,” Shayne added. “Right up there with Tommy’s chattering moment and Ian’s two truths and a lie failure.”

Anthony poked at the fire with a stick. “I just want to know how you managed a perfect lasso while blindfolded. That’s, like… divine comedy.”

“He was guided by love,” Amanda said dramatically, clasping her hands together.

You arched a brow, trying not to smirk. “Love?”

“Farm love,” she added with a wink. “Southern tension. There was chemistry in the air.”

Spencer made a strangled noise. “I don’t—what? There was dust in the air.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tommy said, grinning. “We all saw you blush when Y/N straightened your bandana. You turned the color of a boiled shrimp.”

“I did not!” Spencer protested, half-laughing, half-suffering.

“You did,” Angela said, deadpan. “It was... honestly kind of sweet. Like a middle school dance if it was sponsored by Wrangler.”

Courtney snapped their fingers like they'd cracked a case. “Spencer’s got a farm crush!”

A chorus of “oohs” echoed around the fire like a live studio audience.

Spencer, fully red now, buried his face in his hands. “Why are y’all like this?”

You leaned back, bite of s’more still in hand, and said in your best innocent drawl, “You okay, cowboy? Look a little overheated.”

The group howled.

Shayne was doubled over. Amanda fell off her chair.

“Okay,” Spencer said, pointing at you, “you don’t get to say that while lookin’ like you walked out of a romance cover and lassoed my nervous system.”

“Nervous system?!” Damien howled.

Even Clementine—off in the distance, tied to a post and chewing hay—snorted like she was laughing.

You tipped your hat lower, hiding your smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Y’all flirting is louder than Ian yelling ‘Yeehaw,’” Courtney added.

“I regret nothing,” Ian called from where he was roasting a marshmallow at a wildly unsafe angle.

Spencer groaned and melted further into his chair. “Why did I come on this trip.”

“Because fate wanted us to watch you fall in farm love,” Shayne said, holding his hands to the sky. “And we are so blessed.”

You met Spencer’s eyes across the fire, your grin softer now, a quiet twinkle behind it.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, voice just low enough for him to hear over the others. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He didn’t believe you for a second.

But for the first time all day, he didn’t seem to mind.

Spencer had barely made it out of bed. He was 80% sore, 15% glitter, and 5% internally screaming.

The sun had barely climbed past the trees when Ian announced, far too cheerfully, “Good morning, cowfolk! Today’s challenge is called ‘Love & Livestock!’” He pointed to a line of wooden posts, hay bales, eggs, and… was that a podium?

“I hate it already,” Spencer mumbled to Damien.

“It’s a relay race,” Ian continued. “One partner is the ‘Cowboy,’ the other is the ‘Sweetheart.’ Together, you must complete four farm-themed obstacles, including—but not limited to—egg carrying, goat herding, wheelbarrow sprinting, and romantic communication!”

“Romantic, what now?” Anthony blinked.

Courtney raised a hand. “I’m sorry. Did you say romantic communication?”

You stepped forward, clearly in on the scheme. “That’s right. Each team has to shout a romantic line of encouragement before the final sprint. Extra points for sincerity... or creativity.”

Spencer looked skyward. “Cool. Love that for me.”

“Alright,” Ian clapped his hands, “first team: Spencer and Y/N!”

Everyone erupted in cheers and whistles.

“NO. No no no,” Spencer protested, turning toward Ian. “You did this on purpose.”

Ian was already walking away. “It’s what the people want.”

You were beside Spencer now, all sunshine and smugness, clearly having the time of your life. “C’mon, partner,” you teased. “You ready to prove your love to the livestock?”

“I swear if one of these obstacles involves Carl, I’m out.”

Obstacle One: Egg on a Spoon

Spencer stared at the wooden spoon like it was a cursed relic. You, meanwhile, stood behind the start line, gently stretching like you were about to run the Kentucky Derby.

“Alright,” you said, handing him the spoon. “Balance the egg on this. Walk in a straight line to the fence post, round the bale, and come back. Easy.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Nothing on this trip has been easy.”

“Consider it a test of grace under pressure,” you said sweetly. “Like love. Or avoiding Carl.”

From the sidelines, Courtney shouted, “Walk like you’re carrying Y/N’s heart in your mouth!”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered, stuffing the spoon between his lips.

As he began his awkward shuffle down the track, the entire cast broke into an impromptu chant of “He’s got her heart! Don’t drop it!”

He wobbled left.

He wobbled right.

You jogged alongside him, hands on your hips, voice syrupy-smooth. “Steady now, darlin’. Don’t you dare crack under pressure.”

Spencer made a muffled noise—something like “You’re not helping!” but it came out as “Mph mm hngghff!”

He was two feet from the bale when a butterfly flew past his face.

He flinched.

The egg rocketed into the air like a tiny doomed UFO—then splattered on his shirt.

Silence.

Spencer stared down at himself. “Cool. Romantic yolk. Symbolic.”

You giggled, reaching over to pluck a bit of shell off his shoulder. “Guess you scrambled.”

From the background, Shayne yelled, “You scrambled the relationship, man!”

Obstacle Two: Goat Herding

“Alright,” you said, unlocking the small corral gate. “All you gotta do is get these three goats into that little pen over there. Use the treat bucket if you need.”

Spencer nodded, dead serious. “Copy. Goats. Pen. I’ve seen ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ I’m emotionally prepared.”

You handed him the bucket.

He stepped into the pen.

Carl the rooster immediately charged the gate, flaring his wings like he’d been waiting all night for a rematch.

Spencer backpedaled. “I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOAT HERDING—WHY IS THERE A MINIBOSS?”

Carl pecked his boot with surgical precision. The goats bleated with interest, clearly invested in the chaos.

“Maybe... maybe start with gentle persuasion?” you suggested.

Spencer turned to the goats, crouched low, and held out a handful of treats. “Okay, listen. I’m not from here. I’m a man from the internet. But we don’t have to be enemies.”

One goat trotted toward him.

Spencer smiled—then it headbutted his thigh and bolted past him.

“I’M LOSING TO A FARM,” he shouted.

The second goat just… sat down and refused to move. The third followed Carl like it had better things to do.

“Your aura’s all messed up,” Amanda called helpfully. “Goats are intuitive.”

You leaned on the fence, eyes twinkling. “Maybe they sense the unresolved romantic tension.”

Spencer spun. “What tension?!”

“You tell me, sugar.”

The goat behind him bleated.

And pooped.

Obstacle Three: Wheelbarrow Sprint

You flopped into the rusted metal wheelbarrow with a dramatic sigh, adjusting your bandana and resting your boots on the edge like royalty.

Spencer gripped the handles with a weary look. “Is this revenge for the goats?”

You popped a marshmallow in your mouth from your pocket stash. “Nope. This is character development.”

He lifted the handles—and immediately struggled. “Okay. Wow. Either this thing’s made of concrete or you’ve been secretly lifting hay bales for sport.”

“Shut up and push, cowboy.”

The track was a bumpy, uneven loop around the barn. Spencer sprinted, dodging rocks and tufts of grass. You cheered like a pageant queen on a parade float.

“You’re doin’ great, sweetheart! Real strong—real capable—just don’t hit that—”

He hit a rock.

The wheelbarrow veered sharply, nearly launching you into the grass.

“WE’RE GOOD!” he yelled, correcting course. “WE’RE FINE!”

You were doubled over with laughter, one hand braced on the rim. “My spine disagrees!”

As they rounded the final turn, Spencer lost steam. He wheezed. “Why did no one tell me this was a leg day episode?!”

Shayne called from the sidelines, “Love makes you stronger, bro!”

Damien added, “Or just sweaty and confused!”

As Spencer crossed the finish line and dropped the handles, you tumbled out onto the grass with a dramatic roll.

“10 outta 10 dismount,” Courtney announced.

“I’m seeing spots,” Spencer panted.

“Those are just fireflies,” you whispered, lying beside him. “You didn’t die.”

“...Emotionally, I did.”

Obstacle Four: Romantic Declaration

Now it was time for the final piece—the dramatic confession.

Spencer stood in the middle of the field, sweaty, dirt-streaked, possibly concussed by love. The entire cast formed a semi-circle behind you, phones out, ready to document everything.

You crossed your arms, eyebrows raised. “Alright, cowboy. Final step. Woo me. Loudly.”

Spencer stared at you for a long moment.

The group held its collective breath.

Then, Spencer took a step forward, raised his arms to the sky, and bellowed:

“IF THIS WEEK HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT’S THAT I’D CHASE GOATS, WHEELBARROW A GODDESS, AND EAT RAW GLITTER IF IT MEANT YOU’D KEEP CALLING ME DARLIN’!”

Silence.

Then uproar.

Damien screamed. Amanda actually fell over. Angela wheezed. Even Clementine let out a single unimpressed snort like she couldn’t believe the audacity.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Then tipped your hat low, smirking. “You passed.”

Spencer blinked. “What does that mean?!”

Ian blew the whistle. “TIME! They win!”

Spencer stared up at the sky, dramatically collapsing into the dirt. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, shadows dancing across your face. “I’ll make sure it’s a good one, sugar.”

And just like that, he was done for.

The chaos of the day had finally dimmed.

The crew had scattered across the bunkhouse, the barn, and wherever they’d passed out in exhaustion. Someone’s leftover s’more sat half-melted on a paper plate, and Carl had (mercifully) gone quiet for the night.

The fire pit still glowed faintly, low embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the grass.

You stepped out of the bunkhouse, hoodie thrown over your top, holding a mason jar of lemonade. The air was thick with summer, soft and humming with crickets.

Spencer was already out there—lying flat on his back in the grass a few feet from the fire, arms folded behind his head, gaze fixed skyward. His glasses were perched slightly crooked on his nose, and his shirt still had a smudge of dirt across the sleeve.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just padded over and dropped into the grass beside him, close enough for your knees to brush.

He glanced over and smiled. It wasn’t his usual sarcastic grin or chaotic one-liner expression. Just… tired. Soft. Warm.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey, yourself.”

You both looked up at the stars—dozens of them, bright and wild in a way they never were in the city. The Milky Way stretched overhead, glowing faintly like some spilled-glitter accident across the sky.

Spencer let out a breath. “I forgot how many stars there are out here. I’m used to like, six. Maybe one bold planet.”

You smiled, tracing a constellation with your finger. “Out here, you’ve got the whole galaxy if you want it.”

A pause.

Then he added, voice quieter: “Can’t lie. I’m still emotionally recovering from that goat herding. That was... humbling.”

“Carl’s a menace,” you said, tone affectionate.

Spencer chuckled. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. There were... memes. So many memes.”

You tilted your head toward him, resting on your elbow. “You did good today. All things considered.”

“Even when I yelled my feelings in a field?”

“Especially then.”

He didn’t reply for a second, just blinked up at the stars.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was gonna say something earlier. After the race. When you asked me to ‘woo’ you.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“I panicked.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

The night wrapped around you both like a soft quilt, warm and slow. Spencer sat up slightly, bracing on one elbow to face you.

I think you’re incredible,” he said simply. “Funny. Cool under pressure. Completely terrifying with a rope. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing around you.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“But every time you say ‘darlin’,’ I forget what my own name is.”

You let out a soft laugh, blinking down at your jar of lemonade. “You don’t gotta flirt with me under starlight like we’re in a country song, Spence.”

“Not flirting,” he said. “I mean, yes, I am, but… I also mean it.”

The quiet buzzed a little louder now, closer to your heartbeat than the crickets.

You looked back at him. “You don’t always have to be charming, y’know.”

He smiled. “Then I’m in trouble. That’s most of my skill set.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t look away. “But you like it.”

“…Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

And for a moment, neither of you needed to say anything else.

The stars above blinked on, steady and wide. Somewhere inside, the crew snored, laughed in their sleep, or muttered about goats.

But out there, under a sky too big to hold all the feelings starting to crack open between you—

You and Spencer just sat, and existed, and felt.

Together.

The next morning broke with golden sunlight, damp grass, and the uneasy quiet that only meant one thing on this farm: chaos was coming.

Spencer had just finished sipping from his emergency Kickstart when Ian appeared out of nowhere, breaking the stillness of a morning that smelled like dewy grass and distant livestock. Somewhere behind the barn, a cow mooed lazily, and a chorus of birds chirped from the treetops, blending into the soft rustle of wind through the fields. megaphone in hand.

“GOOD MORNING, PARTNERS!” Ian shouted with too much energy for 8:02 a.m. “It’s time for your FINAL Summer Games challenge: The Great Eggscape!”

You raised a brow. “This gonna involve actual chickens or just, like, metaphorical ones?” Worried about putting the hens in any stressful environment.

“Both,” Ian beamed. “We cleared it with your dad. Here’s how it works: each team must collect five eggs scattered around the chicken yard and return them to the basket at the fence. Fastest time wins.”

Spencer frowned. “That sounds… suspiciously simple.”

Courtney stepped up with a clipboard. “Forgot to mention—Carl’s guarding the eggs.”

Spencer froze. “Carl? Carl the rooster?”

From the shadows, a single ba-kawk rang out. Sinister. Personal.

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID, AGNEW,” Courtney added in a low growl. “Ever since that time you accidentally knocked over his feed bucket during the rehearsal shoot, he’s had it out for you.”

The chicken yard had been turned into a mini obstacle course—scattered hay, tiny wooden bridges, fake cacti for aesthetic, and at least two dozen plastic and real eggs hidden around the space. But standing dead center like a feathery war general…

Carl.

Tail puffed. Wings out. Eyes locked on Spencer like he owed him money.

You clapped Spencer on the shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Guess you’re up first.”

He looked at you, horrified. “This is how I die.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “This is how you win my heart.”

“Same difference.”

He stepped into the chicken yard like it was a minefield.

The timer started. The cast counted down. “3… 2… 1—GO!”

Spencer sprinted, ducking under a string of bunting and snatching the first two eggs with surprising agility.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is fine. No poultry problems. Just eggs. Just—”

BA-KAWK!

Carl swooped in from the left like a dive-bombing missile.

“AHHHHH!” Spencer shrieked, dropping an egg as he dodged the bird.

The cast howled.

“HE’S BACK FOR BLOOD!” yelled Damien, from atop the fence.

Carl flapped his wings dramatically and gave chase. Spencer ran a zig-zag pattern through the hay bales, yelling, “I DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR HENS!”

You were doubled over laughing, holding your basket.

“Spence!” you called. “Over here—two more!”

He dove behind a coop, grabbed the eggs—and then Carl launched from the roof like a villain in a Fast & Furious movie.

Spencer flailed, landed hard in a pile of feathers, and emerged with one cracked egg and grass in his hair.

“I want it known,” he gasped, sprinting toward you, “that I have fought literal chickens for your honor!”

You held the basket out. He dumped the eggs in and collapsed at your feet.

Shayne and Courtney approached the pen like trained spies. Carl ignored them completely.

Ian and Anthony made it halfway before Anthony tripped and invented new curse words.

Amanda and Arasha worked silently, efficiently, and somehow found all their eggs without being attacked once.

Spencer, still on the ground, muttered, “Why me?”

You smirked. “He only attacks threats.”

“…I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

Courtney checked the stopwatch. “Despite being mauled by poultry… Spencer won by five seconds!”

Everyone clapped. Someone started chanting “CARL! CARL! CARL!”

You dropped the basket on the haystack and turned to Spencer, dusting feathers off his shoulder. “You alright, cowboy?”

“Mentally? No. Physically? Still feeling egg yolk in places I didn’t know existed.”

You grinned. “You really did all that for me?”

Spencer stood up straighter. “I’d do it again. Probably cry a little harder, though.”

You stepped in close. “Well, lucky for you… you don’t have to.”

Before he could respond, you kissed him.

His breath caught mid-thought, every word he might’ve said instantly forgotten. For a second, all the chaos faded—the goat bleats, the chants, even Carl’s indignant squawk in the background. Spencer’s mind, usually a nonstop parade of sarcasm and overthinking, just… quieted.

It was soft, a little messy thanks to the feathers still stuck to his shirt, but it was real. And in that barnyard, with hay underfoot and your hand resting lightly on his chest, he felt like the whole week had led to this exact ridiculous, perfect moment.

When you pulled away, Spencer’s heart was doing something suspiciously dramatic in his chest. His glasses were slightly crooked, but his grin was straight out of a romance novel.

He blinked. "Okay. That definitely counts as a win."

Right there in the barnyard, surrounded by cheers, goat bleats, and the faint squawk of a very offended rooster—you kissed him.

And Spencer melted into it, feathers and all.

When you pulled back, he was grinning like a fool. “Worth it?”

You winked. “Every cluckin’ second.”

[sugardollcurse]

IF YOU FEEL SO INCLINED....may i request some maaaajor pining angst with a happy ending? the reader is in the band & has obvious chem with one of the boys who is head over heels but the reader feels they have to rebuff him cause they don't wanna fuck up the band, especially so early on in their career. they say something about "in five years time, tell me again, we'll either be dead in the water or so famous it won't matter who we're dating" thinking that he'll forget about it and move on (even if this kills the reader internally) but HE DOESN'T FORGET!!! EVEN IF THE READER DOES/HE THINKS THE READER DOES!!!

i personally think paul is the one to put himself through the most hell but whichever bug of your choice :-3 could be fun with any of them !

𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 contains ; career anxiety

𐙚 summary ; you told him “in five years’ time, ask me again.” now it’s 1964. and paul never forgot.

𐙚 note ; UM YES i will be eating this one up thank u ♡ exactly what i live for ... def feels very paul.. ough..

Hamburg, 1959.

Cold, smoky, and loud.

The flat smells like beer and socks and the ghost of a dozen cigarettes, half-burned and stubbed out in stolen ashtrays. Music drifts in from somewhere down the corridor, someone with more fingers than talent hammering something and laughing at themselves between wrong chords.

There are too many people and not enough beds. Too many dreams and not enough walls to keep them from echoing.

Paul’s laughing again. You can’t help looking at him when he does.

His shirt collar’s open, damp with sweat from the stage and the beer and the chaos, hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes shine like they’ve never been hurt properly, not yet. Not really. Not in a way that changed him.

You’re across from him at the wobbly table that used to be a door, tuning your guitar by instinct. The flat’s too dim to see the pegs properly, but you don’t need to. You could do this in your sleep. Some nights, you do.

You’ve got that thing between you. That thing.

Tension like a taut string, like you’re both waiting to see who plucks it first.

He looks at you like you’re something celestial, but he’s nine pints in and full of sugar and stupid optimism and he’ll probably fall in love ten more times before the band goes anywhere.

Paul rests his elbow on the table, leans in. His beer sloshes slightly but he doesn’t care. He says your name slow, like it just occurred to him how good it feels in his mouth. Like it’s a new word he’s trying to get used to.

You glance at him.

His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed. He’s looking at you like you’re a chord progression he just figured out. And you know what’s coming. You’ve seen it building for weeks, months, every time he slung an arm around your shoulders after a gig, every time he passed you a pick with a wink, every time he called you “love’” in that half-mocking, half-hopeful voice he uses when he wants something but isn’t sure he’s allowed to want it yet.

And for a second, just a second, you think about kissing him.

Just to get it over with. Just to say you did.

But then your fingers move. G string. A half-turn.

And you say, “Don’t.”

Paul freezes. “What?”

You take a breath. “Don’t go sweet on me, McCartney.”

He frowns, but there’s a smile beneath it. “What makes you think I’m going sweet?”

You shrug one shoulder. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“That one. Like I just said something poetic and you’re gonna put it in a song.”

Paul laughs. It’s startled, a little defensive. “You’re full of yourself.”

“Mm,” you say, nudging the B string. “And you’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk.”

“Nine pints, Paul.”

He grins. “But you counted.”

“I was worried about your liver.”

He leans further in, all charm and mischief and barely-contained interest. “You like me worried.”

“You like me careful.”

Paul tilts his head. “That’s not true.”

You nod, still tuning. “It is. You like that I say no sometimes.”

He huffs. “What makes you think I’m askin’?”

“You’re not,” you agree. “But you will.”

That knocks something sideways in him. You see it, just a flicker behind the eyes. He’s quiet for a moment. The music down the hall goes sharp, someone yelling, laughter peeling over it.

Then, softly, “You don’t think we’d be good?”

You pause. Let that sit.

“I think we’d be great,” you say, looking up at last. “And I think it’d be a disaster.”

His face doesn’t fall exactly. It just stills. Like someone hit pause.

“You think it’d ruin the band.”

You don’t answer that. He already knows.

Instead, you look at him properly now, take him in. The open shirt, the shine of sweat on his collarbone, the way he’s still holding his beer like he forgot it was there. His fingers are smudged with ink from earlier, from a lyric you know he started for you and won’t admit.

You say, “In five years, if we’re still alive. If we’ve made it. If it wouldn’t be the death of the band... ask me again.”

Paul doesn’t move.

He’s watching you like you just said something sacred.

Then he says, “Alright.”

And you think he’ll forget.

You hope he’ll forget.

⸻

He doesn’t.

He never even tries to.

1960. He doesn’t say anything when you’re both stranded in that rehearsal room at midnight, but he watches you for so long it becomes unbearable.

1961. He doesn’t mention it when he sees you get chatted up by someone in Liverpool, but he frowns into his drink and doesn’t laugh for the rest of the night.

1962. He gets close. There’s a party, and you’re both tipsy, and you’re smiling in that sleepy way you do when you trust someone completely. Paul touches your wrist and whispers your name like he might say it, but he doesn’t.

You think he’s over it. That maybe he’s just sweet and kind to everyone and you were never that special. That he never really meant it. You bury the thought.

But Paul’s never been one to un-mean something.

⸻

1963. The band is big now.

You’re on TV, in papers, on billboards. You’re a Beatle, even if that title makes you want to laugh a little when you’re brushing your teeth in a too-small hotel mirror.

And Paul,

God, Paul is still looking at you like you hung the moon.

You’ve tried to convince yourself it’s just who he is. He flirts. He glows. He gives smiles to strangers that feel like they’re meant for lovers.

But he never gives them all of it. Not like he does with you.

And it’s worse now. Because you’ve both grown up. You’ve seen each other sweat and cry and argue and shine. You’ve written lyrics together in silence and in joy and in grief. You’ve shared stages, cigarettes, headaches, hotel beds. It’s different now.

Five years. Five years.

⸻

1964.

You’ve stopped counting. The miles. The cities. The hours of sleep lost to train whistles and green room walls and dressing rooms that all smell like damp velvet and lemon-scented hairspray.

You’ve stopped counting the interviews and the screaming and the headlines that keep spelling your name wrong. Stopped counting the way your hands shake a little less every time you step on stage, and the way they shake more every time he looks at you like that.

But he hasn’t stopped.

He never did.

You’re backstage at the Ed Sullivan Show. Of all places. The walls hum with a kind of panic joy, every corridor thick with crew and noise and that strange, metallic smell of old wires and newer nerves. The lads are scattered. John muttering about some joke no one gets, George quietly fixing his collar in a mirror with a shake of the head, Ringo tapping out an anxious beat on the arm of a couch.

You’re pacing.

Not far. Just back and forth near the corridor where it’s marginally quieter. The lights are bright even here, everything overexposed and unreal. You tug at your sleeves, breathing shallow.

You almost don’t hear him come up behind you.

“You alright?”

You turn. It’s Paul.

He’s in his suit, hair too neat from the makeup girl’s last attack, but his eyes are warm. Grounding. Your little constant in the chaos. The one thing you can always look for when the world tips sideways.

“Yeah,” you say, voice lighter than you feel. “Just jitters.”

He nods, like he gets it. And he does, that’s the problem. He always has.

But he doesn’t leave.

He stands there, hands in his pockets, rocking a little on his heels like he’s trying to stay casual. He’s not looking at you, not directly. Just somewhere near your shoulder. You wait.

There’s a pause. Then:

“Y’know what day it is?” he asks.

You frown. “Sunday?”

Paul huffs out a little laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he says, softer now. “It’s been five years.”

You freeze.

Your stomach swoops like a chord dropped off-key. For a second you think you’ve misheard him. That you’re hallucinating from adrenaline and nerves and too little food and too much history.

Your throat goes dry. “What?”

He shifts a little closer. Still not quite touching, but his presence is louder now. More there.

“Five years ago, in Hamburg. You said if we were still here… if the band made it, I should ask you again.”

You stare at him.

That memory had gone hard in your chest like amber. Like something fossilized on purpose. Wrapped up in smoke and sleeplessness and beer-stained guitar strings and that look on his face when he’d leaned in, all glowing and soft and twenty.

“You remembered that?”

He shrugs. But his voice is thick. “Never forgot it.”

You laugh. but it’s not really a laugh. More like a shake of disbelief.

“Paul-” you start, and stop.

Because what can you say?

You’re on the edge of a moment you didn’t let yourself believe would come. And now that it’s here, it’s like you’re scared of shattering it just by breathing too hard.

He takes a breath of his own. Shuffles forward a fraction.

“I know you thought I would. Forget,” he says. “But I’ve always meant it, really.”

He’s got that look again. The one you swore you wouldn’t fall for. The one that’s full of all the things he never learned to say out loud. The one that used to knock you off balance in grimy flats and now just twists in your gut like homesickness.

You don’t say anything.

So he continues, quieter. “I never wanted to risk the band, either. But it’s me, alright? It’s always been me. I’ve loved you since you threw a pint at Stuart for calling me pretty.”

Your mouth twitches, despite everything. “He was being annoying.”

Paul grins, quick and fond and stupidly bright. “He was. But you missed. Hit George instead.”

“George had it coming.”

Paul snorts, and for a second everything is easy again. Everything is just you and him and the space in between, the unspoken blooming like jasmine in the dark.

You look at him then.

Really look.

The curve of his mouth. The soft dark at his lashes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to get.

You’d know this face blind. You’ve mapped every twitch of it over years, onstage, offstage, in hotel rooms and under stage lights and across late-night buses when everyone else was asleep and he was still humming into the dark.

Your voice cracks. “I didn’t forget either.”

Something shifts in his gaze.

You say, “I just didn’t think it’d ever be safe to remember.”

Paul’s eyes snap to yours. Something shifts behind them, like the earth moved and he felt it in his ribs.

And that’s when he pulls you in.

No performance. No big declarations. Just quiet, warm arms around your shoulders, his face tucked close to yours, breath fanning your cheek. He smells like powder and cologne and the edge of nerves, and you melt into it like you were waiting.

His chest is solid against yours. Heartbeat steady.

He holds you like someone who’s been dreaming about doing this for years.

You stay there.

Longer than you should, maybe, but no one calls you out. The noise of the set is far away now. All that matters is his hand on your back.

Then a voice echoes down the corridor, panicked, urgent.

“We’re on in five!”

Paul pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are warm, but his voice goes soft, almost teasing.

“Can I kiss you now, or should we wait another five years?”

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[lucydixon]

Neighbours pt 4

Euro Masterlist 𐴱 Lords of Chaos Masterlist 𐴱 Rory Culkin Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog A/N: This is part four of my Neighbours miniseries PARTS: 1 𐴱 2 𐴱 3 𐴱 4 𐴱 5 𐴱 6 Series Masterlist

Summary: You decide that you're going to play into Euro's jealousy after he marked you up unexpectedly, then make him use his words when he comes to confront you. (DW people, We're back with the smut)

Warning: NSFW, Unprotected P in V, No foreplay, Rough fucking, Taunting, Dirty talk.

After rubbing ice cubes over your bruised neck for an hour, hoping that it would somehow rid you of the hickey Euronymous had left on your neck, you gave up and flopped onto the couch, sighing in frustration.

You had no fucking idea what you wanted. Not sure if you were feeling something beyond physical attraction, or if the sex was just good. You figured that you didn’t know enough about him for feelings to be a factor. You hadn’t even known his real name until now. 

The two of you hadn’t had any proper conversations beyond screaming at eachother or arguing in front of the store. 

And yet, he was jealous. 

He was jealous, and you liked it despite your best efforts to pretend you didn’t. 

Your immediate thought was to find a way to keep making him jealous until he did something about it.

It was a little petty and childish, but every other time you’d fucked him, or well, to be more acurate, he’d fucked you, had been the result of a petty move. You got eachother all riled up until someone snapped and did something about it. 

Jan was cute, and he’d said he hung out on the stairs all the time. 

You could start smoking your morning cigarette down there. Your temperamental Neighbour was still refraining from pissing on the sidewalk, this time, you were pretty sure it was for good. If you really wanted to, you could really turn on the flirting with Jan. He seemed interested and the type to shamelessly flirt with strangers without getting attached. 

He wouldn’t be collateral. 

You didn’t know him well enough to be sure of it, but at that point, you didn’t have it in you to care. 

You used to be soft and compassionate and never fought with anyone, but three months of living above that pretentious asshole and you were out here using strangers and being vindictive. 

This man was ruining you. 

You got up in the morning and went outside anyway to smoke by the stairs, sure to wear a low-cut top and a tight pair of jeans.

Sure enough, Jan was sitting there, smoking. 

He smirked as soon as he spotted you. 

“Well, well, well.” He looked smug. “You see me out here, and all of a sudden it’s your favorite spot?” 

“They are my stairs.” You rolled your eyes playfully and sat a few steps higher, lighting your cigarette. 

“I think you missed me.” He teased, “Little warm for a scarf, don’t you think?” 

Your fingers brushed against the silk scarf you’d used to hide the dark bruise. 

“I’ve got a sensitive neck.” You nodded solemnly, cracking a smile when he laughed. 

“You’re not gonna pour your coffee on me, are you?” Jan eyed the mug in your hand. Narrowing his eyes at you, unseriously, after a minute of silence. 

“Not unless you start pissing on my sidewalk.” 

“I promise, I won’t.” He held his hands up “I’d never condone wasting coffee.” 

“Do you want some?” You felt the corners of your lips curl into a smile as an idea came to mind. “I’ve got a full pot upstairs.” 

“Are you inviting me into your apartment, mysterious Neighbour girl?” He raised a brow slyly. 

“I’m offering to go inside and bring you out a cup of coffee.” You corrected, chuckling. 

“Yeah,” Jan nodded, smirking. “I’d love some coffee.” 

“Do you want anything in it?” You pulled yourself to your feet, taking one last drag of your cigarette.

You’d barely smoked half of it.  

“A little sugar.” He shrugged, watching your ass while you climbed the stairs and disapeared inside. 

You came back a couple of minutes later and handed him a mug full of hot coffee. 

“Well,” You sighed dramatically, “I’ve got a pile of paperwork to get through, so I’ve gotta go.” 

“What about the mug?” His brows pulled together lightly.

“Oh, just take it in with you.” You waved him off, biting back a smirk as you turned to head back upstairs, “You can give it back in the morning. Same time?” 

“Yeah,” Jan chuckled, gazing down at your cleavage. “Sure thing.” 

He walked back into the store, coffee mug in hand, and a grin stretched across his face. 

“What’s with you?” Faust asked, eyeing him like he was crazy. 

Euronymous looked up at him and narrowed his eyes at the coffee mug in his hand. He hadn’t had it when he’d gone out. 

“I think the girl upstairs is in love with me,” Jan smirked smugly, sipping his coffee. “She made me coffee. Let me keep the cup and everything just so she has an excuse to see me again.” 

His jaw flexed, and his nostrils flared in anger. 

What the fuck were you playing at?

Had he not explicitly told you not to talk to Jan the day before? 

He’d even marked you up. 

And still, this?

He’d been thinking about you all night. 

He didn’t share. It was as simple as that. At least, that’s what he’d tried to himself. 

But if that were truly the case, he’d just forget about you. 

He didn’t want to see you with anyone else. Didn’t even want to see you talking to anyone else. 

It made his blood boil to think that you’d sat out there with Jan doing god knows what. What if you’d flirted with him or agreed to go out with him or something? 

What would he do then?

As much as he hated to admit it, he was jealous. 

He couldn’t outright tell Jan to stay away from you, not without revealing that there was something going on between the two of you. 

It would make him look like a little bitch, and he couldn’t have that. 

“Good morning, Øystein.” You greeted him so casually when he showed up less than an hour later, pounding on your door, that it immediately put him on edge. “Did you need something?” 

He opened, then closed his mouth, unsure what to say. 

Usually, your interactions started with shouting. This was throwing him for a bit of a loop. 

“What are you doing with Jan?” He snapped. “We talked about this.” 

“I just made him coffee.” You shrugged. “And really, you talked about this. Not me.” 

“You’re gonna stop doing that.” 

“Why?” There was a clear challenging look in your eyes as you crossed your arms over your chest calmly. “It’s only coffee. You ruined my favourite place to smoke, so I had to find a new one. Jan just so happens to hang around there.” 

He was very clearly taken aback by you keeping a level head. He almost looked flustered. 

At least he did until his eyes landed on the scarf wrapped around your neck. 

He immediately reached out and pulled it loose, only a little surprised when you just let him. 

Euronymous leaned in to get a better look at it, unable to help the way the corners of his mouth pitched upwards at the sight of the dark purple splotch. 

“It was kinda rude to just do that out of nowhere.” You tried to keep your voice firm, but having him that close to you was very distracting. Your voice wavered towards the end. 

“Asshole.” You breathed shakily when he pulled back and straightened, staring down at you. 

“No more scarves,” he muttered, holding your stare. 

“Oh,” You scoffed, suddenly annoyed “Go fuck yourself. I’m not going to stand here and let you order me around. You don’t get to choose what I wear or who I talk to.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.” You jabbed a finger into his chest angrily “What the fuck do you want from me?” 

You barely had time to let out a gasp before you were being shoved inside your apartment and thrown against the back of the door. His lips were on yours, and you had to push him away from you. 

“Absolutely not.” You spat.  “Fuck you! Use your words or get the fuck out.” 

You were sick of thinking about it and not having any answers. You were confused and tired and that fucking hickey had made things worse. He didn’t get to slam you against the door, fuck you, then leave without a word. You weren’t going to allow it. 

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” He barked after a minute, a little shocked that you’d pushed him away. Were you as confused about what was going on between the two of you as he was? 

“Tell me you’re jealous.” You urged “Just fucking admit it!” 

“I’m not.” Euronymous didn’t even believe himself when he heard the words coming out of his mouth. “I just don’t want you fucking my friends.” 

“You don’t want me fucking anyone, so let’s try that again.” you corrected, keeping your distance so he couldn’t get you all hot and bothered again. “You want me to not fuck other people. You’re gonna have to ask me, not tell me.” 

“That’s not really how this works.” He shook his head, scowling. 

“It wasn’t.” You shrugged “But then you went and bruised the fuck out of my neck because you couldn’t just use your words. That shit hurt you know? It still hurts.” 

“So what?” Euronumous scoffed, “You want me to apologize or something?” 

“No,” You groaned, “You know what? Just fuck off! I’m gonna fuck Jan if I want to, you can get fucked.” 

“Don’t do that.” he said immediately, fists clenched at his sides “Don’t fuck Jan.” 

“Don’t fuck anyone.” 

He wasn’t really asking you, but he wasn’t necessarily telling you either. It was definitely less aggressive than it had been the first time, and it looked like he’d struggled to get the words out, but he’d at least tried. 

The bar really was on the floor. 

“Okay.” You nodded, “I won’t. Are you gonna fuck other people?” 

“No.” His voice was low, deep, and harsh in the quiet apartment. 

“There we go.” You cracked a little smug smile. “Was that so hard?” 

“You know I’m not your boyfriend. Right?” He muttered, slinking over to you, resting one hand above your head against the wooden door, pinning you in place. 

“Yeah,” You scoffed. “I know.” 

“I’m not gonna hold your hand or take you out for ice cream or anything.” 

“Good.” You tilted your head back slightly, only inches away from his lips. “I’m not interested in being your girlfriend.” 

“I’m only here to fuck you.” 

“Great.” 

You could tell that he was trying to get a rise out of you and was quickly growing frustrated when you didn’t take the bait.

“I still don’t like you.” 

“Sure,” You slung your arms over his shoulders, smiling mischievously. “You’re real tough and evil. Now, why don’t you toss me around a little?” 

He told himself that he’d slammed his lips into yours to shut you up, but that little voice in the back of his head was eating up your little teasing. 

You gasped into his mouth when his fingers hooked into your belt loops and pulled you flush against him. 

You could feel his bulge, hard and insistent, pressing into your stomach, and felt your panties dampen. He grabbed the bottom of your shirt, and you let him pull it over your head, locking eyes with him in the process. 

He looked softer in a way, but you still felt like prey being stalked.

Euronymous shrugged off his own shirt, only breaking your stare while he was pulling it over his head, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and lifting you off the ground. 

Your hands grabbed his shoulders, eyes slightly widened in surprise as he pinned you between the wall and his body. 

Your lips collided, and while it was still hungry and rough, it wasn’t quite as cold as every kiss before it. Something was different. The way his lips moved against yours and yours against his. There was some sort of understanding.

It certainly wasn’t sweet. It was more needy and desperate, hard and soft all at once, while your teeth crashed against one another and you swallowed one another's breathy sounds. 

“Where’s your bed?” He growled into your mouth, hands kneading your ass roughly. 

“Second door on the left,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around him before he could push off the wall and stagger down the hallway, still kissing you. 

Your bedroom door slammed open, and you were promptly dropped onto your mattress. 

You couldn’t help but laugh when you bounced. 

“You’re gonna fuck me in the bed?” You asked, looking up at him with a raised brow while he stood at the foot of your bed, gazing down at you hungrily as he undid his belt. “How romantic.” 

“Take your pants off.” He told you, keeping his expression as neutral as he could. 

“Yes, sir.” you winked, knowing it would piss him off. 

Halfway through getting out of your jeans, you felt hands around your hips and yelped when you were flipped over onto your stomach and dragged to the end of your bed. 

Euronymous ripped your pants the rest of the way off and hoisted you up to your knees before slamming his cock all the way into you with no warning whatsoever. 

You cried out, grabbing handfuls of the sheets while tears pricked at the back of your eyes. 

Luckily, you were wet enough just from the kissing not to tear or actually get hurt, but it still took the breath out of you to be filled that abruptly. 

“Not so funny now, is it?” He grunted, pulling out halfway and ramming himself into your cervix just as hard as the first time. “Shit, you’re so tight.” 

He could feel your cunt spasming around him, trying to accomodate his size. Your walls were gripping him so tightly that it almost hurt. 

You weren't even making any noises, you couldn’t. Your face was buried in the mattress, choking back sobs as you felt the abuse he was inflicting on your insides. 

You didn’t want him to stop either. 

After a few brutal thrusts, he took pity on you and reached around to work your clit. 

Slowly, you started to respond, hips backing back to meet his thrusts while muffled cries fell from your lips. 

You felt his palm on your ass and groaned, rolling your hips into him. 

Euronymous hissed at the feeling and grabbed a fistful of your hair with one hand while the other wrapped around your throat, pulling you back until you were pressed against his chest, practically in his lap. 

You could feel him squeezing the sides of your windpipe and restricting your airflow slightly. He didn’t block it completely, just enough to make your eyes roll back inside your head. 

He was panting into your ear, rutting into you while you writhed in his arms, gasping for breath. 

When he thought you’d had enough, he let go of your throat and groped your tits roughly, pulling you down onto his length with every thrust. 

“Fuck,” He groaned, nipping the skin at the nape of your neck “Wanna be tossed around, huh? You little whore?” 

You nodded, unable to help the low moan that fell from your lips. 

“Think you deserve to get what you want after pulling that shit with Jan?” He asked, practically snarling when he pulled out of you suddenly. 

You whined loudly, falling forward on the bed. 

Euronymous landed next to you, lying on his back, and guided your tired limbs until you were straddling him. 

“If you want to cum, you’re gonna have to do all the work sweetheart.” He muttered, looking up at you expectantly.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, but they fluttered shut when you lowered yourself down onto him, impaling yourself with his cock. 

It went in so much deeper at this angle. 

You gasped, not having expected the amount of pressure. 

You thought he might let his hips buck into you from below, but he just laid there, looking very pleased with himself. 

“Go on,” He urged, smirking. 

Initially, you thought you could tease him enough that he’d throw you down and take over. You rocked your hips and bounced on him painfully slowly, but he just let you, letting out the occasional groan. He was watching you intently, looking increasingly amused as you slowly folded, giving in to the humiliation of your desperation. 

“That’s it,” He hummed, hands resting loosely on your hips. “Give in, baby. You know you want to. Make yourself cum all over my cock.” 

Finally, you gave up altogether and let your fingers drop between your thighs, rubbing circles into your clit in time with the brutal movements of your hips. They rocked and bounced and ground themselves down so far on his cock that it hurt, but you didn’t care. 

You were very quickly working your way up to your peak. 

“Come on,” He grunted, really struggling now not to fuck into you from below. “Cum for me, you little slut, get yourself off.” 

His name was falling from your lips like a prayer, its pitch increasing in time with the speed until you came crashing over the edge, hands bracing themselves against his chest while you clamped down around him. Crying out so loud that Euronymous wondered if Jan could hear you from downstairs. 

The thought brought a smirk to his face. 

Before you even knew what was happening, Euronymous had rolled over, keeping himself buried inside of you, and was fucking you into the matress. 

“Scream for me.” His breath came out in pants. “I want everyone downstairs to hear you.” 

He was close, way too close. 

You cried out, but not loud enough, so he tweaked your nipple roughly. 

That did the trick. 

You screamed your throat hoarse, convulsing beneath him, unexpectedly dragged over the edge once again. 

“Fuck.” Euronymous muttered into the side of your neck, fighting his own orgasm, “You’re mine.” 

“Do you hear me?” He said louder, “Mine!” 

His thrusting got sloppier as you felt ropes of warm cum painting your walls white. 

You hadn’t expected him to keep you clutched tightly to his chest when he finally stopped, but he did. 

He wasn’t sure why, but he laid there with you and held you while you both caught your breath and only then did he pull his softening cock out of your spent hole and wordlessly start getting dressed. 

You let him go, staring at the door when it slammed shut behind him, and let your head fall back to stare up at the ceiling. 

What the actual fuck was that?

Part 5

Dividers and Banners by me on my side-blog @dividers-are-us GIF credit to @sweet-dr3amer

[riaa-moony]

The day everything changed - J. miller (1)

series masterlist

(part one), part two, part three, part four, part five, part six

i’m planning on making this a series that follows the show some, the game some, and some scenes will be from my imagination. everyone is aged down (joel 27, reader 24), sarah doesn’t die.

warning canon violence towards the end, mentions of blood, guns, they get handsy, my first time writing for joel, but i couldn’t find this anywhere so we gotta do what we gotta do. joel is a bit whipped. english isn’t my first language.

pairing joel miller x f!reader

September 26th, 2003

The Texas sun poured in through the sheer white curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the hardwood floor. Morning was just beginning to stir, and the house smelled faintly of vanilla and fresh flowers. A fan hummed softly in the corner, and a small toy truck rolled lazily on its side near the foot of the couch, evidence of toddler play the night before.

Joel stirred beneath the sheets, his bare arm reaching out across the bed instinctively, searching for warmth. His hand landed on soft cotton instead of skin, the bed beside him empty. He cracked one eye open.

There was a soft sound from down the hall. A hushed giggle, followed by the clink of something metallic, then a whisper. Two voices, tiny and mischievous.

Joel smiled. “Already up to somethin’,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

He sat up slowly, his dark curls tousled and sticking up in every direction. The clock read 7:08 AM. On any other day, he might’ve groaned about not sleeping in, but today was different. And apparently his girls had plans.

In the kitchen, chaos had already unfolded in the most charming way possible.

Flour dusted the countertops. A pink mixing bowl was half-filled with a lumpy batter, and 3-year-old Amara was seated on the counter in her pajamas — the Minnie Mouse ones Tommy had gotten her on her birthday two weeks ago — wielding a plastic spoon like a weapon. She had batter in her hair, on her nose, and somehow, on her toes.

Sarah was reading instructions off the back of a cake mix box with serious determination. “mommy, it says we’re supposed to use three eggs. You only used two.”

Y/N, dressed in Joel’s oversized flannel and a pair of black shorts, looked up from cracking the final egg with a smirk. “One was a tester egg. It didn’t survive. We’re improvising.”

Sarah groaned like she was sixty, not nine. “Dad’s gonna notice if it tastes weird.”

“Oh, you mean like the time you tried to make lemonade with salt instead of sugar?” Y/N teased.

Sarah gasped, scandalized. “It was one time!”

“And we still drank it,” Y/N laughed, sticking out her tongue. “Because we love you. Your dad will survive if humpty dumpty wasn’t put together again.”

Amara clapped her batter-covered hands and shouted, “we make cake!”

Y/N turned to her and planted a soft kiss on her chubby cheek, wiping the batter from her nose. “Yes, sweet pea. Daddy’s birthday cake.”

Joel padded softly down the stairs and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His brown eyes swept over the scene. Flour footprints on the tile, no doubt from his toddler before his wife had to put her on the counter to avoid more mess, Sarah arguing with a box, and Amara cross-eyed and licking the spoon like it was made of chocolate gold.

And despite everything, his heart swelled. He had never imagined himself here. A father again — a husband. A job he hated, a body that already ached in the mornings, and a kitchen that looked like a pastry bomb had gone off in.

But this? This was everything.

“Y’all gonna make me clean this up?” he drawled, voice scratchy and amused.

Sarah jumped. “Daddy!”

Y/N turned around, and her smile hit him like a warm breeze. “Morning, birthday boy.”

Amara shrieked with delight and held out the spoon. “Daaaddyyy! Cake!”

Joel walked over, lifted her off the counter with one arm and kissed her cheek. “That so? Y’all makin’ me a cake?”

“With…uh…” Sarah glanced down. “Two eggs instead of three.”

“And possible eggshells.” Y/N added.

He laughed. “Well, hell, long as it’s got sugar.”

“More than enough,” Y/N smiled, licking batter off her finger.

Joel glanced at her, his eyes briefly dipping to the way his flannel slid off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and the curve of her neck. Heat stirred somewhere in his chest. She caught the look and raised a brow.

He smirked at her, kissing her cheek.

“The kids will be spending the night at Tommy’s tomorrow. He wants to take them roller skating. I already prepared their bags, but he’s picking them up at eight.” Y/N said, licking batter off the wooden spoon in her hand.

By late morning, the cake was out of the oven, and the living room was a minefield of wrapping paper and hand-drawn birthday cards.

Joel sat on the couch with Amara curled in his lap, her curls pressed against his chest as she fiddled with his wedding ring. Sarah sat beside them, proudly handing him a box wrapped in gift paper.

He peeled it back to reveal a brand-new watch.

His eyebrows shot up. “Sarah…”

She bit her lip, suddenly shy. “It’s from all of us. I saved up. And… Mama helped a little.”

Joel stared at the watch. A black leather band, silver trim. Classic. Beautiful.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said quietly, voice thick.

Sarah smiled. “I wanted to. You always say you’re late for everything. Now you won’t be.”

He reached over and pulled her into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thanks, baby girl.”

In the afternoon, the family curled up together on the couch with the sounds of cartoons on in the background, the half-eaten cake still on the table, and the house quiet. Joel leaned back with Y/N tucked into his side, his arm draped over her shoulder.

“This was perfect,” he murmured, picking her lips softly. “You made it perfect.”

Y/N shifted in Joel’s lap, her thighs pressing against the sides of his hips. He held her like he always did, strong but gentle, like she was something solid in a world that didn’t offer much to hold onto. “The kids’re asleep. And the day’s not over yet.”

Joel glanced down the hallway where Sarah’s door was cracked open and Amara’s tiny nightlight glowed beneath it.

“You know,” she murmured, brushing her nose against his, “for a man who claims he doesn’t like birthdays, you sure looked happy with that cake.”

Joel chuckled, low in his chest. “You saw how Amara sang ‘Happy Birthday’ like it was a war cry. How’m I supposed to fight that?”

Y/N smiled. “You’re not. That’s the point.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing his thumb across her cheek. The sun casts a soft light on her face, tracing every line he’d memorized over years of stolen mornings and long nights. He let his hand slide down to her jaw, cradling it as if she might slip away if he let go.

“You still look at me like I’m the same dumb twenty-three-year-old you married.”

Y/N tilted her head, smirking. “You still are.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

“I’m serious,” she snorted, tapping his chest with one finger. “You’re a bit older, sure. And you pretend to hate birthdays now, like some grumpy lunatic, but underneath all that gruff… you’re the same man who used to sneak into the kitchen to steal frosting off the cake before it was fully done.”

“I was testing it.”

“Sure you were.”

Joel leaned in again, pressing his mouth to hers, slower this time, deeper. His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, fingers resting against warm skin, tracing the familiar dip of her spine. Y/N shivered under his touch, the callouses on his fingers making her let out a moan, one hand fisting gently in the fabric of his T-shirt.

He tugged at it, barely breaking their kiss. “This comes off.”

She laughed against his lips. “Say please.”

Joel gave her a look. “Darlin’, I’ve got my hands full with a smartass wife, a three-year-old with lungs like a fire alarm, and a nine-year-old who thinks she knows more than me. I ain’t beggin’.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “No?”

“I’m askin’ real nice.”

She leaned in until her lips were just a breath from his. “I didn’t hear a question.”

Joel groaned. “Take your shirt off, sweetheart, please,” he said, voice rough with want and affection all tangled up together.

She did. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting the cotton fall somewhere on the rug.

Joel’s hands were on her again, this time sliding over bare skin, memorizing her like he hadn’t already done it a thousand times. His mouth traced a path down her neck, leaving wet kisses in its wake. Y/N leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, her breathing a little uneven now.

“We don’t have long,” she said.

Joel’s smirk was soft. “That a challenge?”

She shook her head. “That’s reality. I just want to feel you before the kids get up.”

That pulled something deeper out of him. His hands cradled her face like she was something sacred.

And then they were moving again. Not frantic, not rushed. Just slow. Intentional. Her back pressed to the couch cushions, Joel covering her with the weight of someone who knew every inch of her body. Worshipping her like she was a goddess and he’s entered her temple. The kind of touch that said I’m still here. I’m still yours.

Their laughter came in whispers, soft chuckles when his stubble tickled her neck, her teasing whisper when he shivered under her fingertips. They knew each other’s breath patterns, each other’s scars, each other’s tells. They moved like a memory. Like a promise being kept.

Later, when they were tangled up beneath a blanket, legs wound together, Y/N rested her head against his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his collarbone.

Joel didn’t speak right away. Just let the silence settle, let the weight of her on him ground him.

“You’re still the best part of my birthday,” he said eventually.

Y/N smiled, soft and sleepy. “Even better than Amara’s glitter card?”

“Don’t make me choose.”

She kissed his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Joel.”

He closed his eyes and wrapped his arm tighter around her.

“Wouldn’t want to spend it any other way.”

The moon was glowing behind a haze of low clouds now. The cake was long eaten, curtesy of Tommy and Amara. The cartoons had faded into a black screen, and in the silence that crept in as the night grew darker, something began to feel…off.

Joel sat on the couch, absently watching his daughters play. Tommy left about an hour ago, something about the headers. Joel didn’t pay much attention, he had the day off. He’ll deal with it tomorrow, but tonight, he’s going to bask in the peace his house created.

Y/N was across the room, curled up under a knitted blanket next to a window, humming a tune while rearranging the flowers she picked from the garden that morning. She heard a commotion coming from the Alders’ house and looked up. The house was barely lit and as she was about to go back to her flowers, she heard a loud bang.

“babe?” she said softly.

He looked up. Her voice had that undertone. Concern, not panic yet, but real. Real enough to put him on edge.

“Something’s going on at the Adlers’.” she said, pointing to the window.

“Could be Mercy,” he said.

“It’s not,” she replied quickly. “Something’s wrong, Joel.”

Before he could answer, a sudden bang at the door made them both freeze.

Joel was on his feet in a flash.

Sarah stood, hair mussed from playing. “What’s going on?”

Y/N turned and crouched in front of her. “Hey, baby. It’s okay. Just stay right here with me, alright?”

Joel opened the door.

It was their neighbor’s dog— Mercy. He was whimpering and shaking.

“What the hell—” Joel stepped outside, the hair on his arms rising. Y/N gave him a look. ‘see?’

“Stay here,” Joel said sharply over his shoulder, grabbing his flashlight and stepping out into the yard.

“Joel—!” Y/N moved to follow, but stopped when she saw the blood on the dog’s fur.

He crossed the street with Mercy, fully intending on returning him, but before he could, the dog let out a whimper and ran away.

That’s when he heard it. Something breaking from inside their house. He made his way inside, picking up a discarded piece of wood along the way. Inside, he found Mr. Adler choking on his own blood, and then— the growl of something not entirely human.

He rounded the corner of the kitchen and froze. The old woman’s mouth was buried in her daughter’s neck, tearing flesh like it was paper. Her eyes rolled back, cords of… something stretching from her lips to her victim. Joel didn’t wait. He ran.

Back across the lawn. Back to his house.

“Y/N! Get the girls. Now!”

She didn’t question it. Just turned and grabbed Sarah’s hand, lifting Amara into her arms. Her heart was racing so fast she couldn’t feel her own footsteps.

Joel burst into the house and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

“What happened?” Y/N gasped, chest heaving, turning to pick up their daughters bags.

“Doesn’t matter. Go.”

They moved like clockwork. A silent, desperate rhythm. He loaded his gun. Y/N packet a bag for her and Joel. Sarah stood frozen for a second until Joel kneeled down beside her.

“Listen to me, baby girl. I need you to be brave right now. You stay close to me and Y/N. You got it?”

Sarah nodded, lip trembling. “Daddy, I’m scared.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Me too. But I got you. Okay?”

Joel took the bags and Sarah’s hand, Amara whimpering from her place in Y/N’s arms, sensing the fear in the room.

Joel opened the door as a car screeched into the driveway. His brother jumped out of the truck, eyes wild.

“We gotta go,” Tommy barked. “Military’s blocking off the city. It’s worse than they’re sayin’.”

They piled into the truck. Y/N in the back with both girls, clutching them tightly. Joel was about to get into the passenger seat when the woman came rushing at them, her clothes drenched in blood.

Joel hit her on the head with the piece of wood making her drop and Y/N gasp. While Tommy made sure she was dead, he looked back at his wife, her eyes teary and full of fear.

“Joel?” A voice said making them whip their heads towards it.

“Denis, get back inside the house! You lock your doors, now!” He shouted, before getting in the truck and driving off.

“you take seventy—”

“seventy-one, i know.” Tommy cuts him off before turning right, police cars driving past with the sirens on.

“Tommy, what—?” Y/N asks.

“I don’t know. They’re saying it’s a virus. Some- some kind of parasite.”

“How do you know we’re not sick?”

“They’re saying it’s mostly people in the city. That’s why they got the highway blocked off.” We drove past a house on fire, “God, it’s Jimmy’s place.” Everyone stared at it until it was out of view.

“But you’d have to go a lot, right, daddy? To the city?” Sarah said quietly.

“We’re fine, baby girl. Trust me.” Joel said making her let out a sigh that would’ve been comical if it weren’t for the chaos around.

After taking the field and having no luck, they head north, going through town.

The streets were chaos. Sirens. People screaming. Car alarms going off. Helicopters flying overhead.

Amara was crying now. Sarah sat beside Y/N, trying not to cry, but her hand was clenched so tightly in Y/N’s sweater she’d probably leave marks in it forever.

“It’s everywhere,” Y/N whispered. “Jesus, Joel…”

Joel pointed. “Go around this way—shit! Go! Go!”

They barely missed hitting a family running from something behind them, a man limping and snarling, his head twitching like it was too heavy for his neck.

Tommy swerved, narrowly avoiding another crash, tires screeching.

“We’re not gonna make it outta the city,” Tommy growled.

“We’re getting outta here,” Joel said, his voice low and dangerous. “We go through.”

Another explosion lit the sky, smoke poured into the air like something out of a movie. They tried going through the road, but it was blocked with people. “Back, back, back, back!” Joel chanted, just to be cut off when a deafening explosion happened. A plane crashed a few feet away. The ground shook. The shockwave hit the truck, flipping it onto its side.

And then, darkness.

Y/N blinked, the sound of sirens and Sarah screaming, jolting her awake.

“Mom! Mommy!”

She couldn’t move her legs. Glass was everywhere. Smoke.

“Joel!” she coughed, voice cracking.

“I’m here!” Joel crawled toward her, blood running down his temple. “I got them. I got you. Come on, baby, come on.”

He helped her out first, then reached in and pulled Sarah through the broken window. She clutched his neck, shaking.

Y/N pulled Amara from the truck, making sure she was alright before hugging her to her chest. She pulled out the bags next, slinging them on her back.

Tommy staggered up, limping, from the other side of the truck.

“We gotta get off the street!” he said. Just then, a police car crashes into the truck, making it impossible for him to crawl to the other side.

“Fuck, Tommy?!” Y/N yelled, followed by Joel. “Tommy?!”

Suddenly, his face appears a small gap between the two cars, “head to the river, i’ll find a way! Get them out of here, Joel. Go!”

Y/N shakes her head at Joe, “we can’t leave him, Joel.”

“He’ll be fine. Can you run?” He asked making Y/N nod.

Joel carried Sarah against his chest. Y/N still had Amara in her arms. And they started running.

Through the streets. Past bodies. Past blood. Past screams.

They ducked behind a storefront, chests heaving.

Gunshots in the distance.

Joel looked at Y/N, his eyes rimmed with tears. “If anything happens to me, you run. You get the girls and you run.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” she hissed, shaking. “You don’t get to leave us. You don’t get to give up.”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not.” He reached out, touching her cheek. “I’m gonna get us out.”

Y/N kissed Joel’s knuckles.

“We survive,” she whispered. “All of us.” He nodded.

They moved again. And behind them, the world burned.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 11 - Floor 2, Unit Hoe

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER >>

You just wanted some peace.

It was a calm, early morning in Eden Heights, sky glowing burnt orange, buildings soaking in gold. The rooftop was almost empty—except you, your oversized hoodie, no bra, and a big red lollipop hanging from your mouth. Legs crossed, eyes scrolling through your phone, fully in your ‘don’t talk to me unless you’re dick-first’ mood.

Then he showed up.

Room 201. Black shirt. One earbud in. Tattoo peeking at his arm.

Hongjoong.

The self-declared “voice of reason” in Eden Heights.

The one who never joined the chaos, but always watched it.

Closely. Too closely.

You didn’t look up when he walked over. You felt him. His presence was that heavy.

He leaned against the railing beside you, quietly for a second.

Then—

Pop.

He plucked the lollipop straight out of your mouth.

You blinked. “You serious?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you with a calmness that made your thighs tense.

Then, slow as sin, he dragged his tongue over the candy, swirling it before biting down with a quiet crunch.

“That’s mine.”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Almost amused.

You blinked again. “…Is this some sugar daddy metaphor?”

“Do you want it to be?”

His eyes flicked to your lips. “No gloss today? Shame.”

You smirked. “Sorry. Didn’t know I’d be licked by a menace tonight.”

“Didn’t Yunho say he’s gonna marry you?”

The change in topic was so fast your brain lagged.

You shrugged, playing it cool. “He says a lot of things.”

“You said yes?”

You sucked your teeth, looking away. “I said I’m not monogamous to dick.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly.

Then he stepped into your space, took your jaw gently, and tilted your face toward him.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

“Good.”

“What?”

“Means I can still do this.”

He kissed you.

No preamble. No warning.

Just lips against yours, confident, steady. Tongue curling over yours like he’d studied your mouth in a lab and perfected the blueprint.

You gasped, grabbing his hoodie, nearly knocking your lollipop to the ground.

And that’s when his hand slid under your hoodie—right under.

No bra. Just skin.

His palm closed around your breast like he’d been waiting for clearance from God himself.

You moaned into his mouth. He didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing down your jaw, “you taste like cherry and trouble.”

“You’re trouble,” you gasped. “You’re the one who licked my—”

He cut you off by pushing two fingers into your mouth.

“Shh. You’re always talking.”

You whined. Sucked his fingers out of reflex.

“God,” he growled, “look at you.”

He pushed you against the cold brick wall, your hoodie sliding up, exposing the curve of your waist. No panties. Of course.

He pressed his thigh between your legs and grinded. Slow. Hard.

“This how you act with Yunho?” he muttered. “All soft and wet like this?”

You nodded like a dumb bitch.

“Who’s better?” he asked, licking your neck. “Tell me.”

“You haven’t even fucked me yet—”

He grabbed your hips and pulled you closer. “Yeah? You already this wet for nothing?”

One hand at your throat. The other sliding between your thighs.

“Lollipop’s not the only thing I’m gonna suck dry.”

Hongjoong’s grip stayed locked on your wrist the whole way down.

No one saw you. Or maybe they did. Who cares.

He kicked the door to Room 201 open, dragged you inside like a delinquent boyfriend—then froze.

“...Bro?”

You blinked.

Because right there, sitting cross-legged on his bed, was Seonghwa, sipping white wine like he paid rent there.

And by the window, casually leaning against the wall, flipping through Hongjoong’s photography zine?

Yeosang.

“Hi,” Seonghwa said, not phased in the slightest. “We got bored.”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes. “You got keys to my room?”

Yeosang looked up, monotone: “You told me you keep weed in here.”

“That was 3 months ago.”

Seonghwa sipped. “And I stayed for the ambiance.”

Your jaw dropped. “What kind of ghetto ass AirBnB vibe is this—?”

But before you could even process the situation, Hongjoong turned to you.

Grinned.

Locked the door behind him.

“Well, shit,” he said lowly, stepping closer. “We got an audience.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Not an audience,” Seonghwa murmured, setting down his glass, “more like… supporting cast.”

Yeosang blinked slowly, eyes trailing your exposed thighs. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

You: 🧍‍♀️

“You came here to fuck her?” Seonghwa asked Hongjoong, now standing next to him like they were in a boardroom about to make a joint decision. “After the lollipop stunt?”

“I was going to,” Hongjoong replied, eyeing you like you were made of sin and syrup, “but now I’m thinking…”

He looked at the other two.

“We all do.”

You: 🫠🫠🫠

No one said anything for a second. Just heavy air. Staring.

Then—

Seonghwa stood up first. Smooth. Calculated. Shirt already half unbuttoned.

Yeosang closed the zine. “Do we take turns or…?”

You: “...Is this a dick draft or a gangbang—?”

“Depends how long you can last,” Hongjoong muttered, already tugging your hoodie up, mouth trailing your neck.

And then it started.

Hands. Tongues. Grabbing. Moaning. Your hoodie raised up. Legs open. Yeosang got on his knees first—quiet but deadly. Seonghwa kissed your mouth while Hongjoong held your throat and whispered the nastiest shit you’ve ever heard.

“You like being watched, don’t you?”

“Such a good fucking toy…”

“We’re gonna ruin you so bad, no one else in this building will dare fuck you again.”

Yeosang: “Speak for yourselves.” (Then he licked your pussy so good your soul flew out the window.)

They took turns. Then didn’t. Then overlapped.

One in your mouth. One in your pussy. One holding your hands above your head telling you how fucking beautiful you look dripping like this.

Seonghwa whispered praise.

Yeosang barely said anything but made you cum twice.

Hongjoong called you ‘mine’ three times before letting you breathe again.

When it was over, you were flat on the bed, knees still shaking, face glossy, lip bitten.

And they were just—

Looking at you.

Like you were a mess they created and were damn proud of.

“Are you okay?” Seonghwa asked, suddenly soft. Brushing hair out of your face.

You nodded, dazed.

“I think I blacked out,” you croaked.

“Same,” Hongjoong chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “You’re never allowed on the rooftop unsupervised again.”

Yeosang casually: “So… next time, can I record?”

"I swear to god everyone in this building wanna record while fucking me"

You were still on your back.

Hair stuck to your forehead, thighs sore, cum drying on your stomach like lotion that never blended.

You didn’t know whose was whose anymore.

Seonghwa? Hongjoong? Yeosang? Probably all of the above. You were a buffet. A shared project. A group effort.

And these three?

Still half-dressed, lounging around the bed like they just filmed a boy group MV and the concept was ruining you on camera.

Seonghwa sat on the edge, scrolling on his phone.

Yeosang leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, head tilted like he was contemplating life after coochie.

And Hongjoong? Hongjoong was lighting another cigarette.

You were still trying to catch your breath when—

BANG BANG BANG—

Then the door flew open.

“BITCH—”

Wooyoung.

Hands on hips.

Mingi right behind him with a 7/11 coffee in one hand and the look of a man who just walked into a crime scene.

And oh, they were loud.

“OH MY GOD—NOT THREE OF THEM?!”

“ON A SUNDAY?!” Mingi shrieked.

You blinked, dazed. “…Hi.”

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “Are you NAKED?!”

Yeosang didn’t open his eyes. “Technically, she’s only bottomless.”

Mingi gasped. “IS THAT CUM ON HER—”

Hongjoong blew smoke. “It’s art. Shut the door.”

Wooyoung stormed in. “YOU’RE A WHORE. A WHORE WITH A CAPITAL W!!”

“She’s our whore,” Seonghwa said calmly, still scrolling.

Wooyoung turned to you, full offense. “You said you were baking cookies this week.”

“I was!” you croaked, pulling the sheets higher. “I just got… distracted.”

“Distracted?!” Mingi’s voice cracked. “This is a bukkake!”

Yeosang finally opened his eyes. “That’s not technically correct. We didn’t—”

“DON’T EXPLAIN IT TO ME!!”

Wooyoung walked over and grabbed your ankle. “Get up, shower, and come to my room. You’re grounded.”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” you mumbled.

“YOU’RE EVERYONE’S GIRLFRIEND AT THIS POINT.”

“Wait,” Mingi narrowed his eyes. “Is that… Hongjoong’s necklace around her neck—”

“OH MY GOD—” Wooyoung shrieked again.

Hongjoong smirked, taking another drag.

“Did you mark her?! You feral little dictator—”

“Go eat breakfast,” Hongjoong said.

“We DID,” Mingi snapped. “We just didn’t expect to be served slut soufflé first thing in the morning!”

You groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “Can y’all get out?”

“Can we??” Wooyoung scoffed. “Mingi’s traumatized.”

Mingi nodded solemnly, sipping his coffee. “I need therapy. Again.”

“You’ve never had therapy.”

“AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY.”

[red-winter-is-coming]

Turns out, even a Soul Jam split between multiple cookies will awaken....

Or, a silly little AU I've been concocting for a couple months now! Gonna make a rp blog at some point but I at least wanna wait until the Eternal Sugar / Hollyberry updates finish!

The basic premise of the AU is simple: as a token of goodwill/trust/etc, most of the Ancients give a small peace of their Soul Jam to their most trusted allies.

Overtime, it just becomes second nature. A mark of how much trust they have on their shoulders, a way for the rulers to always know who they can trust.

And then Beast-Yeast happens. Turns out, when the Ancients themselves gained their awakened forms, the same happened to the cookies holding those small fragments....

And chaos ensues, because 2/3s of the Abundance holders should be dead and are Not, one of the Resolution holders has no fucking clue what's happening, and both Truth holders just woke up and have been transformed overnight with no word from Pure Vanilla in weeks

Light of Truth -

Although it wasn't until he lost his memories, Pure Vanilla did hand out two small fragments of his Soul Jam.

One to Black Raisin, even before he regained those precious memories. One as a gift to the leader he trusted to keep the village safe throughout it all.

One to Strawberry Crepe, as a peace offering. What harm could come if he indulged in the child's curiously just this once?

Crepe was a design I always had in mind, with small physical changes! They now have pretty magic freckles, lights glinting in the hair, and various other little stuff!!! I really just enjoyed the idea of the subtle stuff for them!

(I also like to imagine that they're now able to read the Soul Jams, and have an internal sense of if someone is lying or not)

Black Raisin gets wings :3 It's kinda hard to work with just the sprite, but they're white chocolate, as a reference to chocolate cover raisins!!! And honestly the hair was just because the wings felt a bit bland, so the idea of the Light of Truth taking over her hair was an idea that I figured looked awesome!!

Also the Crows and her can communicate without any hesitation. She just starts chirping to chat with a random crow in the middle of a meeting. does not realize this is happening

Light of Resolution -

Long before he closed the kingdom off, Dark Cacao gave his most trusted soldiers their own chip of his Soul Jam, trusting that they'd understand what it meant.

And understand they did. Crunchy Chip made sure that even among the coldest nights and hardest training sessions, that gem stayed safe. Caramel Arrow, even while exiled, treasured the shard of something precious with her life.

Dark Choco, on the other hand, only gained his due to sheer luck. Affagato had gotten his hands on the small chip of Soul Jam that had originally been reserved for the prince, and lost it in the wilderness. Dark Choco just happened to be in the right place to find it.

For the designs, I. honestly I wasn't sure how exactly the best way about changing them up would be. Aside from making Crunchy Chip a furry. that was a given lol

Tbh Crunchy Chip was kind hard to figure out a design for, but in the same vein as Carrow, I think at lot of the changes Awakening brought were in his instincts and shit. mans will know if you're acting shifty from a mile away

It's a bit hard to see, but Dark Choco has some draconic traits! Claws, tail, horns, and some scales on his face! Honestly I just liked the idea of him echoing his father a bit through that :D

Carrow my beloved I couldn't find much to change up about your design because in my head most of the changes were magic in nature. Just know that all her arrows are 100% magical now and will never miss any target. and small trails of purple magic follow them. please see the vision

Light of Abundance -

Mozzarella was always a candidate for this role, being one of Golden Cheese's most trusted allies. Golden Cheese thought the shard of her Soul Jam had died with her friend, but it turns out things didn't go exactly as she assumed...

Burnt Cheese, in the same vein as Mozzarella, was assumed to have died alongside the shard he was given. Until Smoked Cheese misplaced the Soulcheese's after defeating Burning Spice.

Smoked Cheese, by all means, should NOT have been given a fragment of untold power. But Golden Cheese saw something in him that caused her to pause. Maybe it was a small reflection of herself, maybe the hope that it'd placate him. Whatever the reason, when the Goddess of Eternal Gold regained her wings, her adviser as gained a pair of his own.

Smoked Cheese gets wings!! I liked the idea of him having smaller, but very capable, wings!! Some of his outfit was shifted to a more gold color, and the purple smoke is also gold! (this will be a theme)

Mozzarella gets cool horns! I also adored the idea of her Soul Jam fragment taking the place of the cheese slice on her head piece!!! I then proceeded to (attempt to) make it look like she was sprinkled in gold dust!!!!

Burnt Cheese... I'm so sorry my guy I had like no ideas ;-; I did end up giving him a small tail, and made him look like parts of his cape/head piece were coated in gold! Again I'm sorry Burnt Cheese fans I didn't know what to do for his designs ;-;

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

thinking about carmy w a sunshine reader, and him being super protective over her happiness and kindness. like if someone makes her shut down and he sees the light in her eyes dim, he’s defending her and dropping everything to get that smile back on her face.

he can’t believe she’s stayed this kind and good in a world this shitty, but he’s in awe of her and he’ll do everything he can to make sure she stays that way <3

Sunshine

At first, he simply didn't understand it. Like how? What was the secret? There had to be one surely. How can one be truly happy? Sure, like daily. Fine, your life might not suck. But in the middle of the kitchen chaos. People are shouting. He is shouting. Nasty stuff is being said. And then there is you. A light smile on your face. Handing out cleaned-up plates. Rounding the corner with gentle touches.

But he loves it. Loves the way you shine so much that his days now depend on your light. It became his grounding lifeline. Whenever he feels like he's drowning, all it takes is to look up and he suddenly feels like he can breathe again. Not to mention the way his heart spikes up when you move to touch his lower back or shoulder after a the service is over. Most times Carmy doesn't mutter a word back because well... he forgets what words there are. Full body shut down.

Yet the days when his worst fear is playing out and your eyes look dull, he's equally not himself. All Carmen can think about is how to make it better. How to chase away the tight smile. How to get you shining bright again. "Here you go", Carmen puts a container full of doughnut bites covered in powdered sugar and caramel in front of you. "What's this for? Family is not in another hour", You frown slightly, but the sweet smell makes your mood just a tag better already.

"Know you like them. Thought I'd make some test run for the restaurant maybe", he mutters back. Whipped his hands with the towel. In reality, he had made them just for you. And just because he hoped they would cheer you up. "If you want extra sauce, there's a whole pot in the kitchen", Carmen points to the kitchen door. "You made a pot...", you breathe out, "I didn't know how much caramel you like on them. You just said that that's how you eat... them...", Carmen's eyes fall onto yours. And he can't help but fall silent. Because here. Right in front of him. He sees the tingle of sparks in your eyes as you look up at him. Your arms reach for him as you squish your face against his chest. Carmen freezes for a moment before he too moves to hug you. "You'll eat them with me?", you ask him, looking back up. Carmen feels his lips curving into a smile, "Oh, you thought I was not gonna eat them?", You let out a light chuckle and Carmen knows it will all be okay.

[asher-agere]

little Chuuya/CG Verlaine+nightmares? Chuuya DEFINITELY gets nightmares when regressed :(

So I already answered a request that’s literally this exact thing- I’ll try not to make this seem too repetitive? I’m not gonna like look back and reference the other one (<- Probably a lie). And just so it’s stated! Yes I’ve read Stormbringer. Yes I know Chuuya doesn’t dream. If you’re unable to play pretend without having issues for the duration of this post then just scroll

Little Chuuya with Nightmares + Caregiver Verlaine

⁺‧₊˚ ཐིੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

⛦ Starting off with an age range! I think Chuuya regresses to 3-6! Though since nightmares are really scary and overwhelming they do tend to knock him down younger, so he’s usually stuck in the 3-4 age range after waking up, even if he denies it saying he’s a different age. Luckily Verlaine is learning not only how to tell when Chuuya’s lying, but why Chuuya lies. Knowing why a little one lies about something can help guide you to react appropriately

⛦ Chuuya is already a very bratty kiddo I think, especially with Verlaine as his caregiver. It’s just fun for him! And while he doesn’t truly hate Verlaine, he does learn to trust his brother over time, he also doesn’t forget everything Verlaine put him through. So yeah he’s a bit of a brat to make Verlaine’s life more difficult! This is only amplified by the nightmares. He hates bedtime, and when he’s successful at avoiding sleep he gets sooooo fussy and whiny… Absolutely loads himself on caffeine and sugar to stay awake, even more chaos poor Verlaine has to handle

⛦ I really love the visual of Verlaine having a rocking chair. On his own even, like he’ll just sit there and rock back and forth as he thinks. When taking care of a regressed Chuuya it comes in handy! He’ll swaddle Chuuya up and hold him tight, rocking them both on the chair as he hums a gentle tune. Forcing Chuuya to sit still will eventually get him to sleep, it’s not the best method because he usually falls asleep fussy which can influence nightmares even worse, but after Chuuya hasn’t let himself sleep in days Verlaine’s open to anything

⛦ The best way to get Chuuya to sleep comfortably is with a cozy movie! Laying in a pile of blankets on the floor, maybe a half formed fort around them. If they’re cuddling it’s because Chuuya initiated it, when Verlaine tries to initiate affection Chuuya hates it. Chuuya has a sippy cup of hot cocoa cause he’s not a baby he doesn’t need a dumb baby bottle or milk. But… Warm milk does help you sleep. So he gets hot cocoa! It’s a pretty good balance that’s usually effective! It does give him a tiny sugar rush but it’s short lived enough before the sugar crash that Verlaine considers it to be worth it

⛦ Nicknames before I get a chance to forget! I love love love caregivers calling their little ones words or phrases in their native language… And Verlaine is French… SO. There’s the most well known “Chéri” which means “Darling”. I also love “Mon Bonheur” which literally means “My Happiness” ”ʚ(´꒳`)ɞ“ He’ll also call Chuuya “Bébé” to joke around because that’s close enough to just being baby that Chuuya knows what it means and he strongly disagrees. Chuuya is mostly able to talk fine? But some big words are hard… He doesn’t baby talk! Just shortens things. So he’ll call Verlaine “Ve” a lot, or literally say “Paul” because it is such a stupid name (Ash saying this, I’m just making Chuuya express my hatred for Verlaine’s first name). And on the rare occasion if he’s extra tired and having a soft moment he’ll occasionally call Verlaine “Bro”! Verlaine’s heart melts each time without fail

⛦ After Chuuya wakes up from a nightmare there’s two paths to take. If Chuuya’s still regressed he’s likely a sobbing mess, then Verlaine will usually hold him right, rock him and mutter gentle praise, hopefully getting him to drift back off to sleep, usually they start a movie and Chuuya falls back asleep during it, never leaving Verlaine’s arms. But if Chuuya wakes up out of headspace he’s gonna try and dart out of there immediately, Verlaine just has to slow him down enough to calm the boys breathing, make sure he’s alright, and remind Chuuya to reach out to him and take care of himself

⛦ I think a lot of Chuuya’s nightmares are reliving horrors he’s gone through, Shirase’s betrayal, being experimented on in Stormbringer, corruption trying to take over his body, watching his car blow up the symbol that Dazai was gone, those types of things. It leads him down rabbit holes of what ifs, wondering how he could’ve been better. Which obviously is too much stress for a little guy! So I think if Chuuya insists on staying awake Verlaine would give him like activity sheets to keep his mind busy on stuff that’s safe to think about!

⛦ I feel like when Chuuya is pouting and avoiding sleeping he just uses his gravity powers and goes on the ceiling. He’d out of reach up there! No one can force him into anything! Except… Y’know. His big brother. That has the same ability as him. And can do the exact same thing. Verlaine just goes up there and sits with him! Just talking, trying to calm Chuuya down. If he notices the redhead getting sleepy then he tries coaxing him down so he won’t fall and hurt himself, but if Chuuya protests too much then Verlaine settles for just holding his hand or something so he can catch Chuuya with his own gravity powers

⁺‧₊˚ ཐིੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Will I ever truly return to frequent posting? Who knows… But I wrapped up my public school today! So hopefully more free time? I still have online schooling through the summer though so who knows…

[DNI ID: A box with a brown border, paw prints in the top left corner and Chuuya on the right side. Brown text reads “DNI if your blog isn’t child safe. I will block NSFW accounts” End ID]

[whimsicalpolitical]

11) touching the other while at the movies 🫣

-Sugar-coat-it <3 <3 (keep up the amazing work!!)

Body piercer! Matty is literally one of my favorites on here. It’s just so accurate!! Thank you sm!!

18+ MDNI

────────────────────────

You and Matty had decided to spend the evening at the movies, a rare chance to have some normalcy amidst the chaos of his touring schedule. The theater was dimly lit, the seats mostly empty, giving the two of you a semblance of privacy.

Your hand rests on his thigh, a familiar place where you loved to be. The solid muscle beneath your fingers always gave you a sense of connection, a reminder of his physical presence next to you.

You look around you, seeing if anyone would see what you’re about to do.

You grin mischievously and let your fingers trace lazy patterns on his thigh. His breath hitches slightly, and you can see the way his jaw tightens in response. The movie plays on, but your attention is entirely on him, and you know his is entirely on you.

Matty glances down at your hand and then up at you, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “What are you up to, love?”

Your hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the inside of his thigh. Matty shifts slightly in his seat, trying to keep his composure. His eyes flick to the screen and then back to you, dark with a mix of amusement and desire.

“Behave," he whispers, but there is no real conviction in his voice.

"Can't help it," you murmur back, your fingers dancing dangerously close to the growing bulge in his jeans. "You're too tempting."

He chuckles softly, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You're gonna get us in trouble."

"Maybe," you say, your hand sliding up to rest on the seam of his jeans, feeling the heat radiating from him. "But it's worth it.”

His hand tightens on your knee, his breath coming a little faster. "You're playing a dangerous game, love."

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to laugh. "You like it."

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lets out a low groan as your fingers brush against his zipper, teasing but not quite touching. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, his head falling back against the seat.

"You're killing me," he mutters, his voice rough with need.

“Patience baby,” you mock him, saying to him what he’s always saying to you. You finally let your hand slip inside his jeans. The feel of him, hard and hot under your touch, makes your own pulse quicken.

"Can't go anywhere with you, can I?" Matty teases, his lips curling into a smirk. "Always gotta have your hands all over me."

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a grin, “that’s no way to talk to your girlfriend who’s gonna jerk you off, is it?” You lean closer, “be nice.”

“Fine,” You dip your hand under the waistband, firmly grasping his hard cock, eliciting a breathy exclamation from him. “Fuck.”

“That feels nice huh?” Your grip tightens. You start to snap your wrist, up and down. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He curses as he leans his head back and bucks his hips to desperately seek more pleasure.

You stroke him faster, he whimpers and can’t help but moan; the nosies coming out of his pretty mouth a bit too loud.

“Matty,” you hiss, pulling your hand from him and he’s almost whining about the loss. “Shut up or I’ll stop.”

“Sorry princess,” he kisses your cheek innocently, “please keep going.”

His hands are grasping at the seats so hard his knuckles are going white and his back arching from the seat just slightly. Your jerking him off with an impeccable speed as a copious amount of precum spill down his shaft. He wants to look at you, see your hand wrapped around his cock, but he can’t keep his eyes open long enough to do so.

“Christ- ah.”

“I told you to quit it Matty,” he’s too loud for you, you tilt your head and slow your hand on his cock, earning yourself a pathetic whine from him. You gave him a moment to answer you before you pull your hand away completely.

“Shit, m’sorry, please you’re just too good,” he begs, “please don’t stop.” He lets out a quiet moan and opens his eyes, he reaches for your hand to try and bring it back to his cock. That’s all he cares about in that moment, getting you to touch him again. You raise your eyebrows at him and he quickly starts to apologize again but he begs so sweetly.

The second you wrap your hand around his cock again his hips are flexing up into your grasp.

"Fuck babe, like that." He pants, eyes heavy as you’re starting to rub himself faster. "You love this don’t you.” he speaks, voice light and airy as his chest rises faster. His deep brown eyes look at your own as you nod, biting your lip and gently nodding a 'mhm’.

Your fist pumps slower as he exhales, rubbing his tip with more attention, stimulating him as much as you can for now.

The wet sounds from his dick get louder and he produces more and more pre-cum. The warmth of your hand makes him remember how warm it is inside of you and the way you react when he pinches your nipples. The way you arch into him when he sucks marks onto your chest. The way your fingers tug his hair - fuck. He curses at the memory, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back onto the top of the back rest on the chair.

You start to slow down again, driving him absolutely insane. His throat vibrates, a deep groan rushing into the air. "Fuck," he whispers under his breath, head still tucked back. "Fuck me..." You hear him whine pathetically.

He starts to pant and gasp, as you move your fist faster now, shoulders starting to twist and jolt from this new speed. You even catch his thighs pulse, twitching just a tiny bit... it's like he's completely forgotten that you're there. It's like he has no damn shame, completely consumed by how good he's feeling.

"Holy f-fuck," he curses, "gonna- shit, gonna fuckin'... damn it-" he can't even say it. He can't finish his sentence at all due to how out of breath he is.

He cums in several creamy white spurts, launching into the air before messily wetting his shirt and covered thighs as he groans with relief. The fluid dribbles down your fingers and knuckles, rolling into the back of your palm, but he just keeps fucking himself through it. Making an absolute mess of himself.

“Goddamn baby,” you bring your hand up to your mouth and lick it clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He tucks himself back into his pants.

Matty leans in close, his voice low and teasing. "Bloody hell, you're something else, aren't you?"

You chuckle, feeling a mix of satisfaction and affection. "Just showing you how much I appreciate you."

He leans back against the seat, a contented smile on his face. "Well, I'm certainly not complaining."

[spongum]

Dyu have any cute Caldre Christmas hcs? :3

Absolutely! Here are some cute Caldre headcannons!

Andre is surprisingly good at gift wrapping While you’d expect him to just throw things in a bag, he actually takes his time to wrap Cal’s presents perfectly—sharp edges, neat corners, and sometimes even a little bow. He won’t admit it, but he enjoys it. Let’s be honest he’s a picky neat freak! Every little thing has to be perfect! Cal on the other hand can’t wrap presents for shit! He can never get the paper to be perfect it’s always wrinkled or torn so he just gives up and throws all Andre’s gift into bags he finds at the dollar store or around his house.

Cal goes all out on decorations! He insists on decking out the whole place in Christmas lights, tinsel, and ornaments. Andre grumbles about the “holiday chaos” but secretly loves seeing Cal so happy and enthusiastic about it. I wholeheartedly believe Cal has once fell off a ladder trying to string up some Christmas lights. Andre definitely laughed at him and the helped him up.

Late-night movie marathons. Cal forces Andre to watch classic Christmas movies, from Home Alone to Elf. Andre pretends to hate them, but Cal catches him chuckling at the jokes when he thinks no one’s looking. The reason I think Cal likes the cheesy Christmas movies so much is because he used to watch it with his siblings all the time.

Cal’s cheesy matching sweaters. Cal “buys them”(makes Andre pay because he’s broke) ridiculous matching Christmas sweaters every year. Andre rolls his eyes but ends up wearing them because Cal looks so genuinely excited about it. They would never wear them in public only in the privacy of each other. Andre threatened Cal that if he told Rachel or anyone else he’d burn the sweater.

Christmas baking disasters. Cal tries to bake cookies but inevitably burns at least one batch. Andre steps in, mockingly taking over, and somehow ends up making them perfectly. Cal teases him for being “secretly domestic.” Andre’s momma raised him right! That man knows how to cook and bake! She wasn’t gonna raise no lazy man!

As far as what they get each other. I believe Andre gets Cal something expensive because he has money while Cal gets Andre something cheap because he’s broke(this man needs a job and to stop mooching off his sugar daddy).

Snowball fights turn into chaos. If it snows, Andre and Cal will have a full-blown snowball war, with Andre setting up “traps” in the yard while Cal tries to ambush him with sneak attacks. They both end up getting too competitive and just full on wrestling in the snow.

Cal sings Christmas carols nonstop. He mainly does it just to piss Andre off. He’ll sing the songs super loud and off key.

That’s all I got! Hope you like them!

[weird-bookworm]

LET'S SPREAD SOME LOVE!!!!!

talk about your favourite mutuals and why you like them

😄

oh god this is gonna be one hell of an answer

@fairyhaos because shes the sweetest comfiest most adorably chaotic lil ball of energy + she gives the best advice like hello??? what are you??? oh god my heart goes a little off track everytime we talk i just love you so much

@wheeboo okay shes part 2 of the they-make-me-feel-the-safest trio along w yena and axe like please i stumbled across the sweetest sassiest boo stan ever ALSO UR GORGEOUS???

@blue-jisungs axeaxeaxeaxeaxe so chaotically lovely and so boomer and so fun and yoid think shes savage but no shes just soft and as harmful as a pinecone (why do u remind me of tht one joon meme of him just. sitting there. peeling potatoes. in tiny.)

@slytherinshua we kinda talked less for a while bc life happened and then caught up (kinda lol) and im so glad to see shes still as crazy and lovable as ever (im waiting for tht ppt) like talk abt impressive. impressive is her whole personality. sometimes in, uh, less than conventional ways...hehe

@eternalgyu HANNIE WHERE TF R U I MISS UUUUUUUU 😭😭😭😭🫶🏻 like yk what i imagine when i think of hannie? causing mischief. LIKE IDEK WHY OKAY i just feel like we'd be running around giggling like idiots js pulling random pranks on people and js the thought makes me smile

@yllouhannie ylli is like love. ylli is gentle and kind and sweet. shes understanding and passionate and really quite cute. oh my love you make me wanna jump off a cliff because how can someone like you exist 😭 (no srsly what is this witchcraft ilysm mwah)

@woozvc nora is like home. which is saying a lot lmao i sound dramatic but like yk when u just talk to someone and it feels just right even tho ur not rly doing much? shes older but she lets go and i can just feel how absolutely beautiful this person is *melts off a cliff*

@welcometomyoasis shu oh shu i have no words so pardon if this is a little small but. ik i say this a lot but i rly do mean it. i love you. so much. yr msgs and reblogs and asks always make a smile and they make me giddy and suddenly nothing is wrong with the world 🥺

@haecien bro is my ultimate gay bestie like what else do you need in life other than cien. what. nothing is the answer. life is complete when u hv cien and his shenanigans lolol like i dare you try to Not like him. i m p o s s i b l e.

@glosskirt AYYYYY MY ARMY SOULMATE we connected over min yoongi. we still rant over min yoongi. we shall die talking about min yoongi. like there is nothing better than having someone to fangirl with over my favs gloss you filled a hole in my life <3

@mesanthropi weiwei!!!! my little bundle of sugar spice and everything nice!! (+ chaos and a passion about the randomest shit ever how do u live why am i not this exciting) how is it always fun to talk to you and why do ur msgs excite me so much

@aaniag chaos. thats it. chaos. this woman brought with her about half a dozen more desi moots for me like how do i hug you how do i appreciate you enough i ugghhhh 😩

@thepoopdokyeomtouched im still waiting for my flirting yk? lol on a serious note, u and ur crazy streak r probably the most entertaining thing on here, and i fucking love it. i love ur chaos and the fact tht u choose to share it w me, thank you 🫶🏻

@arafilez bro rly dropped outta thin air like a fucking ghost and made my life abt a 100x more exciting where were you my entire life ara. where. why didnt the atz rants and the writing and the random asks show up sooner. why.

@nonononranghaee HAFS MY LIL CUTIE PATOOTIE WHY DO I ALWAYS WANNA SQUISH U NOMNOM U CRUSH U KSKSJEHEH u give me so much cuteness aggression oh my god...

@kkooongie sarah sarah sarah sarah sarah i live for ur writing and im always looking forward to our little chats abt books and random stuff (...when r u updating btw 😅)

@maeleelee @mxnsxngie @imagine-a-life-like-this i don't tell you guys enough how much i love and appreciate each one of you. i dont tell u enough how grateful i am whenever i think abt u bc god ik how hard it is to take in a random person in ur circle, to adjust w a kid, to make said kid feel safe and included and loved. so thank you. for all that you do for me and for loving lil ol' me <3

@cadenonlinelive where u at damn i hvnt seen u in ages

@rubywonu @idubiluv GUYS STOP HIBERNATING ITS NOT WINTER ANYMORE I MISS U

[ysaefinn]

Your brain is amazing, and your works are delectable (its like going to a very nice buffet) I loving it here 💕 also, reading the reaction of Satoru and Suguru to the "going back to work" was hilarious, but just because I love chaos and making their blood pressure high like a roller coaster, imagine like their darling went on with the job hunting, failing various time (It's difficult out there) and these two are like "I'm so sorry baby, you will get it" "don't worry, there must be various places who love to have you" while hugging your wet cat self who is sad that no one is hiring you while partying in their heads that you have to surrender this idea of working (they have to be supportive, well, at least on the outside) but their fears came true when you get back, happily hopping like a bunny with a new piece of lettuce, delivering the horrendous words of "I got hired !!!!" and they are like "that's amazing honey" with tight smiles in their faces, maybe this won't be that bad? Thought Suguru, maybe it's just a part-time job in a store, thought Satoru. But then they ask, "Where is your new working place?" and you answer with such a joy in your voice, "In a nightclub, there's a new place in a "very not so safe part of the city" that needed people. I passed by, saw the "hiring waitress," got in, and the manager hired me! The hours may be from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. but is only on weekends, and the pay is good!"

THIS IS ACTUALLY A NIGHTMARE SITUATION FOR THEM ANON PLEEEASEEEE 😭😭😭😭

ok i just had to let that out but first of all TYSM IM SO HAPPY UR ENJOYINH MY SILLY LITTLE THOUGHTS AND EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF TYPOS (they're a free gift lmao) plz stay for as long as you like you're always welcome here 🫶🫶🫶🫶

SO BACK TO YOUR DEMONIC MENACE BEHAVIOR, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ANON???? TOT THEY WILL ACTUALLY DROP FUCKING DEAD RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

Look i know, you know, they know that it's selfish but they actually have to hide their disappointment and anxiety when you come home all jolly with a little pep in your steps all smiles and giggles excited to tell them about your new position TAT suguru is naturally gonna have a harder time keeping himself together and not collapsing on their expensive marble floors bcuz...come on....you're his little baby cat ...you shouldn't be working at all.,,, while dilftoru is excited for you, he's very fond of the youth (in canon that is) and while he does prefer you relaxed on their couch catching some Z's, at the end of the day he really admires your stubborn little ass and ultimately would support u getting a job.

,,,,,,just not at a nightclub TAT LOOK AT THOSE HOURS, in a sketchy part of town AND SOMEWHERE WHERE PEOPLE THINK STAFF ARE FREE GAME, they're not gonna try sugar coating this they're telling you point blank that this is a horrible idea, dilftoru just stares into the distance, completely loses his sweet goofy smile while dilfguru isn't trying to be sly anymore he isn't trying to gently coax you into his lap and tracing circles on your hips while whispering sweet little promises of always keeping you safe and happy, and how proud they are of you for landing this position, but how you don't really have to follow through, that maybe you should just keep relaxing now that you know you can get there, isn't that enough?

No, he's skipping the whole song and dance abs holding you by the shoulders, looking you dead in the eye, and telling you that you're not leaving this house for the foreseeable future TOT you'd usually look at satoru for help when suguru loses the plot a little but he's not helping you either LMFAO there's actually no chance in hell where you're going through with this they genuinely believe you'll never make it home to them and the thought alone is turning the rest of their hair gray (does satoru's hair go black?) They just get so serious really quick it's really scary you don't want this anon ;v;

They monitor you a lot closer for the next few weeks, I really mean this, they are mortified losing sleep and everything 😭😭 they typically rather talk things out but again, they are very prone to desperation and if you're still sticking to your guns, they will resort to scooping u up and dropping u on the bed to have you completely immobile by the next morning. Listen this is an outcome they would gladly choose over potentially never having you cuddle between them again TAT

[nostalgicnarrator]

𝕆𝕦𝕥𝕝𝕒𝕨𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕃𝕒𝕨𝕞𝕖𝕟

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

Word Count: 1140

Parings: none for this one.

Description:

This is something I had to cut from the next chapter.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3

Note:

Like the Description says, this is something I had to unfortunately cut from the newest chapter, I’ve had this for a while as a scene for it, but it doesn’t make sense anymore but I love it so much you get to read it instead instead of it going to what I call the graveyard. Have fun and I can’t wait to see what people think.

───── ꧁✪꧂ ─────

Dwalin tightened the straps on the saddle, giving Honey a firm pat on his light brown neck. Dwalin still couldn’t believe people say that Honey was intimidating, in his opinion Honey was the sweetest thing, it’s why he named him Honey.

As Dwalin tugged the saddle strap one last time, Honey gave his shoulder a gentle nudge, most likely angling for one of the sugar cubes Dwalin always carried. “Good boy,” Dwalin muttered, scratching behind Honey’s ear and handing him a treat, which Honey gladly accepted. 

At the sound of footsteps, they both looked up to see Thorin approaching with his horse, Storm.

Storm. Dwalin knew the mare had a past- he saw it in the way she watched newcomers, guarded, almost wary. Just like her rider. He never asked Thorin about it, never thought to.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Dwalin greeted, nodding as he finished up with the saddle. “Good day?”

Before Thorin could answer, something small and delicate drifted into view- a butterfly, its wings shimmering as it seemed to float- right toward Honey’s nose. Dwalin’s stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” he muttered, his hand reaching for the reins. “Not again.”

The butterfly fluttered closer, likely oblivious to the chaos that was about to unfold. Just as Dwalin thought, as some as Honey realized what the fluttering thing was, he reared back in panic letting out a wild snort. 

Dwalin tightened his grip as the horse pawed the air, backing away from the very harmless butterfly like it was some horrible monster. 

“Easy, boy! Easy! It’s just a butterfly!” Dwalin kept his voice calm, though his hold on the reins was beginning to slip as Honey thrashed and stomped, trying to get away.

A deep laugh from Thorin made Dwalin’s jaw clench. “Sure that ain’t a chicken you got saddled up there, Dwalin?” the sheriff teased.

Dwalin whipped his head around and shot the sheriff a glare, struggling to keep Honey steady while Thorin stood there leaning casually against Storm. “Quit laughing and help me, will ya?”

Thorin just shook his head, still grinning as he moved forward. “First of all, holding his reins like that? He’s gonna hurt you faster than he’ll hurt himself,” he said, easily waving the butterfly away. He gave Dwalin a sideways look. “Second, it’s better to let him get clear of whatever’s spooking him. Horses that size can break you easier than you’d like to think.”

Dwalin ground his teeth, rolling his eyes as Thorin patted Honey, who was now eyeing the butterfly’s departure with lingering suspicion. “Don’t act like ya know better just ‘cause you got that ‘difficult’ horse,” Dwalin muttered, scratching Honey’s nose as the mustang finally calmed down. “Storm acts like a sweetheart compared to him.”

Thorin burst into laughter. “Storm? A sweetheart?” He looked at Dwalin as if the deputy had gone stupid. “Dwalin, she hardly lets the boys near her. She’s thrown more men than I can count, and she won’t let anyone ride her but me.”

Dwalin shrugged, unbothered. “I always thought people were bein’ dramatic,” he said, cooing at Honey, who flicked his ears and nudged him again.

Thorin shook his head with a grin. “Oh, they aren’t. The only one she might listen to besides me is Dís, and Dís doesn’t ride.”

A sly grin crept across Dwalin’s face. “Oh, really? How about a wager? Twenty bucks says I can handle her.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Make it forty, and you’ve got yourself a deal.” He extended his hand, which Dwalin shook with a firm grip.

Dwalin chuckled, swinging himself onto Honey’s back. “Fine by me. Let’s head to the stables, the owner owes me a favor, and we can use the field. Just try not to cry when I take all your money.”

Thorin smirked, mounting Storm. But as they rode, Dwalin began to wonder if he’d made a very bad decision.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 𐬾 ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ 𐬾 𐬾 ༅ ༅ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Dwalin eyed Storm, squinting slightly. The black Appaloosa stood perfectly still, eyeing him right back. Her white-spotted back gleamed like pearls on a fine necklace in the fading sunlight.

Dwalin glanced over at Thorin. A small crowd had gathered by now, word of the bet had spread quickly. Dwalin even spotted his brother among them. Seeing Balin take a break from his Mayoring duties made Dwalin want to grin, but that feeling vanished when he noticed his brother shaking his head as he spoke to Thorin.

“Too late to back out, Sheriff?” Dwalin asked with a smirk, more aimed at Balin than anyone else.

But the grin that crept across Thorin’s face made Dwalin’s falter. He felt his skin prick uneasily as Thorin leaned forward against the fence. “Don’t be a pansy! Go on.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, Dwalin heard as Glóin let out a whoop while Óin climbed over the fence, medical bag in hand. Dwalin swallowed, feeling his palms go sweaty, he was more sure he’d had made a bad choice now. Yet all the same, he steeled himself. And with a deep breath, he grabbed Storm’s reins and quickly swung himself up into the saddle.

He barely had time to see Thorin’s raised eyebrows before he was airborne.

Storm’s ears pinned back, and without warning, she bucked, hard. Dwalin didn’t even register the movement; one second he was in the saddle, the next he was flat on his back in the dirt, landing with a loud thud several paces away.

The crowd erupted with laughter, and Thorin had to lean against the fence to keep himself up right as he laughed. “I warned you,” he called, voice thick with amusement.

Storm snorted, pawing at the ground with what looked like satisfaction. Dwalin lay there, staring up at the sky. Then he quickly scrambled to his feet at the sound of hooves approaching, getting another laugh from the crowd. Dwalin rubbed his bruised backside with a grunt.

Storm had moved to pick up Dwalin’s hat from where it had fallen and was now happily carrying it over to Thorin. The sheriff took it from her with a chuckle. “Thank you, Storm.” He turned to Dwalin, his grin wider than ever as he handed him the hat once he was close enough. “Now, my forty dollars, please.”

Dwalin snatched his hat back with a scowl, digging out his wallet and shoving the money into Thorin’s waiting hand. Dwalin stomped toward the fence, muttering curses under his breath.

Balin met him there, his mouth twitching as he tried, and failed, to hide his amusement. “Thorin did warn you, brother.”

Dwalin glared as he jammed his hat back on his head. “Not a word, old man.”

Balin chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder when he passed. “Not a word.”

Dwalin grumbled as he stormed off toward the saloon, the sound of laughter followed him all the way.

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

It’s been a while since i posted last and that’s crazy to me, I’ve had a wild month, it’s getting better so you get a post. Tell me if I missed anything corrections, or if you have suggestions to help me get better at writing I’m all ears. Man, being an adult is crazy anyway have a nice day.

@shurikthereject (thank you for letting me use your universe idea. 👍)

[tea-potato-gt]

I sketched one of my favorite scenes in “Adelaide and Ian chronicles” by @pocket-lad, just in time for Halloween 💀🎃👻

This is 100% NOT my writing! Give the author some love!

Read Chaos Theory and Candy here!

———

“"So how do we celebrate?" she asked.

"We as in people, or we as in...,” lan gestured between himself and Adelaide.

"We as in us!"

"Well, Halloween is tomorrow - today if we're being technical. don't have anywhere to - to go, so l uh, didn't really plan on doing.... anything.?”

"Why not?" Adelaide pushed.

"What do you want me to do? Dress up to sit on the couch by myself and uh, eat a bunch of - of teeth-rotting blocks of sugar?"

lan didn't see why Adelaide cared so much. Halloween came and went every year, just like any other holiday. He didn't go out of his way to celebrate, unless he was invited somewhere. Even then, he wasn't one for costumes or candy.

"Not by yourself!" Adelaide blurted.

She hesitated, but pushed through the train of thought, albeit much quieter. "…..With me.”

Something in lan's demeanor changed at the suggestion of them doing Halloween together.

Adelaide spent her whole life inside of the walls of a motel. How was it fair of him to deny her a small celebration, just between the two of them, because he enjoyed being cynical?

lan felt his defenses crumble at the look on her face as he admitted defeat. "I'll go out tomorrow and I'll - l'll see what I can find.... You uh, gonna have a costume?"”

———

Other memes and sketches I’ve done:

Memes part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / sketch